His: MMF Bisexual Holiday Romance Read online

  His

  MMF Bisexual Holiday Romance

  Chloe Lynn Ellis

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  If you enjoyed this book…

  His

  His © Chloe Lynn Ellis 2016.

  Amazon Kindle Edition.

  Edited by Indica Snow

  Cover design by SilverHeart Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The author has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.

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  Chapter 1

  Ginny

  The world is glowing tonight. The Christmas lights are going up everywhere now, and it’s turning what should be a cold, dark November night into something out of a fairytale.

  It’s bright and beautiful, and I can hardly stand it. Maybe that makes me sound like a complete monster, but cut me a break, yeah? Massachusetts is supposed to be the land of the Pilgrims, isn’t it? You’d think we’d let Thanksgiving last as long as it could, not rush to cut it short. Come on, already.

  I thought I would at least get until the first of December before Boston went bughouse crazy with all of this festive decorating, but I guess someone on some city planning committee somewhere got a wild hair up their butt about starting early this year. It’s not fair! I know, I know—what kind of a Grinch am I, right?

  Let me explain. The holidays are hard for me. I used to love them, but not anymore, not since last year. Now they just make me remember everything I’m missing. After everything that’s happened, I really just need these last few days after Thanksgiving to prepare, to build up my defenses before the rush of Christmas spirit sweeps me—and everybody else—totally out to sea in that monstrous riptide of cheer.

  I sigh as I look over the packed dining room and bar of Verve, the restaurant-slash-wine bar where I work as a waitress. Judging by all the gooey-eyed couples, the holiday spirit is already in full swing. I take a nice, long, deep breath. I probably can’t manage a big, bright smile right now, but at least I can make sure I’m not bringing everyone else down on their date nights. Not to mention that my jerk of a manager, Tucker, has been very, very clear that he’s looking for any excuse to make my life even worse than he already does. He’s made enough passes for me to know that rejection isn’t something that he takes very well, but the thought of going out with that man is just way too sketchy for me.

  There’s only one thing that could possibly salvage this night for me. One happy thought that causes me to look immediately toward the table by the window, the one in the corner that’s positioned just right for someone to look over the entire restaurant if they felt like it.

  My heart rate speeds up; I can feel it flutter inside my chest. There he is, sitting down with his back against the corner wall. My favorite regular. Luke.

  God, he’s so hot. That kind of crazy-hot that makes my mouth start to water at the sight of him. And I know I’m not the only one he has that effect on. Daphne, the hostess, keeps trying to lean over when she seats him, trying to tease him with a tawdry peak of cleavage. And, really, I don’t think I can blame her. In all honesty, I’d be trying the same exact thing if I didn’t think he was so totally out of my league. Maybe if I could wear cute little dresses like Daphne does, instead of my waitstaff uniform of black slacks and a white button-down, I’d have a little bit of a shot. A girl can dream, right?

  I’ve been doing a lot of dreaming about Luke—Luke Anders, his credit card says—since he started coming in a month ago. He’s a walking fantasy: tall, chiseled features, and with expensive suits that only accentuate an obviously gorgeous, fit body. And his eyes… there’s an intensity in them that makes me want to melt into a puddle at his feet. He’s always at the same table, and I mean always. Last week, I saw some other businessman sitting there during prime Luke Time. I ducked into the kitchen for a second, and when I came back, Luke was shaking the man’s hand and sitting down as they traded tables. Boston guys aren’t exactly shy and retiring, but I’d never seen a man be that ballsy. “I’m particular,” he said, and smiled at me. “I like what I like, how I like it.”

  Rrrow.

  If my hips sway a little more than usual as I walk to his table, that’s hardly my fault. Serving Luke has become almost a kind of game: can I make it through a whole night without him sending back an order? Any other customer, it might make me pissy to run back and forth with alterations, but with Luke, it just doesn’t seem to bother me. He never makes me feel bad if things aren’t right; he just wants things to be perfect. And the way he treats me? It just makes me want things to be perfect for him.

  The only way serving him could be better would be if he were to decide that I could be one of those perfect fits for him.

  Luke smiles as I reach his table, a slow reveal of perfect, white teeth. “Ginny, good evening.”

  “Welcome back to Verve… Mr. Anders,” I say, and then I hold my breath. Will he do it this time?

  I should know better than to think Luke will disappoint. He leans back in his chair slightly, still smiling, but there’s something hot in his gaze. “Ginny, Ginny,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “I thought we were past that.” One of his huge, hot hands rests on the edge of the table, inches from my hip. “It’s Luke. Always just ‘Luke.’”

  A little thrill goes through me at the tone in his voice; it’s playful, but at the same time it’s firm and powerful. I’m tempted to call him “sir” next time, just to see what he’ll do.

  “Speaking of names, I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, and gestures casually toward my breasts. I’m frozen for a second—is he really going to say something about my chest? I mean, I knew he was bold, but wow.

  He raises one eyebrow as the silence stretches on. “Your name tag. Ginny.”

  “My… name tag?” I glance down, suddenly terrified beyond reason that it’s misspelled or, God forbid, someone else’s, but the little bar of plastic pinned to my shirt is the same as it always is. “That’s right, that’s me,” I say, and then I want to kick myself. Could I possibly sound more out of it?

  Luke laughs, but he’s laughing with, not at me. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “Ginny is your full name, then? That’s what I was wondering. I want to make sure I have it right.” And then, God help me, he winks.

  My cheeks heat as I blush, feeling like an idiot. “Uh, no,” I stammer. “I’m, uh. It’s Virginia. My name. Ginny is short for Virginia. But nobody calls me that, I mean—” I swallow, trying to calm the frantic urge to babble while I try to convince him I’m a functional human instead of a sad, under
sexed trainwreck.

  Luke, mercifully, doesn’t seem be horrified. “Virginia.” He says my name like he’s tasting it, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of wine, wrapping it up in the dark silk of his deep, sexy voice.

  Something in me seems to explode, a flower of heat bursting into bloom between my thighs, and I barely stifle a moan. I shift, trying to ignore the sudden, desperate need I feel and praying that my suddenly-drenched panties haven’t managed to soak through my slacks.

  “I’ll remember that, Virginia,” Luke says, and the wicked twinkle in his blue eyes makes one thing clear.

  No matter what else happens tonight, I’m not going to be able to get this man out of my head.

  An eternity later, I’m finally, finally home. My purse hits the floor of my apartment with a heavy thud, and I’m so exhausted that I almost follow it down. I’m beat: it was a long shift, crazy busy for a Monday night, and even the delight of seeing Luke can’t fix the way my feet are aching inside my chunky winter boots. My whole back is wet; sweat from hours in the high heat in the restaurant, turned cold from my walk and the T ride home. It’s the cherry on my winter blues sundae. Blech.

  I hang up my coat and make my way to the bathroom, pulling off my dirty clothes as I go. I’m not usually a slob, but I’m too fried right now to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. My apartment might be a postage stamp in an old three-story walkup, but it’s hard to beat the clawfoot tub in my bathroom. A nice, hot bath with some bubbles is just what I need to wash this day away. I drop a lavender bath bomb into the tub—not normally my favorite scent, but it was the only one in the store that wasn’t shaped like a Christmas tree or mistletoe—and slide into the steaming, fizzing water with a sigh, the heat sinking into my chilled skin and soothing away my fatigue.

  As my exhaustion fades, it’s replaced by something else: hunger, and not the kind you get for food. My body’s starving, aching for human contact. For a man’s touch on my skin, for the ecstasy that only comes when two people connect in the most intimate, blissful way possible. I’ve been single for a long time, and I don’t do one-night stands. Even if this time of the year didn’t make me want to burst out crying, it would be hard to find what I’m really craving.

  I have a type, one that seems impossibly rare. I’m not stupid, and I’m not naive, despite being in my early twenties. I know men are an either-or when it comes to sweetness and power; you don’t get to have both, you have to make a choice.

  It’s why I have the worst luck in love: men who are dominant in bed always prove to be controlling in all the not-fun ways, and men who know how to coax me without pushing can never scratch my need to be protected. But is it so wrong to want a guy who can take charge, but who still treats you well? A man who can be protective and dominant, but still knows how to be tender?

  Maybe I’m just greedy, but it’s so hard to settle for one or the other, when what my heart is truly craving is both.

  Luke’s face rises in my imagination like a bubble coming to the surface of my bath, and I feel a thrill of heat curl low in my belly. Now there’s a man who knows how to take control, in all the best ways. I think of his perfectionist tastes, his need for things to be just so. What would he be like in bed? Could he take me like I crave, make me feel safe and claimed and treasured, all at the same time? Under the water, my hand slides down my body, headed for the place that will relieve this need at least for a little while. I barely know anything about Luke, besides his looks, his taste in food and wine, and how extravagantly well he tips. But it’s my fantasy, and in my mind, I can make him however I want.

  I picture Verve, and Luke sitting at his table. But instead of a bustling Monday night, the whole place is empty except for us. I picture his suit jacket off, his tie undone and shirt sleeves rolled up, what I think of as a man who’s ready for business. My boring uniform becomes a sexy, curve-hugging minidress I’d never have the guts to pull off in real life. Imaginary Luke’s eyes roam freely over my body, his gaze like an brilliant, blue spotlight… lighting me up in all the right spots.

  “What did I say about calling me Luke, Virginia?” His voice dips lower, ending in a sultry growl. My nerves light up and my hand slides lower as I think about the way he said my name earlier. “Sit down,” he says.

  I reach for the chair across from him, and he shakes his head with that same wicked glint in his eyes. Instead, he pats the table in front of him. There’s a black linen napkin folded next to his full wine glass, but no place setting or silverware. “Right here, Virginia,” he says, pushing his chair back and taking my hand, pulling me to stand in front of him. He settles my ass against the edge of the table, pushing me back until my knees bend on their own. “Let’s see if you’re as delicious as your name.”

  Even though I’m imagining all of this, I can hardly believe what he’s telling me to do. The smooth lacquered wood of the table is cool against my thighs where my tiny skirt rides up even higher. When Luke places his hands on the tops of my thighs, the big fingers spanning over my skin and thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh, the contrast in temperatures makes his touch feel like a brand.

  Despite the hot bath water, I shiver as I begin to touch myself, slowly, achingly slowly. I want to let this build, I want to torture myself like I imagine Luke would do. I let my head loll back against the cool white porcelain, feeling my breasts break the surface of the water as I arch my back, trying to press into Luke’s phantom touch.

  In my fantasy, Luke’s hands rise to cup my breasts through my dress, kneading and hefting my soft, full curves appreciatively. He’s so much taller than me that even with me seated in front of him, we’re practically eye to eye. “You’re mine, Virginia,” he says softly, his voice like a low roll of thunder that travels down my spine into the heart of me. “Tell me you want to be mine. I want to hear you say it.”

  My breath hitches as my fingers slide over my clit, and I find myself nodding in real life as my fantasy-self nods. She—I—swallow hard and take a deep breath, trembling before those intense eyes. “Yes,” I say softly. “Yes, Luke, I want to be yours. Make me yours.”

  The words are barely past my lips when he moves, fast and sure, pulling the top of my minidress down to free my breasts. I gasp as the cool air hits my already taut nipples, then moan softly as Luke’s hands cover them, rubbing and stroking the hard buds with an expert touch. I mimic the touch with my other hand as the one between my thighs caresses my aching pussy, savoring the delicate sensation even as it teases me.

  His hands slide lower, curving down to my lower back. “Lie back,” he commands me, and I do, leaning against his strong hands as he lowers me to the table, feeling totally secure. Luke would never let me fall, would never let harm come to his woman.

  I barely feel the water around me now: I am so wrapped up in my fantasy that it feels almost like Luke kissing up the inside of my thigh is more real than my apartment. More often than I’d like to admit, I’m so concerned about what’s going on in my life that, even when I’m trying to get myself off, some part of my brain keeps fretting over work or rent or any of a million other mundane things. But now, Luke has my complete attention. I can’t imagine him settling for any less.

  And oh, boy, do I have his full attention. In my daydream, I’m not wearing panties under the minidress, and Luke’s hot breath ghosts over my sex in a way that makes me tremble. Far away, I can feel my fingers moving faster, but the spiraling desire is blurring everything else away.

  He traces his big fingertips over my sex, his touch light and tantalizing against my aching skin. “Almost perfect,” Luke says, and my heart manages to sink at the “almost” at the same time it thrills to the word “perfect.” I raise up on my elbows so I can see his eyes; he looks back at me, splayed on the table and bare to his view, and smiles. “I want you wet,” he says. “You’re not quite how I want you yet.”

  I barely register his words before he’s hauled my thighs up onto his broad, muscular shou
lders. And then his mouth is on me, and I feel like I’m flying with the pleasure of his expert tongue. I buck and writhe, but Luke’s strong hands hold my thighs tightly, not enough pressure to hurt but enough that escape isn’t going to happen. I want to escape, want to get away from the almost painful ecstasy as he devours me. But I also want more, want everything he can possibly give me. He looks up at me from between my thighs and the heat in his blue gaze is enough to make me moan and clutch at the edges of the table. I’m caught in a storm of pleasure, barely managing to hold on as I am buffeted by wave after wave of intense sensation.

  I hear Luke’s voice, hoarse with lust as he growls a single word: “Now.” And then he’s standing, scooping me up into his arms and pulling me hard against his broad chest, grinding my sensitive, slick pussy against the hard bar of his erection. Even through his pants, he feels immense. I moan—eager, desperate for him to take me. I’m so close, so tantalizingly close. I need him to fill me, I need more than my fingers could ever hope to do.

  My body feels like it’s on fire as he kisses me, every nerve alive and ready. “Please,” I gasp as we break apart. “Please, Luke, I need—”

  “I know,” Luke says. “I’m not going to keep you waiting.” I almost whimper with relief when I feel the head of his hard cock tease against my entrance.

  For a second I seem to tremble on the edge of a knife, the moment between denial and fulfillment almost too much to bear. And then, with an exquisite, agonizing sensation, I feel Luke enter me. I let myself be greedy, let myself take every thick inch of his powerful cock, until I feel like I’m more full than I’ve ever been in my life. I want to see him naked, want to feast my eyes on every inch of him; but this way, wrapped in his arms and driven wild with pleasure by a cock I’ve never seen, feels so hot, so naughty. There’s a searing, electric current of pleasure in me, winding tighter and tighter as Luke drives into me over and over again. I won’t last long like this.