Unconventional (The Manhattanites #4) (9 page)

“What did you just say?” Overwhelmed by a moment of panic about our relationship coming to an end, my arousal came to a screeching halt. Heart lurching into my throat, I grappled with the consequences of what we were about to embark upon. This could either be a fresh new start for us or…not.

“
Dolce
, this is it.” Luigi boldly met my eyes. “For the next six weeks, you either do as we say—every city, every act of love—or we’re out of here.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Too stunned to cry, I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs, but all I could manage was a whisper.

The end? How can they talk like this?

“Try us.” Vexation evident, he gritted his teeth.

“
Dolce
, although I love the idea of Luigi bottoming for me, and I
will
add it to my wish list, we’re done playing by your rules.” Rocco’s hoarse voice broke my concentration to argue further. It sounded as if it was hard for him to speak to me like that, but by the flushed crimson hue on his cheeks, apparently he thought it was necessary. Usually he was good at keeping the peace between us.
Obviously, he’s on Luigi’s team today.

“Damn. I’m outnumbered.”

The longer we’d been together, the harder it would be to get my way in our relationship, but that was probably true of any union which goes on for more than five or so years.

Shaking my head, I could tell by the confident appearance on their faces something had crawled up their
hawt
asses and gotten stuck:
determination
.

“From here on out, you will follow our rules.” Luigi’s tongue was heavy with dominance, and it turned me on. Feeling a quake in my pussy, I crossed my legs and clenched my thighs tight. They hadn’t asked for my submission in ages, not since before I’d gotten sick. To be honest, I missed it, because I enjoyed submitting to them. Since my diagnosis, they’d both resigned their alpha ways, becoming beta males.

Yawn-o-rama.

Had I lost my respect for them in the process? No. Not exactly. But I tended to like my men better when they were both a lot more alpha. When they’d fight over who fucked me next, not whine. Who didn’t?

“And what are these rules?” In defiance, I tossed my hair back.

With rushed words, Rocco replied quickly, “Monogamy, for starters.” He leaned his face into mine, as if he was going to kiss me. “Last month, we each had our physicals and got a clean bill of health. There’s no reason why the three of us need to use condoms anymore. Let’s be exclusive.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Aside from me and Rocco, have you been with anyone else in recent months?”

Merda!
I shook my head.
I can barely keep up in bed with these two let alone have the energy for a third man in my life.

“
Bueno
, neither have we,” he admitted. “Not since the day we met you.”

“You haven’t?” Realizing they’d both been faithful, my eyes stung with tears. Even while I’d been ill, and later in recovery, they never strayed. I’d given them permission over and over again to go out, have fun, and to sex it up with others who could satiate them. Wiping my face, I stared at them in astonishment. Over the last year, I knew I’d failed them. Not only in the way of sex, but intimacy, as well.

On the inside, way down deep, where my heart beat and my soul laid itself to sleep at night, I often felt…dead. But I didn’t have the courage to share that with them, nor could I muster a thank you for staying faithful. Shocked, I was speechless.

Suddenly, I could hear the wheels on the jet come down. We lowered, getting in line with the tarmac.

“I can understand your hesitation about marriage and starting a family. However, if you can’t at least agree to be ours, and
only
ours, then we might as well go back to
Milano
.” Rocco rounded his shoulders.

“Do you want to be with other men?” Luigi asked.

For the first time since meeting my
amore
, I sensed uncertainty, almost as if he was doubting me… or us, for that matter.

My eyes traced his facial features. Forehead high, a Mediterranean tan matched his cheeks. So handsome, utterly masculine. His ears didn’t stick out like Rocco’s. They were rather hidden by his wavy brown hair.

Then I glanced over at Rocco. More exotic and wild, his almond-shaped eyes still eluded the same sentiments. He was unsure about us, as well.

This was killing me. I had no clue how my own demise had affected them. I replied with the truth, “No. I only want to be with you two.”

“
Bueno
,” Rocco said. “Then from here on out, we’re exclusive.”

“What else?”

“We’ll talk about
us
again, later. Right now, we need to buckle up. We’re landing.” Luigi kissed me on the lips.

They returned to their seats.

Closing my eyes, I had no clue what was in store. Regardless, I trusted my boyfriends, and I loved them both so very much. I just didn’t want to see either of them get hurt. What if I got sick again?

I could do this easily for the next six weeks. Right? How hard could it be?

Into The Labyrinth We Play

Luigi

The Circus Bazaar Night Club

Gerichtstrasse, Berlin, Germany

Utterly mind-blowing and brutally forward, Berlin’s night scene—especially the sex clubs—was like nothing we had back home.

From the church of techno club, Berghane, to the Alice’s Wonderland of Sislphos, we started to forget what the past few months had been like between us and let the music take control over our bodies. We danced.

The media not only bought into our sexual safari, they ate it up. Paparazzi followed us from one hot spot to the next.

“Over here, Jemma!” shouted a photographer.

Click. Pop. Flash.

“Is Lex Easton going to be taking over your designs going forward?” asked a reporter in an antagonistic tone.

Jemma didn’t stop walking. Instead, she just gave him her famous smile.

“With this kind of inspiration, your next collection is going to be insane,” stated a reporter who’d been on our tail since we’d gotten off the plane. The girl wore one of Jemma’s shorter dresses from two seasons before. Clearly a Jemma Couture groupie. “Tell us, why Berlin?”

She’d told me once that to get the press to hang on her every word, she’d often ignored the first question, gave more consideration to the second, and answered the third.

My
dolce
had it down to a science.

“Care to tell consumers what they’ll be in store for with your next line?” asked a blonde journalist who hadn’t attended the initial press conference.

She stopped walking and faced the reporter. “Contrary to what
Debauchery
magazine and the rest of the press wrote about my sense of style, I’m very down to Earth. Sometimes it may appear to be not from this planet—totally out of this world, my darling—but I promise you that next season will be hauntingly romantic.” She tossed her black hair back from her face and continued, “As a model, I knew the key to being successful was to not be perfect. Rather, it was to have a face people can engage with and a sense of being which is understandable, and I do. Therefore, with my fashion line, I promise to make my next collection a lot more relatable to my retailers.”

In awe, I stood there, watching her.

She was
magnifico
when she wanted to be.

Glaring at me with an expressive gaze, Rocco mouthed,
“Relatable.”

Had Jemma related to me or Rocco in recent months? I didn’t mean with her body, but her mind. During her treatment, we’d worked to the point of exhaustion to try and understand what she was going through. Was it selfish of us to want her to do the same for us? If she could make her fashion more approachable for the following season, then there was a glimmer of hope that she could also be more empathetic in our relationships. I prayed for us to be able to relate to each other more. We needed to talk, but I wasn’t very good at that, and her cold shoulder was killing us.

“Brill, Inc. did a
favoloso
job in getting the buzz going,” Jemma whispered in my ear, picking up her stride. “Now the rest is up to us…”

We’d found our salvation in Circus Bazaar. The neon pink sign at the entrance read in German, “Remove Clothing. No Flash Photography. Pick Your Floor. Free Condoms.”

“
Arrivederci
, fellas.” Jemma waved goodbye to the press as we went past the velvet ropes. “We’ll see you in Moscow.”

I couldn’t tell if she was acting the part or starting to get into it. Having a former model for a girlfriend made it hard to tell if she was ‘working it’ for the cameras or truly being herself. Observing her, I’d hoped the latter. Mood lighter, her spirits seemed to be lifting.

Naturally, I had doubts about her having fun. It had been so long since I’d heard
dolce
laugh, I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like...

When she did laugh, it was a cheerful, flirty giggle. Often, she’d close her eyes, shaking her head so strands of dark hair hid her face.  Embarrassed, she’d cover her mouth, trying to be delicate, and then all of a sudden release a faint snort.

Adorable.
Sì
, even sounds made by her nose I found endearing.

Usually the snort would cause Rocco and me to laugh alongside her.

Before she got sick, her brown eyes, like chocolate diamonds, had this brilliance to them. I’d give anything to see that twinkle again. Anything!

The name of the club alone should’ve told us the place would be out of the ordinary.

At the checkpoint, the final inner doorway, a man standing shorter than Rocco and myself was dressed as some kind of Minotaur and sported a bull mask over his face. Other than the two shiny horns jutting off the top of his head, he didn’t have anything else on. He had a nice body. Not as fit as Rocco’s, but then again no one was.

“Give me your clothes, please. Keep your cell phones with you at all times. If you get lost you may text each other,” instructed the attendant. He also gave us a map of the place, a small piece of paper illustrating the layout of the club. “Once you’re ready to leave, show me your claim number and I’ll retrieve your items.”

“
Grazie
,” I said as he gave us each a thin, metallic gold wristband with a number on it. Mine read ‘1,001’. I wondered if that was the number of people who’d gone into the labyrinth that night. This place seemed popular enough to have over a thousand visitors.

Stripping down, Jemma kept her shoes and panties on and strapped her cell phone around her wrist with a strap.

“You look beautiful,
dolce
.” My mouth curved wide into a smile.

“My darling, would it be okay if I kept my foundation garments on?” she asked the Minotaur and turned herself around for his approval.

“Sure,” he replied, eyeing her enthusiastically.

Since her treatment, Jemma had become self-conscious. I couldn’t blame her, but she always appeared perfect. At least to me.

Silhouetted against the amber lights, she appeared striking. With legs which went for miles and to-die-for abs, it was easy to see why they called her ‘
Tono’
after her toned figure, back when she’d modeled.

She adjusted the straps on her bra, and for the first time in ages gazed up at me with a sexual wanting on her face, right before demanding, “Get naked,
amore
.”

In approval, I laughed and stripped down to a pair of sandals the Minotaur had given me. I had no problem showing off my assets. Whether at the gym or perhaps even there at Circus Bazaar, I enjoyed the attention. I worked out, ate right, and took care of myself, so why shouldn’t I?

Friends say I did it to keep Jemma and Rocco interested, and maybe there was some truth to that. But I also did it for myself.
Looking good is feeling good.

Jemma approached, her dark eyes intent and focused. It reminded me of earlier when we were on the plane and her nipples had become erect. I was happy to think that maybe, just maybe, she was coming around again. Cupping my nuts in her hands, she kissed me. “I want you to stay nice and hard all night,
amore
.” Gently, she stroked my shaft.

A tremble rocketed through my body. I couldn’t remember the last time Jemma had touched me. It took all of my might to resist the urge to bend her over the Minotaur’s podium and fuck her, right there and then. But on the plane ride over to Berlin, Rocco and I had agreed we’d make Jemma beg for our sex that time.

That’s right. We’d hatched a plan to make her crave us as never before.

Rocco had said, “They call it reverse psychology. We’ll sex Jemma up, then right when she gets all moaning and groaning, we turn it off.”

“
Bello
, that’s cruel,” I’d argued. “And who is they?”

“My
nonno.
”

“You discuss us with your grandfather?”