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“Yes,” he said, still smiling.

“Yes,” I said.

“At last,” Jean-Claude said, and he was smiling, too.

60

JEAN-CLAUDE’S HANDS ON mine, his body spilled out along the head of the bed. The pillows had all been thrown to the floor, so there was nothing but the silk sheets and the three of us. “Trade places,” Richard had said. It had seemed so simple. I should have known nothing about Richard was ever simple.

He put his hands on my arms, just under where Jean-Claude held me. He wrapped those big hands around my arms, then began to slide his hands down my arms. He was only touching my arms, such an innocent place to touch, but he made the movement slow, and sensuous, trailing an edge of fingernail like the tiny press of something harder, and so much more dangerous against my skin. His hands reached under my arm, the trail of nails tickled, and made me writhe and giggle. Half because it tickled, and half because of the slow, sure movements of his hands. I’d forgotten what it was like to have all of Richard’s attention in a bed. When you think you’ll never be able to touch someone again, you try to forget.

I waited for him to curve his hands over my breasts, but he didn’t. He moved his hands just a little lower on my sides, so that his hands barely brushed the edges of my breasts and kept moving down my body. That one small brush against the edges of my breasts caught my breath in my throat, and closed my eyes, to shudder under his hands.

His hands, so large they cupped my ribs, and nearly met at my waist, his thumbs pressing over my belly button, my lower stomach. I waited for his hands to go lower, and just as he had above, he moved his hands to the sides of my hips. Swept that sure, heavy, glide of skin and nails away from even the beginning of my pubic bone, so that he was only touching my hips, my thighs, but nothing more. His hands kept sliding downward, but he’d skipped the parts I most wanted him to touch. It left me making small noises, low in my throat, not from what he was doing, but from what he hadn’t done. From what I wanted him to do.

It made me raise my arms, or try to, but Jean-Claude’s hands were there. He kept my hands pressed to the bed. I put more effort into it, and found that I could raise my hands off the bed an inch or so, but Jean-Claude pressed me back to the bed, going up on his knees to get the leverage he needed. I’d made him change positions, made him work a little harder, but that was all. I put more effort into raising my wrists, freeing my arms. I don’t know why, maybe because I hadn’t really thought about not being able to get away. Being trapped in theory is one thing, knowing it for a fact, is different. Or different for me.

“Why struggle?” Richard asked, in a voice that held a tone I’d never heard from him. “You know that Jean-Claude won’t let anything bad happen.” His big hands finished their glide down my body, to end with his fingers wrapping around my ankles. He didn’t press them to the bed, just held them, held my ankles in his hands.

I tried to get away from him. I couldn’t help it. It was just one of those things. Tell me I can’t, or show me I can’t, and I have to try. I wasn’t trying as hard as I could, but I was trying. Trying enough to feel the strength in his hands, a strength that could bend steel. I couldn’t get away.

He spread my legs, using his hands on my ankles. He spread my legs, wide and wider, while I tried to stop him. It was a game, because we’d all agreed to this. I wanted him to make love to me, but game or not, there was something about the way he spread my legs with the strength in his hands, while Jean-Claude pinned my arms, that sped my pulse, and made the struggles go from halfhearted to not so halfhearted. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to try to stop him from spreading my legs, from exposing me, and the fact that I couldn’t both scared me and excited me. The two feelings should have been mutually exclusive, but they weren’t.

“Tell me to stop,” Richard said, and his voice had grown deeper.

I