The chains rattle hard against the heavy bag as I kick it, over and over again, against the backdrop of the blasting music keeping me motivated. Every single time, I let out a fierce yell, and every single time I’m thankful that Grandpa Sully soundproofed the basement. Dylan is upstairs, cooking up a storm. I offered to be his sous chef, but to no avail. Secretly, I’m glad; this is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to really get a lot of the lingering stress out of my body.

Not to mention the frustration.

Yesterday, when Dylan finally kissed me again, I thought it would lead to some more of what we’d had in the kitchen. We got off track, though, talking about Jack, and even though we flirted the rest of the evening, I ended up in bed alone. That puts it at a week since I slept with Dylan, and just about a week since Jack almost made me come from a kiss alone. Compared to how unfulfilling my sex life was before coming back to Boston, that’s practically a miracle… but I’m greedy. My body is aching for more where that came from, and until I get the nerve to go for it on my own—or one of them steps up and offers—I’ve gotta keep my libido in check somehow.

Kickboxing helps.

A little.

Other than decoration, most of my hobbies didn’t revolve around the typical expected skillset of a society woman, as mother would say. I kickbox, I lift weights; I enjoy the feeling of my body working at its peak. It may have started because of endless ridicule and scrutiny from my mother—exercising has always been easier for me than dieting when it comes to maintaining my weight—but over the years, I’ve really made it my own thing.

I feel good when I use my body like this.

I feel strong.

The thought gives me pause, and I bounce on my toes for a minute, watching the bag swing. Mother had made her comment about me teaching classes in that snide, condescending tone that’s like nails on chalkboard for me, but you know what? Maybe I will do this more. I love decorating, but finding clients and setting up a business like that in a new city isn’t something I can hope to support myself with right off the bat… maybe teaching kickboxing or yoga is exactly what I should be doing out here.

At least for now.

I’m actually certified, believe it or not, even if I’ve never tried to earn a living doing it. I’ve done my fair share of impromptu or short-notice sessions for clients of MacMillan Design, though, and always got glowing reviews. Now might be just the time to hang out a shingle and become a professional instructor. Or, who knows, maybe even a personal trainer.

I grin. The possibilities feel endless right now, and I put a little more energy into my next few kicks, snapping the bag back hard, again and again, until the music stops. I drop to the ground as soon as it does, stretching out on my back and enjoying the cool polished concrete beneath me as I go through a yoga-pose cool down.

I stare up at the ceiling, and suddenly find myself blinking back tears. How can I give any of this up, ever?

I feel free here.

Dylan’s cooking spoils me. The house comforts me. Even Jack… God. That man has driven me crazy, one way or another, for as long as I’ve known him, but the idea of how he might drive me crazy in the future is just as tempting as the rest of this life I’m starting to carve out in Boston.

I want it.

Want him.

Want all of it.

He’s coming over in a bit—Dylan set it up—and I know we’re supposed to talk about the townhouse tonight, but… God, I hope it’s just fear and not intuition. I have a feeling that it’s not going to go my way. It’s just too hard to imagine Jack making it easy on me—on me and Dylan—when he doesn’t need this place like we do.

Doesn’t love it.

At least… I don’t think he does. I guess there’s a lot I may not know about Jack, though. A lot I might have been blinded to. What I do know is that I’m positively in love with this place, and no matter what it takes, I want to keep it.

It’s mine… and somehow, the fact that it’s theirs, too, doesn’t take away from that at all.

I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let go.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and try to convince myself it might work out. A glance at the clock confirms that Jack will be here any moment, so I do a few more stretches—really making sure that my body is lean and loose in all the right spots—then hop up to my feet. About 15 minutes later, I’m freshly showered and have some basic makeup on. Nothing fancy, certainly not for Jack, but I can’t have either of them seeing me completely undone.

I guess sometimes, there are just some things you can’t shed from society living.

I open the closet and pull out one of my favorite dresses; a simple, red skater dress. I’ve always loved this dress and how it swishes around my hips and thighs. I lay it carefully out on the bed, and reach inside one of the drawers to grab my bra and a pair of panties.

The bra is easy to find. The panties, not so much.

Shit.

I shove the drawer closed in frustration. I completely forgot to do my own laundry. Dylan has utterly spoiled me this week, taking care of me, feeding me… I’ve been so relaxed that I guess I just spaced out on every single bit of responsibility. I bite my lip, not even remotely comfortable with going bare under the short dress but not really coming up with any other immediate solutions—I want to wear it. I feel confident and sexy in it. And then the doorbell rings.

Of course.

Why wouldn’t Jack arrive at the perfectly worst time?

I frown, the old voices in my head ready to blame him for everything, but as I throw my bra on quickly and then slip into the skater dress, I have to admit that I’m feeling something else, too. It’s the memory of having his lips on me. His cock pressed against me. I squeeze my thighs together, closing my eyes for a minute to remind myself that we’re talking about the townhouse tonight, not… the rest. But the minute my eyes are closed? I get another rush of heat, remembering the feel of Dylan’s erection pressing against my ass yesterday, when he pulled me down on his lap.

God, I’m shameless.

I want them both.

I sigh, opening my eyes, and try to find the balance between the exhilarating sense of freedom I’ve had ever since walking away from my life in New York and, well, reality. Sure, it was fun—and hot, if I’m being honest—to talk about Jack with Dylan yesterday. Doubly hot to picture the two of them… but as wanton as I’ve been since I got here, I know that sort of thing isn’t the way real relationships work. And no matter what goes down tonight about the townhouse, I don’t want to let my relationships with those two—that’s right, even with Jack—go back to where they’ve been.

Meaning: to not having one.

I hold my head up and leave my room, the movement of air under my dress as it swishes against my thighs making me feel bold and a little excited, like I’ve got a secret. And it is my secret. I’ll stay focused tonight—if we’ve got a deadline to sort out what we’re doing with this place, that’s important to me—but it’s still nice to have this little something that’s mine.

This little bit of naughtiness.

As long as I keep my legs tastefully crossed, no one has to know, and I give myself a sly smile as I pass the mirror in the hallway, surprised at how confident and, well, sexy I look.

Maybe that’s just what confidence does.

When I get downstairs, Jack’s seated at the kitchen table, his briefcase on the chair next to him. Dylan and I decided not to do the formal dining room, it’s not exactly stuffy, but it’s also not as comfortable as just eating in the kitchen. And comfortable will help right now, I hope.

Jack glances up at me as I enter the room, something flaring in his eyes too fast for me to make sense of it before he shutters them, his face impossible to read. Before, I might have rolled my eyes or made a snide comment or just silently seethed at what I interpreted as his dismissal of me, but now?

I can’t help another one of those rushes of heat between my legs.

My eyes dance over his shoulders and neck… the freshly cut hairline at the nape of his neck… the shape of his jaw. That sexy, light beard of his that felt soft against my face, but also just rough enough to drive me wild.

My whole body flushes, and I jerk my eyes over to Dylan.

It doesn’t help.

Although, I guess that depends what kind of help I’m looking for.

The two of them couldn’t look more different right now, but both make my mouth water. One of them buttoned-up and sitting at the table looking like professional eye candy, the other with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his shirt collar undone enough to show off the tops of his pecs as he works on plating. I have another quick flashback to my conversation with Dylan—to the idea of the two of them, together—but like I said, sometimes I’m greedy. Before I can control the direction of my thoughts, the image has me in it, too.

All of us.

Together.

A little sound tries to escape my throat as my whole body flushes, and I regret not figuring out a solution to the panty situation. I’m wet and throbbing, and I bite my lip hard, hoping that neither man is paying attention. That neither can read me as easily as I think they can.

“Everything okay, Duchess?” Jack asks, smirking at me.

I narrow my eyes, my hackles rising from long habit. Does he know that I’ve just fantasized about the two of them at once? He can’t.

“Perfect,” I say brightly. “Glad you could make it, Jack.”

That seems to fluster him, and he grabs his glass of wine and takes a deep drink.

I grin, feeling like I’ve won something, even though I’m not sure what.

“Hey, you,” Dylan says, smiling at me and letting his gaze move over my body in a slow, gentle slide.

I want to moan again. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

“You look beautiful,” he says before turning back to the food. “I’m just about done here. Pour yourself a glass of wine, settle in, and I’ll be right there with the first course.”

I do it, and Jack jerks his smartphone out of a pocket and immediately lowers his eyes to it.

That’s interesting.

I’ve taken the seat on the opposite side of the table from him, and where once I would have made up a story in my head about him not wanting to look at me because he couldn’t stand the sight, now—after the way he devoured me the week before on the stairs—I wonder if it’s something else.

Hope it is, if I’m being honest.

Jack glances up, then his eyes dart to the empty chair. Probably smart to keep Dylan in the middle. If things go south, he’s the perfect one to make sure Jack and I don’t go for each other’s throats. And if we’re going to get any of the serious business we’re here to discuss handled, he can also act as a buffer between our lips.

I press mine together tightly, stifling a giggle. God, who am I? Being this shameless—even in the privacy of my own mind—isn’t like me. I need to stop this. We do have serious business to discuss, and it’s why Jack came. Not for a repeat of the week before.

At least… I don’t think so.

He glances up again, and I clear my throat, flipping my hair behind me and pouring myself a generous glass of wine.

“Week was that good, huh?” Jack asks, his lips quirking up on one side as he nods toward my glass.

“It’s not an escape,” I tell him. “It’s an indulgence.”

“A celebration, maybe?” Dylan offers from across the kitchen, winking at the two of us.

I grin, nodding, and bring the glass of wine up to my nose. Swirling it, taking in the aroma, I remind myself of what Dylan has taught me. It’s okay to enjoy the pleasures in life.

“My week was very relaxing, actually,” I tell Jack, pretending I didn’t hear the hint of sarcasm in his earlier question. “Very low-key. Dylan and I got a lot of work around the house taken care of. It was… nice.”

“I see that,” Jack says, looking away from me and glancing around. He frowns, though, instead of smiling. “It’s pretty bright now, isn’t it? You lose that feeling of comfort when things are tampered with.”

Really?

Is he trying to be an asshole?

I can’t say my libido minds, if I’m honest, but I still find myself getting a little ticked. I’d hoped the two of us had turned over a new leaf, but he’s treating me the way he always has. I don’t know if I can bear it… but I also know I’m not going to just roll over and take it.

He doesn’t want to explore new territory? Fine. I take a deep breath in and prepare to fence with him.

“Sometimes you need to let a little light in to breathe. You know, disinfect. Get all the old air out, and bring some fresh air in.” I smile tightly, taking a drink from my glass.

I didn’t want it to be this way.

I take another drink in the silence—a little deeper than I should—but at least I’m not the only one. Jack does the same.

“You can never dig all of it out,” he says, setting down both his glass and his phone and spearing me with his eyes. It’s unexpected and intense.

Hot.

“You must be an excellent lawyer with that insight,” I respond, shifting in my seat as all that intensity starts to rev me up again.

“I am,” he says, matter-of-factly. “No matter how expensive my suits get, I’ll never get the grit out. It’s who I am.”

He says it belligerently, as if he thinks it’s something he has to defend.

It reminds me of Grandpa Sully. Not that Sully was as rough as Jack, but just like Jack, he was unapologetic about who he was and staying true to it… no matter how successful he got.

Jack’s staring me down as if he’s waiting for me to fight him on it, and I bite back a smile, arching one eyebrow as I go for a cool look, just to see more of his “grit” come out. Okay, fine, I’m goading him. For once, though, I’m enjoying it, not feeling torn up inside about it.

“Is that so?” I ask him, taking another casual sip of my wine. “Proud of your… grit?”

“Yeah, that is so,” he snaps back, right on cue. “Wouldn’t want it any other way. Some of us like to remember our roots, Duchess.”

I clench my jaw at that. My roots are Sully, as far as I’m concerned, and Jack should know me well enough to know that. This isn’t fun anymore if he’s trying to tell me I’ve lost touch with that. He doesn’t know me. Not the real me.

“Some of us recognize that we can shape our destiny without changing the core,” I say tightly.

“Yeah,” he says, raking me over with a look that’s not complimentary. “I always figured you for one of those onward-and-upward types.”

“What are you doing, Jack?” Dylan asks softly, pausing behind Jack’s chair with three plates expertly balanced in his incredibly strong, incredibly dexterous fingers.

Jack starts, then flushes.

Interesting.

He goes for more wine instead of answering Dylan or throwing any more verbal jabs at me, and as Dylan arranges the food and takes his seat, I’m staring at his hands again. I press my thighs together, vividly aware of how bare I am as I remember exactly how dexterous those hands are.

God, I’m a hot mess tonight. Horny one second, insecure the next. Confident, then angry. Getting my feathers ruffled when what I really want is—

“I hope you two are hungry,” Dylan says, grinning as he looks between the two of us. Unlike Jack, he’s all smiles… but I can read the steel underneath that exterior. Dylan is nice… kind… but never a pushover.

Jack mumbles something under his breath, and I stiffen at the tone, even though I couldn’t make out the words.

“We’re not doing this tonight, you two,” Dylan says simply, proving my point. “You know Sully’s rule.”

Jack smirks, but softens just a hint. I can see it in the corners of his eyes. “Not at the dinner table,” he says, quoting Grandpa.

“Never at the dinner table,” I say, my own lips tipping up at the corners.

Jack and I lock eyes again for a moment. Now, without an argument growing between us, the look on his face is still fierce… but it’s cut with a little bit of softness, too. And—no, I’m not mistaken—underneath it, that hot, melting desire I experienced firsthand the week before.

Desire for me.

I’m suddenly keenly aware of my body again… my dress… the fact that I’ve been intimate with both of these men at the table. Oh hell, “intimate” sounds so mild compared to what we’ve done.

Both of them have made me explode.

“That’s right,” Dylan says, the words sending a hot flush through me before I realize he’s not responding to my actual thoughts. He’s just agreeing that we’ve both remembered Sully’s rule, and—by his tone—he’s planning on enforcing it.

This townhouse may belong to all of us, but the kitchen is Dylan’s.

I’m okay with that.

Very okay with that.

It’s actually a relief to know that he’s going to be in charge, no matter how gently he wants to couch his control over the situation.

“Thank you,” Dylan says, his lips twitching with humor as he looks between the two of us again. “Now, Jack, you pour me a glass, and don’t be shy with it. Cate, you’re gonna try my meatballs, and you’re gonna love them.”

Bossy Dylan. I bite back another smile, trying and failing not to get turned on. What, a few mind-blowing orgasms and now I can’t even last a week without my libido going into the red zone?

I guess this is the real me.

The free me.

“No argument on the meatballs,” I say, grinning as I eye the plate he prepared for me and not thinking about calories.

Not in Dylan’s kitchen.

“Agreed,” Jack says, taking the wine bottle and filling Dylan’s glass, as directed. He tops off his own glass, too, then looks at mine. “Fast worker, Duchess?”

He’s smirking again, and I look down. Shit. I honestly hadn’t realized I’d finished it off. Guess I needed it, and… no. Nope. I am not going to go back to letting him get to me.

As if Dylan would even allow it.

I square my shoulders and feel another rush of confidence. Huh. Confidence really makes me feel sexy, and I look Jack directly in the eye with my own special brand of fire, and smile at him with every bit of what we’d done on the stairs together showing on my face.

“Jack, shut up and get me drunk.”

He jerks as if I’d slapped him, and his face is a gorgeous mix of surprise, reassessment, and… yes. He’s thinking of it, too. Of me.

“I can do that,” he says, his voice dropping low and sexy as he freshens up my glass. His eyes stay locked on mine, and ohhhhhhh—delicious, delicious heat. It moves through me again, and again, I find myself squirming in my chair.

“Mmmm,” Dylan says, smiling as he looks between us.

He has to see it. He really doesn’t mind? He’d said so, but… I guess I’m surprised.

Definitely in a good way.

“Tonight, we’re going to eat a little, drink a little, and get the contract business out of the way so we can stop thinking about it so much,” Dylan says, laying it out for us. He leaves it at that, and we dutifully start in on the eating and drinking, but I can’t help thinking that something in his tone conveyed that that’s not all we’d be doing.

The meatballs are delicious, and accompanied by thin slices of lemon and a bit of white wine, I finally get my mind onto something other than the low hum of desire these men inspire in me and enjoy the heaven Dylan’s whipped up for us.

After we’ve all relaxed a bit, there’s pasta primavera. My eyes meet Jack’s when Dylan places it in front of us, and I know we both remember that it’s one of the first dishes Dylan’s mother taught him to make as a kid.

Dylan is so sweet, I almost can’t believe it.

By the time we finish up with our plates, we’re all sitting way more comfortably in our chairs than when we started. Jack’s loosened up enough to regale us with oddball legal stories for most of the night, and Dylan’s chimed in with a series of memories of our childhood that the other two of us had somehow forgotten. My libido has finally calmed down, sated by the fantastic food and, yeah, the fantastic company, too, and despite my earlier fears, the whole evening has somehow turned out to be really, really pleasant.

This is what Grandpa Sully would have wanted under his roof after he died. Had he really known the three of us could achieve it?

“Christ,” Jack says, laughing as he uncorks a fresh bottle. “I can’t believe we’ve already killed two of these.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Dylan says, winking. “Cate did ask you to get her drunk, yeah? And the cellar is so chock-full of that stuff, I’m convinced Sully must have bought the whole damn vineyard.”

“He would, too,” I say, giggling. That’s right. I’m a bit of a lightweight. “Even if the wine wasn’t any good, he’d do it to help out some poor bastard who’d just lost his kid’s tuition at the horse track or something.”

“Yep, that was Sully,” Jack agrees, smiling as he pours fresh glasses for all of us. “It’s like he specialized in that. He had a nose for people with a lot to offer, who just needed a little bit of help.”

“I wouldn’t be even a little surprised,” Dylan starts, reaching for his wine glass, “if one day, a truck backs up to our door with crates of the stuff.”

I laugh. “See? We can’t sell this house. Who knows what surprises are going to show up on the doorstep for the rest of our lives? We shouldn’t want to miss out, right?”

Jack grins, throwing me a sexy wink. “Trying to get us back into business talk again, is that right, Duchess?”

The name doesn’t sting. Not in that tone.

“It is why you came, isn’t it, Jack?” I remind him, mesmerized by the play of the light on my wine as I swirl it in my glass. I look up, catching that heat in his eyes that does things to me, and give an unladylike snort. “It’s not my fault you keep refilling my glass and trying to distract me with all… that.”

I wave my hand at him, indicating his… everything. Body. Face. Strength. Passion. Damn, the man is sexy.

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up and Dylan hoots with laughter, and I flush hotly—no doubt turning as red as my dress. I can’t take it back, though. Not just because it’s true, but because… well, I don’t want to say I’ve thrown down a gauntlet, exactly, but I’ve definitely opened the door to see where we stand.

Jack’s frozen—deer in the headlights—but then he grins. A wicked, wicked one that makes me clench my thighs again. He darts a glance at Dylan, but I guess Jack’s had enough wine that he’s comfortable flirting in front of Dylan, unlike the week before.

Although, sure, we’d been doing more than flirting in front of Dylan, that time.

“All of this?” Jack asks, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. He raises an eyebrow at me in challenge, then looks at Dylan and backs down with a self-conscious laugh. “I think I fed the Duchess too much wine. She’s talking crazy.”

Dylan just grins, shaking his head. “She’s talking like you two need a room.”

One of those telltale moans escapes me before I can bite it back, and Dylan’s smile grows even wider. He leans back in his chair a little—like he might want to watch the show, or maybe he’s giving me his tacit blessing, I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m mortified again, because that sound gave me away.

I’m not just flirting. Not teasing. I want him. The blush that still hasn’t left my face spreads. I can feel the warmth traveling down my body, beneath my chest, through my belly, coursing between my legs.

“I wouldn’t mind a room,” Jack says, his voice rough again as his eyes bore into me. He looks at Dylan again, uncertainty flashing across his face for a second, then forges ahead. “I would’ve done that last week, if, you know, someone hadn’t interrupted us.”

If he’s waiting for Dylan to get uncomfortable, or chastise him, or pretend it’s all a joke, he’s going to be disappointed. I can tell. I know it. Dylan body is still relaxed, but his face is starting to flush, too. His pupils are dilating. Breath coming faster.

I had this man inside me. I recognize his signs. And I remember… God. I remember what he said. About me. About Jack. This erotic tease is turning him on as much as it is Jack and me.

“Can’t apologize for that,” Dylan says to Jack, letting his own brand of heat flare in his eyes. “I wish you two hadn’t stopped.”

Something crackles in the air between the two of them, some deep current of energy that makes my mouth go dry, and Jack’s mouth opens and closes without anything coming out.

Dylan leans back in his chair, his eyes hooded as he holds Jack’s gaze. “I would have loved to watch.”

Jack sucks in a sharp breath. Or maybe it’s me. Jack starts turning red, and when he jerks his eyes away from Dylan, his gaze landing on his wine glass, I know he’s about to blame this whole conversation on too much alcohol.

Dylan doesn’t let him, though.

Dylan’s kitchen, Dylan’s rules.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when Dylan stands abruptly and starts clearing the table.

Dylan gives him a smile that’s pure sex, and Jack mutters a sharp oath under his breath.

“I still would,” Dylan answers, and it takes me just as long as Jack to figure that one out.

He still would… still would… still would love to watch.

Us.

Together.

Oh my God. A decadent, curling heat unfurls inside me as I get it, and when Jack turns his head and looks directly at me, I almost gasp at the heat in his gaze. He heard Dylan, too. Loud and clear.

“Cate?”

I’m not sure which one of them said my name, but it doesn’t matter. I nod. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I want this.

God, do I ever.