Page 65 of Bossing My Holiday
“Did you enjoy dinner?” Braxton asks, his voice lighter than Tristan’s but no less affecting. “That little bistro was my find, you know. Tristan wanted to take you to some stuffy Michelin-starred restaurant where they serve foam and call it cuisine.”
I can’t help my giggle.
Tristan’s thumb pauses its movement. “You loved La Mousse when I took you there last time.”
“I loved watching the waitresses flirt with you more than the foam,” Braxton fires back, winking at me when I scowl like a jealous girlfriend until something hits me.
“Wait? It’s called La Mousse?”
“Yes, and mousse means foam.” Tristan rolls his eyes.
I snort out a laugh I can’t stop, earning full teeth smiles and light laughs from them.
“The restaurant was perfect,” I tell them when I’m done laughing. “I’m grateful there was no foam. Seriously though, everything has been...” I trail off, unsure how to finish that thought without revealing too much of myself.
“Perfect?” Tristan suggests, his hand sliding an inch higher on my thigh.
“Unexpected,” I correct.
“Is that good or bad?” Braxton questions, suddenly serious, which is rarely his brand of tea.
I look at him, then at Tristan. My bosses. My lovers. The lines I’ve crossed and can’t uncross. “It’s good,” I admit, a little shaky. “Complicated, but good.”
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Tristan offers, setting his glass down on the side table. “Not tonight.”
He leans in, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. My eyes flutter closed as his lips work their way down my neck. Braxton’s hand moves from my hair to my shoulder, then traces a path down my arm until his fingers intertwine with mine.
“Tonight is just us,” Braxton agrees, his other hand tipping my chin toward him. “The rest we’ll figure out as we go.” There’s something in his eyes as he says that. Something I can’t read. A look of desperation or hope or maybe even fear, but before I can try to make sense of it, his lips are on mine.
His kiss is different from Tristan’s. Playful where Tristan is intense. Coaxing where Tristan demands. I melt into it, thetaste of scotch and desire mingling on our tongues. Tristan’s hands continue their exploration, one sliding up to cup my breast through the thin fabric of my dress, the other pushing the hem higher up my thighs.
“Let’s move,” Tristan urges against my skin. “I want to see you naked against the lights of the city.”
Braxton pulls back, his eyes dark as he nods in agreement. Tristan stands, pulling me up with him, then leads me to the wall of windows. Behind us, Braxton follows, his hands finding the zipper at the back of my dress.
“Wait,” I say, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. “Can people see in?”
Tristan’s lips quirk in that almost-smile that makes him look dangerous. “No one can see in. But you can see everything out there. All of Paris at your feet, Waverly.”
The zipper slides down with a soft hiss, and my dress pools around my ankles. I’m left in nothing but black lace and the thin gold necklace Braxton bought me today as an early Christmas gift from a shop we passed. Neither of them knows how to stop buying me things, no matter how I fight and protest.
“Look at you,” Braxton breathes, his hands spanning my waist from behind.
Tristan steps back, leaning into the glass of the balcony doors, leisurely unbuttoning his shirt as he drinks me in. “You should see her from this angle,” he says to Braxton.
And at Tristan’s mentioning that, I cast my gaze away from him to the glass. Not the view, but the window. My reflection is almost ghostly with my pale skin, dark hair, and silver eyes wide with anticipation. I hardly recognize myself, but I also know I’ve never been more alive than I am now.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of clothing being removed.
“She looks nervous, Tris,” Braxton comments, and I feel hisbare chest press against my back, his hands sliding around to cup my tits. “Are you nervous, Sunshine?”
“No,” I lie again, then correct myself. “Maybe a little.”
“Don’t be,” Tristan says, coming to stand in front of me. He’s shed his shirt, leaving him in just his trousers. The hard planes of his chest and abdomen make my mouth go dry. “We’ve got you.”
His hands replace Braxton’s on my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the lace until they harden under his touch. Behind me, Braxton unhooks my bra, sliding it down my arms until I’m bare from the waist up except for the necklace that’s cool against my heated skin.
“This looks even better than I imagined,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the delicate chain, then continuing down between my shoulder blades.
