Polished (29 page)

Jack placed his hand on her hip and brought her close. His hand rested just below the waistband of the flouncy, flirty little miniskirt she had dug out of the back of her closet. In the knee-high boots she wore with their four-inch platforms, she was at eye level with him.

“You’re a good fit,” he said directly in her ear and started to rock her from side to side at a tempo that was out of keeping with the energy pulsing around them.

She cupped her hand around his ear and replied, “We all fit together.”

He caught her cheek in his palm and sank his lips onto hers. The kiss was a surprise. The feeling in her toes was not.

“We’re together even when we’re not.” He glanced over at Spencer with a nod.

She supposed that was true. Jack turned her away from him and she now had a perfect view of Spencer at the bar. With one arm on her hip and the other wrapped around her collarbone they rocked and swayed to the music. Spencer sipped his drink, his steady gaze on both of them. Rory’s hands floated to her thighs and she teased the hem of her skirt. Spencer nodded and raised his drink to them. She slid her hands inward to the soft, creamy flesh in the hollow space in between and caressed her legs, hiking the skirt just a little higher. Jack’s grip on her tightened and he began to nibble on her earlobe. Rory’s mouth parted, just a little, as her heart started to beat faster. She felt the wet tickle of Jack’s tongue along the crease of her ear. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and her ass lifted and pressed against Jack’s crotch as if of its own accord. She could say that Spencer’s eyes on her, his hungry stare, was the reason electric shivers ran over her skin, but that would be only half the truth. Where Spencer made her feel strong and confident, Jack made her weak for his insistent control. She needed both.

Then Spencer wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was occupied with that giant of a man, with the prison tattoo on his neck, whom she’d noticed at the bar. Spencer looked annoyed. The man leaned closer than seemed appropriate, a smarmy grin exposing large teeth behind his scruffy beard. His long Roman nose nearly touched Spencer’s cheek and she watched his tongue make an appearance with a few lewd flicks.

Jack slid from behind her, pressing his open palm on her breastbone in a clear indication to stay put. He pushed his way past several couples, closing the twenty or so yards that separated them. But Spencer had already shoved the sneering man back a step with two strong hands on his chest. Spencer’s fists balled at his side and the man looked surprised.

Jack stepped into place next to Spencer. Rory couldn’t hear their words, but she didn’t need to. Jack seemed to offer Spencer support, placing his hand on his shoulder and adding another menacing stare at the imposing man. Suddenly Spencer shrugged Jack off and lunged at the man, punching him in the throat. It was a trick he probably learned growing up in Queens as a skinny, quiet teenager who needed to be able to hold his own in a fight. Rory had seen his old pictures and the image flashed before her eyes.

Jack stepped forward, placing himself between the two of them, but the man grabbed at Jack’s collar, twisting it and throwing him back. Spencer thrust himself forward, catching Jack with one hand and clocking the guy again, this time in the jaw with his closed fist. Jack regained his balance and punched the man in the stomach. Each landed one more blow before security showed up, ushering them all toward the door. Rory finally found her legs and hurried after them.

Outside, the cold assaulted her with a smack of arctic wind to the face. She drew her arms around herself; the leather jacket she’d worn was back in the club at the coat check, along with her floppy knit hat. Jack drew her under his arm, calling for Spencer, who yelled obscenities after the tall man now stalking off down the street.

“Next time we’re calling the cops,” one of the bouncers said to them before returning to the dim glow spilling from the open door.

“Wait,” Jack said. “Can you let her get her coat?” He reached for his wallet and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill.

The bouncer took it and nodded, holding the door open for Rory as she scooted by. She didn’t want to leave Spencer, but it was frigid outside and the twenty-four-hour garage they’d parked in was three long city blocks away. A cab this time of night would be hard to come by. She looked over her shoulder to find Jack making a beeline to Spencer, hands out, head forward, looking as confused as she was about the outburst.

She shoved through the crowd to the coatroom, fishing her claim ticket from her skirt pocket with shaky hands. The girl behind the counter couldn’t seem to move fast enough. What the hell was going on with Spencer? It wasn’t like him to start a fight, especially not with someone as freakishly big as that goon. She tapped her fingernail nervously on the counter until the clerk returned, then tossed the few loose dollars at her and turned back toward the front door.

Spencer flinched at the sight of Rory’s worried eyes as she approached. Her brows knitted, but that look wasn’t anger. He bit down on his lip and looked away.

Jack asked him something, the same question he’d asked moments ago. This time he cupped Spencer’s chin. “What the fuck, Spence?”

Spencer huffed in defeat. They weren’t going to let this go until he spilled it all. Toeing at a bottle cap on the street, he set his jaw and shook his head. “That motherfucker had it coming.”

“So I gathered,” Jack returned.

“Are you OK?” Rory cried out. She flung her arms around him. Spencer felt a rip of guilt tear through him. He’d ruined their night out. He hadn’t been keen on going dancing, but once he was there it had been great just to be out with the two of them. He’d enjoyed the energy flowing between them all evening, and the ripe, heavy desire he had for both. Watching them on the dance floor had been more of a treat than he’d imagined, making him outrageously hard. Now Rory looked frightened and it was his fault. No. It was that fucktard’s fault.

“Tell us.” Jack’s voice had softened. The look on his face had changed to one of gentle understanding.

“Let’s head back to your place. Rory’s going to freeze her butt off.” Spencer began to walk, his two lovers in tow. He shook his head again. Was that right? Lovers? How could he define this whole thing? Not the way that prick in the bar had, that was for sure.

“What did that guy say to you to make you want to hit him?” Rory puffed, taking large steps to keep pace with him.

He slowed. “Babe, I’m not going to repeat it.”

She frowned at him.

They moved quickly through the night. Tension stalked them like a wolf. Spencer really hadn’t meant to ruin the evening. Fuck. He needed to think.

The ride to Jack’s apartment was quick through the sparse midnight traffic. They took the elevator in silence, no one wanting to begin the conversation until they were behind closed doors, in safety and comfort. By the time Jack unlocked the door, Spencer still wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it at all.

Jack flicked the lights on, revealing the perfectly neat furnishings and generous layout. Keys dropped onto the glass console next to the door and Jack took Rory’s coat from her. Spencer appreciated the warmth of the apartment and sought out a chair. Suddenly he felt spent. The adrenaline burst had dissipated in the twenty minutes that had passed since leaving the club. Rory removed her boots and sat on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her in her signature way. She stared at Spencer, waiting for him to begin.

Jack wasn’t as patient. He crouched down in front of Spencer on the floor, his hands on Spencer’s knees. If Spencer didn’t know better, he’d say it was a submissive stance. But he did know better.

“You scared the shit out of Rory,” Jack said in a stern, even voice.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said.

“You scared me,” he continued.

“You didn’t look scared.” Spencer tried to grin. The joke fell as flat as he felt.

“I have your back. Don’t you know that?” Jack raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

“You guess? I wanted to rip that guy’s head off the moment I saw you were having trouble with him.”

“I wasn’t having trouble with him. I can take care of myself.”

“I know. But you don’t have to.” He slid his fingers into Spencer’s palm. “You can tell us what it was about.”

Spencer swallowed. Why was this so hard? The guy was a prick. Nothing he said was true. Still, Spencer felt his blood rush with the thought of sharing the shameful words. Jack stroked his palm with light fingers. He stared into Spencer’s eyes, unwilling to let him hide the truth. “He asked me who the hard-on in my pants was for.” Spencer watched as Rory wrinkled her nose.

She shook her head. “So he was hitting on you? Why didn’t you just tell him you weren’t interested?”

“Babe, you don’t understand…”

“I know what it’s like to be hit on by a guy when I’m not asking for the attention. It’s annoying, but usually they take the hint and get lost.”

“Well, I don’t do well being called names.”

“What did he call you?” Jack asked with a slow, even tone.

Spencer felt his throat close up a little. “He said it looked like I lost my beard. I thought he was drunk. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. Then he pointed at Rory.” The lump got bigger in his trachea. “He said she could watch while he made me his bitch.”

Jack blinked and pressed his lips together. “I could kill that asswipe.”

Rory uncurled her body and stretched over the arm of the couch, placing her hand on Spencer’s bicep. “He was a jerk, Spence, that’s all.”

Spencer nodded, locking his jaw and rubbing his thumb against his ring finger. The corners of his mouth felt heavy.

“Hey Ror,” Jack said, looking over at her. “Maybe you’d like a nice hot bath. I could run one for you.”

She started to shake her head, but then Jack seemed to encourage her with some unspoken signal in his expression. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”

She leaned over Spencer and dropped a kiss to his lips, her hair falling onto his face when she did. When she pulled back, her eyes fluttered to Jack.

He got up and turned to Spencer. “I’ll get her bath set and be right back. Give me five minutes.”

Spencer gave a nod. He stared miserably around the spacious living room. Spacious for lower Manhattan, anyway. He could appreciate the decor, the mix of colors that blended together in an effortless duet of burgundy and chocolate. Beyond the slats of the dark brown shutters, the Chinese restaurant sign blinked an advertisement for dim sum. Spencer looked for the bar. Surely a pad this swanky had something amber-colored in a decanter somewhere. From down the hall, he heard water running and soft voices. It hadn’t been that subtle, Jack’s arrangement for Rory to excuse herself from the conversation. He had mixed feelings about it, not an uncommon sensation lately. At the same time he felt relief and anxiety. What the fuck was wrong with him? He needed that drink.

As promised, Jack returned quickly, while Spencer poured himself a double shot of Hennessy. He had located the bottle inside a bookcase, along with a tray and glasses. Jack took a seat in the chair Spencer had been sitting in before. “Come,” he said, tapping the steel coffee table in front of him with his flat palm.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed at the command. The last thing he wanted right then was to be commanded, but he went obediently to the table and took a seat opposite Jack.

“Hey,” Jack said, in a more serious tone than the familiar word usually warranted.

“Yeah?”

“You need me to say some things. You’re going to want to argue with me, but these are things you need to hear.” He took the glass from Spencer’s hand and put it on the table beside him, next to a big glass lamp.

Spencer frowned. “Is that why you sent Rory out of the room? You don’t want her to see us arguing?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you need to save face to keep her from getting upset. I want you to be able to be real with yourself.”

Spencer’s frown deepened. He twisted his lip into an incredulous sneer, hoping to fool Jack into thinking he wasn’t afraid of the very real way Jack made him feel most of the time.

To Spencer’s astonishment, Jack began to unbuckle his belt with slow, deliberate movements. He paused only a minute before pulling it from its loops and laying it on the arm of the chair. “You started a fight with that guy because you’re afraid he’s right about you. You think that what he said hit a little too close to the truth.”

Spencer balked. “What? Fuck you. I don’t think that.”

“You’re no less of a man because you like to have my cock inside you, Spencer.” Jack continued in an even and measured tone. He ignored Spencer’s angry rebuke. Next, he undid the button of his charcoal gray trousers. He’d looked so classically handsome tonight in a neat sand-colored henley with suede elbow patches and contrast stitching. The pants had been fitted. They were not tight, cut just close enough to make him look like the sexual animal he was. His short hair had grown longer since they’d reconnected, blonder now that there was more of it to see. Spencer took in the sight of him and let it distract him from the words that had come from his mouth.

Jack repeated himself. “Not any less of a man. Hey, do you hear me?”

The directness of the question snapped Spencer from the hiding place in his head. But he couldn’t seem to make his mouth acknowledge Jack with an answer. Did saying yes mean he agreed? And worse, did no mean he didn’t?

“I want you to get on your knees,” Jack said simply.

Spencer felt a spike of anger drive through him. “What? No.”

Jack unzipped his fly, his voice still calm, almost gentle. “Not because you are my bitch, Spencer, but because I need you to understand what wanting me inside you
does
mean.”

Spencer’s nostrils flared as he took a deep lungful of air. He’d like to know, to understand what it meant to need Jack so much. If what that asshole had said wasn’t true, then what was? In silence he lowered himself from the coffee table and kneeled in front of Jack on the thick shag rug. Jack parted his legs as Spencer positioned himself between them.