Laura
Mama.
The word was so perfect. So delicious. So utterly sweet and endearing it was like helium pumped directly into Laura’s heart, helping her float and fly, sweet little Jillian looking at her with those wide green eyes, her brown hair now darker and curled at the ends, and that button nose flared as her bow-tie red lips moved in concert with her little vocal cords.
Mama.
No word anyone ever spoke could be as precious.
“Shit!”
Especially not that one. The sound of Dylan cursing from the living room, hands balled up over his crotch, bouncing from one bare foot to the other in a dance of pain, made her bite her lips and laugh. Not out of meanspiritedness, but out of the comical nature of what was going on. Now that Jillian was crawling and grabbing small objects, she’d become quite accomplished at tucking tiny items into seemingly impossible spaces.
Like Dylan’s car keys into the heating vent.
“Is that some sort of ritual dance, like calling for rain? The key dance?” Mike strode into the living room and began to imitate Dylan, bent over his crotch, head tipped back in a mock-painful howl, as Dylan sucked a sore thumb and glared.
Jillian’s giggles made Mike dance harder.
That made Dylan glare more.
“Your daughter put my keys down the grate!”
“Why is she always my daughter when she shits up her back or bites you or puts your keys in things? Quit leaving your crap all over the house. We have a key rack.” Mike’s answer came in an even-toned voice, a deep chuckle behind the words.
“Because my daughter would never do such things.”
Their daughter let out a juicy fart. Both men scattered, suddenly busy in other rooms.
“Why is she always my daughter when she does that?” Laura called out, sighing as Jillian gave her a drooly grin, sitting up on her well-padded bottom like a stinky Buddha.
Mike reversed course before Laura's eyes, his pivot far more graceful than any man six feet and a half had a right to be. He scooped up the baby and made her fly in the air like an airplane. Jillian rewarded him with laughter that could have doubled as fairy dust.
“I'll change her if you take out the garbage,” he called back.
“Deal!” she replied. “I got the better end of the deal,” she added under her breath. They'd hired a lovely housekeeper, but they all wanted to keep it real, too. No live-in help. Besides, they didn't want the added scrutiny. Trying to explain the situation would be awkward at best, fodder for tabloids at worst. Creating a threesome dating service had been iffy enough, giving the three more potential exposure than any of them wanted.
Dragging the overloaded, diaper-laden bag of stink out to the huge cans in the garage felt like a mini-vacation compared to changing a teething baby's poopy diaper. Keeping it real, all right.
A quick wash of her hands and a check in the mirror showed a more refreshed version of herself than she'd seen in months. Good. About time the old Laura came back.
Mike and Dylan, with a little help from Josie and Alex, had seen to that. A month ago they'd taken her off for a night of sex. What they'd actually gotten out of that crazy, staged, over-the-top night had been, well…
An awakening.
And a lot of really awesome, inspiring, devilishly delicious kinky sex.
As if their menage a trois weren't kinky enough? Guess what. It turned out there were levels of kink Laura didn't know existed. Maybe others did and she was just naïve, but the realms they'd entered recently had—
Damn. There it was. Her libido, tapping its foot, demanding to be acknowledged. Its return had shocked her—a night with a sex swing, a week with a Sybian, another week with a Liberator and Determinator, and then a week of all of them should have tempered her desire, right?
Nope. Not one bit. In fact, the guys had actually offered up a schedule where they took turns. One day with Dylan, one day with Mike, one day together.
“What do you mean, ‘day’?”
“Now that you want sex two, sometimes three times a day, we figure this is the best way to, um…”
“Pace ourselves,” Dylan had finished for him.
“You want to ration my access to sex?” she'd asked, incredulous.
“We're tired,” they'd said in unison.
Dylan had tried to be helpful. “And you can always use your toys if you—”
She had cut him a death glare. “Are you fucking kidding me? You two went to my best friend and her boyfriend and did the ‘poor me’ act to find out how to get more sex in our lives, and now you're acting like I'm the freak?”
“No one's calling anyone a freak,” Mike had soothed.
“Actually, that thing you did with the pearls last night was pretty freakish,” Dylan had countered, one eyebrow cocked at Mike.
“No one is calling anyone a freak,” Mike had repeated archly.
“Boo-hoo. Too bad, so sad,” Laura said.
“You sound like Josie!” Dylan had protested.
“On this topic, I'll take that as a compliment,” she'd challenged.
The two men had whispered something to each other, infuriating her.
“This is so unfair!” she'd declared. “It's two against one.”
Both had shrugged at the same time, as if they'd planned it. She'd stormed out of the room. Sex resumed that night.
But the guys prevailed. They had a schedule now.
Other women didn't have to deal with this. She'd been a one-man woman for her entire life until a year and a half ago. The sense of wonder and unreality in her relationship with Mike and Dylan could be overpowering at times, counterbalanced only by the exceptional feeling of being loved more than enough.
If she complained to Josie, she'd hear her own words echoed back.
“Too bad. So sad.”
Completely absorbed in her thoughts, she was caught unaware as warm, rough hands wrapped around her waist and yanked her into the playroom as she wandered absentmindedly down the hall to check in on Mike and Jillian. Dylan's scent filled her as he nuzzled her neck, then he pulled her to the ground.
Squeak! A little rubber giraffe protested as they fell on it. “A different kind of threesome,” Dylan said in a low voice that never failed to make heat pool in her belly. And lower. Of course, it didn't take much these days to arouse her. She was like an eighteen-year-old boy assigned to check bathing-suit seams at a beauty pageant.
Perpetually excited and very, very motivated to make sure every detail was perfect.
“You want me to put that giraffe where?”
Booming laughter filled her ear, then hot hands slid up under her shirt, his palms venturing forth and pulling back, clenching her curves with a primal ownership. Faster than she realized, his mouth was on her nipple, biting lightly, sending white-hot signals straight to her clit, her body so ready for touch she seemed custom-designed for nothing but sex. Hot monkey sex, the kind you do seven times in twelve hours and then go eat ice cream in bed while watching '80s movies on cable.