Page 17 of One More Gift
I tear off the paper to find a new jigsaw puzzle, a 1000 piece picture of an Italian villa. The cheeky bastard. I narrow my eyes at him. “Thought you didn’t know I’d be here?”
“I was planning to leave it here for when you next visited,” he shrugs. “But now we can do it together, just like old times.”
Old times where we’d spend hours around this table fitting pieces together, pausing only for snacks or to get naked in front of the fireplace. Heat creeps up my spine at the memory, and I look away in case my expression gives me away.
“Here you go.” Henry sets a cup of coffee down in front of me, then rests his hand on the back of my chair. His thumb strokes a line up the middle of my back and I lean into it. “Oat milk and half a spoonful of brown sugar, right?”
“Right,” I nod, looking up at him. The hard planes of his chest, the scruff of his stubble, those full lips I want to spend the day kissing.
This is what I wanted this week. The two of us slipping into easy companionship, taking care of each other, touching each other freely, looking without guilt.
Casper leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and huffs loudly. “I know how she takes her coffee, Henry. I have been married to her for years. You have nothing to prove.”
Henry takes the seat next to me. Spreading his legs wide, he pats his thigh and I barely think of the implications of our company when I hop into his lap.
“You must be starving after last night,” he says, wrapping one arm tightly around my waist. He sweeps my hair away from my neck and presses a soft kiss there. “I know I am.”
I’ve never seen this side of him before. Competitive, arrogant, entitled. I deal with those sorts of people every day of my life, both artists and buyers. I can’t say it’s normally a turn on, but watching Henry tap into his possessive side is definitely doing it for me. As is the warmth of his thigh radiating through the layers of fabric between us.
His allure is in his quiet confidence. At six foot three, he commands a room simply by being in it, but his quiet charm makes everyone else feel like the most important person there. He listens, never interrupts, and when he speaks, he chooses every word carefully.
It's been a while since I’ve seen him work, but I know he seals deals with a smile and the raise of one eyebrow. Though he’s made a name for himself in the New York art world, I know forsure he doesn’t have to work half as hard as I do. People flock to him not just for the association with his name, but because his company makes their day.
His client list rivals mine in size and status, but he’s never been my competition, always a cheerleader.
It’s no wonder I’m putty in his hands as he boosts me up, twisting me so my legs drape over his other thigh. The silk of my robe slips slightly, revealing a swathe of skin above my knee that he warms with his palm.
I sip my coffee, peering over the rim at Casper watching the blatant display of possession in front of him. Henry reaches for a bowl of grapes, plucking a ripe one from the stem and offering it up to my mouth. I open for him, letting my tongue sneak just past my lips to catch the tip of his finger.
The room is silent but for the roar of the fire, and it may as well be raging inside me. The combination of Henry’s hands and Casper’s eyes on me is deadly, and my mind is flashing between thoughts of last night and what more could happen between the three of us.
“What would you like to do today, darling?” Henry asks casually, and my core tightens. What I really want is more sex, and lots of it, but I’m not quite bold enough to ask outright.
Casper and I have discussed my threesome fantasies plenty in the past. Sometimes while basking in the afterglow, or on nights we whispered our dirty wishes into each other’s ears in busy bars.
We've discussed, at length, the where, the what, and the how, but never consideredwhenit might happen orwhoit would be with.
My conversations with Henry these past few months have been another story entirely. Yes, there’s been plenty of flirting, but I got the impression he wanted to wait until we were together in person to talk about sex, and I followed his lead.
We’ve now slept together twice, almost two decades apart, and those experiences couldn’t have been more different. I’d imagined we’d take our time to understand each other’s needs, not jump straight in with a threesome, but then I remember the conversation I overheard earlier.
'Saskia’s in charge.'
'She calls the shots.'
Casper said as much when we were alone in my room.
'I want to fulfil her every last fantasy.'
But surely last night was a one-off? And I wouldn’t want to risk whatever is unfolding with Henry by confessing any lingering desires for more sex with my ex-husband.
“Casper bought me a puzzle,” is what I finally manage to squeak out.
Henry says, planting a trail of kisses along my shoulder. “Sounds like the perfect way to unwind.”
Casper’s eyes drift down and to the right, locked on Henry’s movements. When Henry slips his hand inside my robe, cupping my breast in his warm hand, Casper growls—actually fucking growls—at the sight.
“What’s wrong, Casper?” Henry laughs behind my ear, and my eyes flutter closed. “Feeling left out?”