I tell myself it’s all in fun. That Ransom is just fucking with me and Tucker is somehow in on the big joke, when suddenly the young, hot rocker extends his hand to me. I look at his long fingers, the memory of them ghosting across my cheek still replaying in my mind, and try to determine what this means. I look to Tucker, who gives me just a simple, encouraging nod, and back to Ransom. He still wears that smug smile that he always plasters on, but there’s something else lurking in his impassive guise.

“Shall we?”

This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. And I can’t think of one good reason why I should deny it anymore.

I place my hand in Ransom’s, giving over to the current of lust. He wraps his long, agile fingers around my hand and pulls me to my feet. My legs should be shaking, yet oddly, I feel completely calm. I’m filled with nervous energy, but it’s out of elation, not terror. There is no more doubt in my mind.

I look back at Tucker, who still sits on the couch, watching, waiting. With my other hand, I reach out for him, urging him with steel-colored eyes to take it.

“I need you with me. I can’t do this without you.”

Varied shades of shock, surprise, and admiration play on his features as he pauses to digest what I’ve said. He looks . . . touched. But that expression quickly morphs into hunger as he laces his fingers with mine and climbs to his feet.

I’m not sure what we’re doing, and how this will work, but I’m intrigued enough to find out.

The three of us make our way to the bedroom just a few yards away, yet every step feels like I’m walking the green mile to a beautiful death. Tonight will be my sexual suicide.

Ransom leads the way, ushering us into a room that is decked out like much of the hotel—chic, modern, and dark, with just a touch of rich color from jewel-toned tapestries. When we cross the threshold, Ransom goes to a little side table and picks up a tiny remote. With a push of a button, soft, sensual music flows throughout the room. He’s setting the mood. The mood for what? I’m not exactly sure.

He comes to stand before us, his gaze trained on me then Tucker. Something passes between them, and before I know what’s happening, we’re in motion. Tucker goes to sit in an armchair a few feet away against the wall. Ransom takes both my hands and leads me to the bed. The back of his legs hit the foot of the bed, and he pauses, looking down at me to await my reaction. When I don’t protest, he slowly sits down, aligning his face with my belly. I feel his hands burning through the thin fabric on the backs of my thighs, gently coasting up and then down to my calves. He keeps his eyes on me, his stare so intense that I can barely breathe, let alone blink. I force myself to look away, and seek Tucker’s comforting smile. His hands clutch the arms of the chair, yet he’s not angry. It almost seems like it’s an act of restraint.

“I want to see you,” Ransom murmurs, bringing my attention back to him. When I frown in confusion, he answers the unspoken question on my lips by letting his hands slide up my back to the clasped zipper. He waits for me to tell him to stop, but I don’t. I don’t even know if it’s possible at this point.

The soft rustle of fabric, a gentle pull and my jumpsuit is undone. Oh, the irony. To begin the night in pristine white, only for it to end up pooled at my feet at the hands of another man. My morals aren’t the only thing being tarnished.

With the straps loosened, the bodice barely contains my breasts. Just a small shrug and I’ll be fully on display. Using the lightest of touches, Ransom grazes the silken skin right above my nipples. Then he’s easing it down, over the swells, down my ribs, my belly, my thighs. When my clothing hits my feet, he takes a moment from undressing me and takes me in, standing only in a nude, lace thong. His intake of breath and smoldering stare give me a little jolt of satisfaction.

I’ve always been slender and long, which left me a bit deprived in the curves area. My breasts are small handfuls, granting me the ability to go braless when necessary, and my hips are delicately subtle. I’d consider my ass to be the most substantial part of my body. Plus I have legs for days.

Truth be told, I’ve always been insecure about my slight frame. I never felt womanly enough. The word voluptuous has never been used to describe me. But the way Ransom is looking at me—like I am the juiciest piece of filet he has ever seen, and he is dying to sink his teeth into me—makes me feel utterly sensuous.

His hands—those magnificently large callused hands—slide from my ankles to my calves to the backs of my knees. His eyes are still trained on me, looking like midnight against the dim lighting. It’s unsettling, almost scary, but I don’t look away. I just keep watching him watch me as his scorching touch languidly dances over my thighs to my hips. When I feel his fingers dig into the softness of my ass, he leans in and presses his lips to my navel. I begin to pant, dizzy with the need for more.

He sits upright and continues to explore my body with his hands, giving me so little yet successfully driving me wild with craving. A tiny smirk appears on his lips as if he knows just how much he affects me. As if he can literally smell the arousal pooling between my thighs, staining my lacey strip of underwear. Maybe he can. Considering how turned on I am right now, maybe my husband can too.

When his fingers meet my breasts, I can’t hold back the moan that rumbles from my chest. He touches me like I’m delicate. Like I’m merely made of silken butterfly wings. And while I love it—while his control is maddening and alluring—I want him to break me. I need him to tear me in two, rip me apart until I’m raw and ruined. I don’t want delicate and sweet. I’ve had enough of that. It’s all I’ve had for years, leaving that shameful, carnal part of me neglected.

Without warning, Ransom turns our bodies and flips me over so I am on my back on the bed and he is looming over me. The look on his face is a mix of desire and corruption, his smile just as vicious. He grasps my hips with rough hands and pulls me to the edge of the bed until my aching, lace-covered flesh hits the coarseness of his denim-clad legs.

“Tell me, Heidi,” he rasps, standing between my open legs. I struggle with the need to squirm against him in a quest to create friction. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“And if I want to fuck you right now, would you let me?”

“Yes.”

“And would you let me do it right here in front of your husband? Do you want him to watch me fuck you?”

“Yes.” I can’t even tell if the word is audible through the moan in my throat.

He looks over at Tucker and raises a brow. “What do you say, Tuck? Do you want to watch me fuck your wife?”

I swallow, letting the guilt and shame slide down my throat like warm butter, and look to my husband with timid eyes. His gaze is already fixed on me, his jaw clenched with tension. Every second that he stares at me, I feel dirtier and dirtier. I want to run and hide from him, but not as much as I want to stay.

Finally, he releases a hissed answer between his teeth. “Yes.”

Yes.

He said yes.

He wants this. Maybe just as much as I do.

Ransom nods once before turning his attention back to the heated space between my thighs. “What do you want me to do to her first?” he asks my husband, hiking up my arousal by ten more notches.

Tucker clears his throat, yet his voice still comes out husky. “Kiss the inside of her thighs. She’s ticklish there but she loves it.”

Without further preamble, Ransom sinks to his knees. It starts as a soft brush up my left thigh. Then my right. Sweet, sucking kisses run along the sensitive skin until I’m squirming at the sensation. Tucker was right—I am ticklish. But knowing that Ransom’s head is between my legs—just centimeters from my swollen clit—creates a different type of tingle.