Otimo

When the coffee house door swings shut behind her, he's already there at a table with two cups just being delivered. Of course, he would know what she fixes for herself at his place. "Hi," she says, feeling unduly breathless. He half stands but she gets into the chair before he can move to assist. Somehow, amidst a lot more people, he looks even more appealing.

"Thanks for taking the time to meet me." He clears his throat a little, sips, puts the cup back down, toys with it, then suddenly looks at her, startled. "There isn't anything wrong," he hastens to say. "I'm sorry I didn't think to text that."

"Thank goodness." She doesn't fill the space with more.

He fishes in his sport coat and pulls out a familiar looking invitation with a photo of a sculpture on the back. He slides it across to her, engraving up. "I can't think of any sensible preamble. Would you consider going as my guest to the opening this coming Saturday evening?"

She's gobsmacked. Aware that her nose is reddening in the lengthening moment, she checks with herself, Am I certain? What she's about to do is reckless. "Are you considering taking me to bed and this is a chance to see how we interact in a social setting."

He's taken off guard and his expression tells her he thinks she is offended.

"Oh, don't misunderstand. I'm not worried." she replies, smiling slightly to cover that she's aflutter in her stomach, and elsewhere. "I'm still new to American social settings. If I were to simply have accepted, I'd torture myself all week wondering w hy you invited me. It could be a friendly gesture, giving me an opportunity that I don't otherwise have to take in a cultural event of this importance." Her smile turns sensuous. "To be honest, I'd be very disappointed to discover that's the only reason you've asked me." Her index finger caresses his. At his raised eyebrow, she taps the invitation once and says, "I do know who he is."

"This conversation is not as I imagined it," he replies, admiringly. "I'm asking you on a date, as we said in my olden days, when I used to date." His voice deepens as he leans forward a bit. "If the evening out with you leads to more, I'd be overjoyed."

Suddenly, she thinks of Rusk. The flash of worry must show on her face, because Nic touches her hand lightly. "What?" he asks.

She thrills at the touch. "Your son very much doesn't like me. I'm not a Cinderella or Pretty

Woman or aspiring trophy wife, as he might think, and you're certainly none of those men."

Nic doesn't want to excuse any potentially poor behavior, of which Rusk is certainly capable. Nor does he want to speak for his son. He chooses his words. "He can be difficult to read. I told him I was thinking I'd approach you unless he's interested."

Antonia lightly scoffs, "No need to worry, I assure you."

"Like I said, he's difficult to read." Nic doesn't elaborate. "Let's simply say that I have his blessing. He'll be out of town skiing on a date of his own. Although, he'd never call it that."

At that, Antonia lets go of the worry. Part of her wants to dispense with the waiting, with the formalities, to offer to go home with him now. The greater part of her is the pride of her family and would not do so. Of course, he isn't asking. He apparently has his own code. "Of course, I'll be at work Friday morning," she says briskly and drains her cup, setting it down gently. "I want you to know that I just got a scholarship and I don't need the job, but I want to keep it."

"I'm so glad," he tells her, with a relieved smile.

*

None of the three of them have easy dreams for the next few nights—some are extremely

(almost violently) pleasant, some are not.

Rusk heads out early Friday morning so that he doesn't have to encounter Antonia. Elgin picks him up, her car rich with the smell of fresh bagels and coffee. She's got a mix of mellow techno going, her Ibiza Mornings mix, she calls it. Once his bag is stowed and he belts in, she floors the Tesla, her hand on his thigh. All of a sudden, he doesn't give a rat's ass about what will happen while he's away.

Nic tries hard to be normal while Antonia is working. In actuality, he's going wild inside. It's strange how disciplined he could be so long as he thought she wouldn't be interested and how quickly that ability disappeared in the coffee house.

Cleaning the condo is uneventful, as normal as it can be with anticipation heavy in the air between her and Nic. At home after work, Antonia unpacks and hangs her rented dresses from the service she used for her fado gigs. Of the three alternates, she settles on her first choice, an ankle-length stretch velvet Zac Posen in deep blue, with long sleeves cut almost off the shoulders and side slits up to the knees. The one drawback is that it fits so smoothly that it won't allow for undergarments, at least not the ones she has.

*

Nic hands Antonia out of the Mercedes and into the garage lobby elevator. Any worries he might have had about her comportment and comfort had vanished within minutes of arriving at the party. A mixed crowd of true art lovers and pure socialites had worried him, for good reason. He swiftly realized that he was far from the only guest accompanied by a very young woman, and he received no curious looks. He pushed away a pang at having never wanted to be that guy. Antonia made it easy to push it away. She seemed oddly at ease. He reminded himself that as reserved as she might be, she also sings to audiences. Her charisma with others became evident, her conversation animated and erudite. Fortunately, press was limited to a couple of art critics, and it wasn't a crowd to take excessive selfies. One area was lit for social media with select pieces the sculptor had approved for the purpose, and otherwise, guests were asked not to photograph.

As they ascend to the condo, the speed of the elevator barely perceptible, Antonia feels her heart start to race. When Nic had picked her up, looking truly movie-star in his fine black suit with dark blue satin lapels, they had laughed about unintentionally matching. He didn't comment specifically on her appearance, which she appreciated, only saying how he wished that there would be a red carpet for her to walk. The evening, with a dazzling crowd of very good-looking and well-dressed people, had been somewhat dreamlike, except for having met and chatted with the sculptor, Jerome—for that, she had focused intently. She had thanked him for showing at The Switch in Lisboa where she had first seen his work.

She only consumed one glass of champagne, holding the other, nearly full, for the rest of the ninety minutes, downing a glass of water in between. Even so, the scene was heady enough that by halfway through the party, her body had given in to the almost constant background arousal that she had felt all week. Her skin sang. Nic's presence and his light, almost chaste, touches on her elbow or hand had a decidedly sensual effect. On the way home, his warm scent enveloped her as they sipped lightly at cognac. Now, she reflects on that downside of not being able to wear panties, wet thighs.

Nic flips on the lights, already set to nighttime low. "Would you like a drink?" he asks, with almost-worry sounding in his voice.

Setting her evening clutch on the foyer table, Antonia approaches him with a smile, takes his hand, and leads him to the sitting area. "Thank you for such a lovely start to the evening," she says. She steps close, their bodies touching for the first time, her hands smoothing up over his shoulders to cradle the back of his head.

That undoes him. He kisses her, his hands going to her upper back, trying not to overwhelm her with an outburst of pent desire. He needn't have worried. She responds eagerly, her

mouth as full and plush as he had speculated. He tries to stifle a groan as her belly and hips press to him. Suddenly, this close, he can smell her, not the lightest of perfume that teased him in the car, but her scent, that he knows to be emanating from her core, heated, unfamiliar, tantalizing. A feeling he believed to be gone forever rises, an animal agony beyond arousal that he didn't experience through all his time with Rachel, that can only be sated by hours of sex. Everything he has daydreamed of doing with Antonia flashes through his mind. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to rein it all in. Her first.

Almost whimpering, Antonia kisses him back, reveling in how perfectly their mouths dance. He doesn't overuse his tongue, she loves that. She chases him, their breath mingling, encouraging him a little deeper, letting him know she likes it. She reaches for one of his hands behind her, sliding it down to the small of her back, pausing there because that particular spot thrills her. She arches against him. She feels a trickle creep down her inner thigh and steps more widely, one foot outside one of his, so that his muscular thigh presses against her, and the inside of her hip cradles his hardness. Anticipation has brought her to an extreme state and although she usually needs a great deal more attention first, she almost orgasms from that pressure alone. Somehow, he knows. Nic scoops her up and shifts her to the chaise, her upper body comfortable on the backrest. He wrestles off his jacket, gets one knee on the chaise, and slides a hand along the skirt slit.

"May I touch you?" he husks against her neck.

Antonia clutches his shoulders. "Deus... por favor," she catches herself responding in her own language and switches, "please." His fingers are warm and firm as they trace up her thigh and then his palm is pressing to her. She stops herself from shrieking at the intensity.

"Wait... wait if you can," Nic murmurs, easing off the pressure. She's shaking as his fingers enter. Her heat is molten and she's so slippery it makes him throb. But he isn't a self- centered youth, there's plenty of time for him. He draws away long enough to push the soft velvet up her legs, slowly, knowing that the sensation of sliding along her skin endangers the very control he's asking her to exert. He looks up along her body. She's panting, quivering, her gorgeous brown eyes wide, pupils blown. "For months, I've wanted to taste you." He dips his head and does exactly that, fingers returning inside, mouth caressing, tuning into her sounds to understand what she likes. He remembers that he's good at this, that he loves it, and he takes the time to enjoy her textures and tastes, exotic citrus with brine. He would play with her longer but that will have to wait. He curls his fingers a little and she cries out, arching against him as waves take her, pulsing against his fingers. He loves how she sounds, inarticulate in her rich, accented voice. He stays pressed to her all the way through it until she falls back, breath heaving. It only takes a few moments to shrug off his shirt, drop his trousers, and slip on a condom. He's about to confirm whether she wants what he's about to do when she grabs his arm.

"Nic, please... hurry."

He slides home into the aftershocks still rolling through her, involuntarily squeezing him. He clutches her hips to pull her tighter onto him and they moan together. He pauses to gather his wits. He wants it to last.

They hadn't noticed the front door quietly opening and closing.

It isn't that Rusk wasn't having a great time with Elgin. They had whiled away Friday afternoon skiing and then spent roughly twenty-four hours in bed, or more accurately, athletically fucking all over the opulent room, intermittently napping and sharing room service. By 3 p.m. on Saturday, Rusk knew that even the pleasant exhaustion wasn't shutting down his preoccupation. He texted a code to his reliable, "You're needed at work," contact, who promptly called and texted exactly that.

Elgin, worn out herself, was good about it, offered to drive him back. He kissed her and told her to stay, enjoy the reservation they'd already split and perhaps another hookup— such was the nature of their arrangement. He rented a car through the concierge. On the way back, he considered the consequences of what he was about to do. The more he had obsessed about his dad and Antonia, the more he realized that he wasn't angry or annoyed, he was curious, turned on. So much so, that an hour into the three-hour drive, he got hard thinking about it. He and Nic have never shared a woman. That said, Rusk is more than a little fond of MMF porn. And he's been successfully manipulating his dad to get what he wants for many years.

There'd be no pretense of accidentally walking in on them, his dad knows that he knows the plans. Rusk sets his phone on the foyer table on top of Antonia's bag. He arrives just in time to hear her peak, which instantly gets him hard again. From the shadows, he can see her flung back on the chaise still wearing an evening gown, Nic's head between her bare thighs. While unbuttoning his shirt and slipping off shoes and socks, he silently gives Nic kudos for starting out by going down on her. He waits until the fucking starts, closing his eyes, listening. He once attended a live sex show. It was just that, a show, and disappointing. This though, this is the real damn thing. He leans out enough to be able to see, just in case it might put him off, he can still slip out unnoticed. The chaise is oriented sideways to his vantage point, reducing the risk that either of them will look up and see him.

Nic's curled over Antonia, near-hand under her, lifting her into his strokes. Her bare feet are digging into the upholstery as she meets him, arms overhead pressing into the back of the chaise to get more leverage. They're making a lot of excellent sounds. Rusk reaches down and gives himself a squeeze. Fuck, that ' s good. His eyes drift and then widen. He has watched himself in enough mirrors enough times to recognize that he's inherited more than his wit from his father. Their faces and torsos might be vastly different, but from the waist down.... Jesus. It'll be like fucking her and watching himself fuck her at the same time.

The approach, that'll be touchy. He has to get in there before Nic finishes, before a return to sanity has any chance to derail lust. And there's no telling what she'll do. He had time

in the car to formulate a plan of sorts. He circles quietly so he can get close from behind Antonia, where his dad can see him first, and then closes the distance like a hunting cat. Nic is stopping periodically to stave off orgasm and now, merely five feet away, Rusk waits for that next pause. When it happens, he sheds his shirt, letting it slide off his arm, a flash of bright white in the dimmed lamplight. Nic looks up, freezes, breath heaving. He's shocked. Before he can react further, Rusk reaches down and squeezes himself again, letting his eyes slide shut for just a moment. When he opens them, he nods at his as-yet unwitting nemesis.

There's a flash of something like anger, maybe just protest, from Nic. Rusk is interrupting a moment that Nic has needed for too long. He also knows that his dad will do nearly anything for him. And he thinks to himself that really, this is ice Nic ought to break, either with this woman or another. A man oughtn't to get to almost fifty without at least one threesome under his belt. Especially if it can involve an ally rather than a rival. As competitive as Rusk is, this isn't about vying with Nic. It's a way of envisioning himself in a happy future himself in twenty years.

"Something wrong?" Antonia asks, breathlessly. "Did I—"

"I need you very much to trust me right now," Nic replies, quietly. "I do," she replies, reaching up to cup his face.

He leans down and kisses her, then says, "We're not alone, Rusk's here."

She shrieks. There's a flurry of limbs as she tries to right her gown with Nic still hilted in her. She doesn't try to look for Rusk, she's too horrified. "Oh God." She covers her face.

"Shh, it's okay," Nic soothes. He looks up again. "You. Go to my room and stay there," he says firmly. "One way or another, I'll be up."

Rusk doesn't look down as he heads up the stairway, but he feels Antonia's furious eyes on him.

As soon as they're alone again, Nic withdraws, peels off the condom, and sits beside her, gripping both her hands to comfort her. Humiliated tears have gathered in her eyes. He sighs. "I believe I mentioned that he's hard to read. He wants you badly. I knew it but I thought he and I had settled it. Apparently not. Even screwing his brains out with a former Olympian—and my presence here—didn't dissuade him." He doesn't mention that the scenario itself might have something to do with heightening his adventuresome son's interest.

"Nic, I don't... I've never.... I can't believe—" She's unable to form whole sentences.

"Me neither. I'll allow that it's complicated. I'd include him, just this once." He's seen something in Rusk tonight that calls to him and must be answered. "If you can bring yourself to be open to an admittedly kinky situation, it might clear something between you. In my experience, Rusk obsesses over a goal but once he hurdles it, he moves on to the next... challenge. I'm sorry to put it that way, but it's the truth." He strokes her hair. "If you decide it's a no, go into the guest room, relax, and I'll handle him. He knows he's so far out of line that I assure you, he'll never bother you. You're in control. If you want to go home right now, I'll take you. If you want him to leave, he will."

His words are calming. Antonia closes her eyes. She's on a prolonged sexual high, regardless of the orgasm, in spite of the shock and the fury of being interrupted, let alone this way. But what he's asking, what they're both asking, is outrageous. An extensive list of why she shouldn ' t runs through her frantic mind. Then, she recalls something she stumbled on and then watched a couple of years ago, fascinated. And watched again.

Upstairs, Rusk paces. He almost can't believe what he's done. He's still hard and in a cold sweat, desire and adrenaline warring with one another. This could alienate his dad. It could make Antonia quit. She could sue them both, he has given her reason. Something he hadn't thought of. G odda mm it! Why can he not get a grip on his impulses? He can hear the murmur of their voices through the open door. Then, they fall silent. He continues to pace, running hands through his already messy hair. When he turns again, they're both in the doorway. His father is still naked and half hard, which is a bit shocking, he must admit. He'd suspect that it's an alpha move but Nic isn't like that at all.

Antonia's still wearing that gorgeous blue gown that makes her skin glow. She lets go of Nic's hand and folds her arms as though about to scold Rusk. Even that doesn't cool his jets.

"The moment I don't like how this feels, beyond the obvious baseline of irritation and fury

I'm experiencing, I say stop, we stop, and you never approach me again."

Rusk nods, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat. "Agreed," he says, hoarsely. Somehow, he had imagined himself in charge. But r eall y , who the fuck ca r es?

Antonia looks to Nic. "Supplies?"

He goes to the bedside table and retrieves a small tube and strip of condoms from a drawer, setting them on the surface. She gestures at Rusk. "No matter what, don't backdoor me, and no biting. You seem like a biter."

He half-smiles. "If my partner's into it. Clearly, you aren't." He makes it sound a bit insulting, as though he finds her unsophisticated.

"You interrupted us, so sit." Antonia reaches up to caress Nic's neck. He bends to kiss her, lingeringly, pulling her close.

Rusk backs up to an overstuffed chair, content for the moment to watch. Nic is athletically fit even for someone ten years younger, and the two of them look great together. As soon as Rusk focuses on that, he's back to watching the best porn he's ever seen.