Page 133 of Double or Nothing

My daily life still exists. Bill still exists, as my boss and ruler. PowerPoint and prediction presentations and minute-taking through hours of board meetings still exist, and I still give them the importance they deserve.

The only stickler in that, that makes my stomach lurch every time I think about it, is Christopher fucking Otley. Every time I see Trevor cosying up with Bill after a boardroom session, I have the urge to vomit. So, I banish it. Cast it aside into the void of don’t think about it, even though it’s a ticking time bomb that isn’t going to fizzle out and die.

It’s only a few weeks and counting, but I don’t want to tarnish a single day of them. They mean too much to me.

Throughout all our passion fests, and laugher, and late-night talking, Alice hasn’t once mentioned Christopher’s imminent return from Chicago, and I haven’t found the nerve to ask whether she knows. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. His name feels like an apple pip wedged between my two front teeth, and there’s been plenty of times I’ve wanted to get a toothpick out and set it free. Still, every time I think about saying it, Jack does something ridiculous, Alice laughs, and I let the moment pass. Either that or one of us initiates another round of dirty play, and that’s all consuming for at least several hours at a time.

I’m a coward for not shining a light onto the upcoming iceberg and ringing the alarm bell.

Maybe.

No. Definitely.

But this kind of cowardice feels like survival, and I cling to it with everything I have.

I pick up my shirt and hang it up next to his in his wardrobe, claiming a spot. At this rate, I predict the toastie maker will indeed be in his kitchen by the weekend.

He’s waiting for me when I close the door and turn around, yelling out a BOO! before pressing his hot lips to mine.

“Shirt for shirt,” he says, and tugs my tie loose, his fingers working their magic on my shirt buttons, and I’m right back at him. Only he’s wearing a pair of boxers under a robe, since he doesn’t have anywhere else he needs to be during the day. His bubble of casual doesn’t have to burst at six every morning.

By the time Alice arrives at the bedroom doorway, he’s already on top of me on the mattress, grinding his hard cock against mine.

“Hey, guys. Where was my invite to the party?”

She always has such a kinky laugh when she’s in minx mode. I adore it when she climbs up along with us and strips herself out of her paint covered t-shirt and leggings. She takes advantage of my position to lower her wet pussy onto my face, grinding her slit against my mouth as Jack grinds his cock against mine like a beast.

I hear them kissing, and the sound only makes me hornier. Hungrier.

I squirm my tongue against her swollen clit until she’s frantic for it, moaning against Jack’s mouth like a wanton plaything.

It always makes me so proud of myself when I make her come. It always makes me so proud of her when she takes us both at once in her battered pussy and asshole, even though it’s still sore as hell. And as for Jack, he doesn’t need me to be proud of him for anything. He radiates enough pride of his own to light up the Eiffel Tower.

Jack keeps on bucking and I keep on sucking and the climax is a beautiful mess.

I still have the taste of Alice’s delicious pussy on my lips in the aftermath.

There is no champagne tonight, just spaghetti bolognaise and a bottle of red wine. We laugh and clink glasses, and Jack gives her a wink with a soon, Soul Girl. Soon you’ll be taking us both in that tight cunt of yours, so get ready for another round of painkillers.

“Promises, promises.”

“Promises we’ll be delivering on. What can I say?” He holds a hand to his chest, his grin at its fullest. “I’m just a nice guy taking it easy on you. I know what your pussy can take better than you do.”

She doesn’t argue with him, and neither do I.

After dinner we’re into a whole other kind of energy. Alice is tucked sideways into the corner of the sofa, her bare feet in my lap and her sketchbook balanced on her knees. Jack is on the floor, leaning back against the sofa between us, the TV remote in his hand.

The television is on mute, even though he’s still flicking.

Somehow, that’s become normal. A mute TV, with the images flashing. Subtitles galore.

He likes the movement of it without the sound. Says it makes the place feel alive without requiring him to actually listen to the idiots onscreen. Hmm.

I suspect he just enjoys having his ears all on us.

Alice is drawing again. A sketchbook she brought over with her yesterday. It’s already half full of little sketches. Half-formed ideas. Flashes of shapes and lines that come to life while Jack is talking nonsense, or I’m attempting to answer emails. Her hand moves as though it has its own pulse, separate from the rest of her.

I watch it too much. Already addicted. It’s taking me a lot longer to answer my emails. My phone is just an inconvenience in my hand.