Page 17 of Honey Cut
“Thank you. That does make me feel better.”
* * *
When we get home,Mark is setting the table for dinner. He’s wearing black trousers and a white button-down, clear holdovers from the suit he wore earlier, but his feet are bare, and his sleeves are rolled up to expose forearms layered with muscle. On his left forearm is a tattoo—a bird seen in profile, rendered all in black.
He pauses to observe us as we walk inside, three wineglasses hanging upside down from one of his massive hands. I’m still in my gi, and hopefully Mark attributes any lingering flush on my cheeks to training.
“Ah, my two,” he says, and he doesn’t say what we’re two of, but perhaps the cool and yet fond possessiveness in his voice makes it clear. We’re two ofhis. However hired Tristan may be, however arranged I am. We’re still his.
I try to feel unsettled by that presumption, and I nearly succeed.
“Sir,” Tristan greets. “Do you need help with anything?”
“Not at all. Everything is ready.” Mark sets the glasses down with silent precision and then goes back to the kitchen, returning with a plate.
“I should change,” I say, even though my mouth is already watering at the sight of dinner: creamy spaghetti twirled into a rose-shaped nest, flecked with black pepper and tiny pink rosebuds.
“Nonsense,” Mark says firmly. “Sit.”
I sit without thinking, and the corner of his mouth is pressed inward as he sets the dish in front of me. An almost smile.
“Good girl,” he says softly, and my heart flips in my chest, once and hard.
I look away, at the nearby window and the stretch of Manhattan on display outside. And then I curse myself.
I want to seduce him; I want him to trust me. I need to shelve my reflexive pride and let him see the effect he has on me.
Because that part is all too real.
But when I look back, he’s already in the kitchen getting the next plate, and Tristan is sitting next to me, working at the button on his suit jacket because he forgot to unbutton it before he sat down. It’s his right hand, the hand he had down my pants not thirty minutes ago, and my skin prickles and hums. I can see the tendons moving across the back of his hand, the nimble crook and flex of his fingers as he works the button through the hole.
And then Mark is next to me, pouring chianti in a ruby splash inside my glass, his own hand strong and adroit. Underneath the delicious aroma of the food in front of me, I can pick out the notes ofhim, thunderstorm and earth. His free hand is braced on the back of my chair as he pours, and when he’s done, I swear I feel the end of my ponytail move, like he couldn’t resist touching it.
My clit is so swollen that I feel it, feel the pressure of my thighs as I sit there, and I don’t realize I’m shifting in my seat—squirming—until Mark sits down next me.
“Everything all right, Isolde?” he asks.
Even though it’s an eight-person table, we are all sitting clustered at one end with me in the middle. On one side of me, I have a hero; on my other side, a devil.
One I want to fuck.
The other I’ll have to.
My clit leaps, surges. Oh God.
“I’m fine,” I murmur.
The corner of Mark’s mouth presses in again. “Good.”
seven
ISOLDE
A week later,I’m standing on a pedestal looking into a mirror. Three identical Isoldes look back at me.
They have fair skin sun-kissed into a pale gold and turquoise eyes; they have thick blond hair hastily pinned up into three identical messy buns. Their dresses are long and full, classic ball gowns, with long sleeves and sweetheart necklines. The gowns are made of Chantilly lace—magnolia white—laid over silk that looks white at first glance but is actually a pale, pale pink. The lace is unlined over their arms and shoulders, and if the brides turned around, their gowns would have identical open backs.
On their left shoulder blades would be a smudge of mottled green, the fading mark of their groom’s teeth.
