A Widow’s Little List (10)

A Widow’s Little List (10)
Chris is the first to find his voice, though it comes out choked and strained. “Isn’t… isn’t it too early to start?” He glances wildly around the room as if looking for a hidden camera. “We just got here. We haven’t even discussed the specifics of the estate—"

“Too early?” I let out a soft laugh, sinking deeper into the leather sofa. “Darling, your father has been gone for weeks. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a proper orgasm? I’m certain he won’t want us to waste any time.”

Josh flinches subtly in his chair, trying to avoid looking at any of us.

I ignore him and lock eyes with Chris, whose face is rapidly turning a deep shade of crimson.

I cross my legs and continue, since no one answers. “Besides, this poor widow has a list. And a threesome with two very handsome, very desperate brothers is right at the top of it.” I give them my most pitiful expression. “You know, I never really got to explore… I was too faithful to your father; I couldn’t cheat. Good thing he handed you guys over to me.”

I let my voice crack at the end and dab delicately beneath one eye.

Chris’s face softens a little out of pity. He’s about to say something, but Max beats him to it.

“We agreed to this,” he tells Chris. “You know why.”

Maxwell takes a slow, deliberate step toward me. He looks at me for a long moment, his jaw tightening.

Then his gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.

“A threesome, then,” he says, his voice low. “No games. Just business.”

The words shouldn’t bother me.

Somehow, they do.

He’s making this sound like a transaction, when I’m the one who’s supposed to be controlling every move.

I’m the one holding the cards.

So why does it suddenly feel like he’s the one studying me?

I force my smile to remain in place. “Just business,” I echo.

The sheer audacity of what I’m doing sends a rush of adrenaline through me.

I’m playing with fire.

Yet I’ve never felt more powerful.

Maxwell turns to his younger brother. “We’re going upstairs, Chris.”

Chris closes his eyes for a moment, his fingers curling against his palm before slowly loosening.

“I need the money,” he says quietly.

Maxwell’s expression doesn’t change. “I know.”

Chris drops his gaze. “Then let’s get this over with.”

For the first time, the victory doesn’t feel quite as sweet as I imagined.

Chris looks so miserable that I almost tell him he can leave.

Almost.

Then I remember what his father wrote in the real will.

The cruelty of it.

The humiliation.

The fact that Jonathan had expected me to walk away with nothing.

No.

I didn’t come this far to lose my nerve now.

“Good,” I say. “Melissa, lead them to my room.”

. . . .

My pulse is hammering by the time I reach my bedroom.

This is really happening.

I push open the door.

The room is bathed in the warm, golden light of the late morning sun streaming through the sheer curtains. The air smells faintly of lavender and rich mahogany.

And there they are.

They haven’t gotten on their knees yet, but they’ve already stripped down enough to make my throat go dry.

Chris stands near the foot of the king-sized bed, his collar tossed over a nearby chair and his shirt hanging open over his broad chest.

Maxwell stands near the window, already bare-chested. He’s leaner than I’d thought,but there’s nothing delicate about him.

Broad shoulders. A hard stomach. A faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Annoyingly, I have to remind myself why I’m here.

When I step into the room and lock the door behind me, both of them look up.

Maxwell looks at me like he’s waiting for me to make the next mistake. Chris looks like he might bolt.

I force a smile, hoping neither of them notices how badly my confidence is slipping.

Maxwell’s eyes narrow.

Damn.

He noticed?

I straighten my shoulders before he can read anything else from my face. “I thought I told you to get on your knees."

Maxwell doesn't move immediately. Instead, he reaches into his trousers pocket, pulls out a small, square foil packet, and tosses it onto the nightstand.

Then he pulls out another.

And another.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it safely.” He says, his eyes locked on mine.

I stare at the condoms he dropped, and my mouth falls open. “Extra-large?”

A slow smirk touches his mouth, and his shoulders straighten.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“You always carry packs of condoms around?” I can’t help but ask.

His mouth tilts. “I don’t like being unprepared.”

I nod slowly. “Well, then. Let the party begin.”

Maxwell doesn't waste another second. He drops smoothly to his knees, challenge and surrender tangled up in the same dark stare.

Chris hesitates for an agonizing beat. He turns to his brother, then at me.

The shame in his eyes is palpable. He’s breaking his most sacred boundary for cash, and the irony of it twists my stomach into a hot knot.

Jonathan had wanted to leave me with nothing.

He’d never have imagined his sons and everything he owns would become mine.

Slowly, Chris sinks down beside his brother.

His lips move, but whatever he says is too quiet for me to hear.

A prayer, perhaps.

I cross the room, the sharp click of my heels echoing until I stop directly in front of them.

The heat radiating off their bodies is almost physical.

“Look at me,” I command gently.

Chris lifts his head first. His deep brown eyes shine with unshed tears, his lips parting as he swallows hard.

Maxwell lifts his next.

No tears.

No hesitation.

Just that fierce, unreadable stare.

I reach out, my fingers sliding over Chris’s soft, hairless scalp, savoring the warmth beneath my fingertips. With my other hand, I cup Maxwell’s strong jaw, my thumb tracing the rough stubble along his cheek.

“You’re both so beautiful,” I whisper.

I reach behind my back and unzip my gown, letting the dress slide down my body and pool at my ankles.

Chris lets out a choked gasp, his gaze dropping to my lace-clad body.

Maxwell’s eyes darken instantly, his breath hitching as his hands reach out, hovering inches from my hips as if asking for permission.

“Touch me,” I order softly.

He doesn't hesitate.

His large, warm hands grip my hips, pulling me forward until my stomach is aligned with his face.

He buries his nose against the sensitive skin just above my lace panties, inhaling deeply, a ragged groan escaping his chest.

Chris is slower, his hands trembling as he gently places his palms against the back of my thighs.

The contrast between them is intoxicating—Chris’s hesitant, almost reverent touch against Maxwell’s possessive grip.

“Up,” I murmur, tugging at Maxwell’s hair.

They rise in unison, towering over me.

Maxwell's gaze holds mine. For one heartbeat, neither of us moves.

Then he steps closer.

I barely have time to breathe before his mouth meets mine.

And somehow, the kiss feels less like surrender and more like a challenge.