The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

I closed the door behind me and turned the lock with a soft click that somehow felt louder than it should have.

The sound seemed to seal us into this insane reality where I was about to have a threesome with a mother and daughter who’d been fighting over me like I was the last slice of pizza at a college party.

Thank whatever gods run this messed-up world for Diane Fitzgerald and her terrifying competence. Without her smooth-talking CEO powers, I’d probably still be standing downstairs stammering about feelings while Sloane threw things at my head.

The woman could sell ice to penguins and make them feel grateful about it. If I was going to become some kind of scumbag harem king, I clearly needed to take notes on her manipulation techniques.

Though calling it manipulation felt unfair. She was just ridiculously good at making terrible ideas sound reasonable.

Sloane stood near the window looking like a deer caught in headlights, her blue eyes wide and uncertain as she wrapped her arms around herself. The afternoon light caught the pink in her hair and made her skin glow warm, highlighting the flush that had been creeping up her neck since we’d walked into the room.

She looked young and scared and absolutely beautiful, and something in my chest twisted tight at the vulnerability she was trying so hard to hide.

Diane watched us both with that calculating look she got when she was reading a room and adjusting her strategy in real time. Her fingers worked at the buttons of her blouse with casual precision, revealing glimpses of pale skin and black lace beneath.

She wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing. Just creating an atmosphere and letting us decide what to do with it.

Smart. Sloane needed to feel like she had control over this situation, even if we all knew Diane was orchestrating every move.

"Come here," I said to Sloane, my voice coming out rougher than I’d intended.

She hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room toward me with steps that got steadier as she moved. When she reached me, I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her without warning, pouring every bit of reassurance and desire I could manage into the contact.

Her lips were soft and warm and tasted faintly of mint toothpaste, familiar from this morning but somehow different in this context.

She melted into me immediately, her body going pliant as her hands fisted in my shirt. The tension in her shoulders dissolved as I traced my tongue along her lower lip, earning a soft sound that went straight to my groin.

This was what she needed. Not words or explanations or more negotiation. Just the physical reminder that whatever else was happening, this part remained unchanged.

When I broke the kiss, her eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, her breathing shallow and unsteady.

"Better?" I asked.

"Getting there." Her voice carried less uncertainty than before, replaced by something warmer and more familiar.

I kissed her again, slower this time, letting my hands drift from her face down to her shoulders. Her tank top was soft cotton that clung to her curves in ways that made my mouth go dry.

I could feel Diane watching us from across the room, could sense her attention like heat against my back, but I kept my focus on Sloane.

She needed to know she mattered. That this wasn’t about her mother taking something away from her.

My hands moved lower, tracing the line of her ribs through the thin fabric. Sloane’s breath hitched when I found the strip of bare skin between her top and jeans, my thumbs brushing across her stomach in slow circles.

Her muscles jumped under my touch, and she pressed closer against me with a soft sound that was half sigh, half moan.

"Lukas," she whispered against my mouth, my name coming out breathy and desperate in a way that made something primal and possessive rear up in my chest.

I kissed along her jaw toward her ear, tasting the salt of her skin. "I’ve got you," I murmured. "Just focus on me, okay?"

She nodded against my shoulder, her grip on my shirt tightening.

Behind us, I heard the whisper of fabric hitting the floor. Diane’s blouse, followed by what sounded like her skirt. She was undressing slowly while she watched us, creating her own show without demanding attention. Patient as a predator and twice as dangerous.

I lifted Sloane’s tank top over her head and tossed it aside, revealing the pink lace bra I’d seen earlier. The color looked incredible against her skin, highlighting the flush that had spread from her cheeks down to her chest.

Her breathing was shallow and quick, making her breasts rise and fall in a rhythm that was genuinely hypnotic.

"You’re so beautiful," I said, and meant it completely.

Her cheeks went redder. "Stop saying things like that when my mom is right there."

"Why? It’s true whether she’s here or not."

Sloane didn’t have an answer for that, which I took as a victory. I hooked my fingers in the belt loops of her jeans and pulled her against me, letting her feel exactly how much I wanted her. She gasped at the contact, her hips pressing forward instinctively.

"These need to come off," I said, working at her button.

"Bossy," she muttered, but she was already lifting her hips to help me slide the denim down her legs.

The matching pink panties were barely more than lace and good intentions. The sight of her standing there in nothing but underwear, flushed and breathing hard and looking at me like I was something she wanted to devour, made my brain short-circuit for a moment.

From across the room came a soft sound of approval that reminded me we had an audience. Diane had removed her blouse and skirt, revealing a black lingerie set that probably cost more than most people’s rent. She looked like she’d stepped out of an expensive catalog, all curves and confidence and predatory grace.

But my attention stayed locked on Sloane. This was her moment, her choice, her comfort level we were working within.

I guided her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed, then kissed her again while my hands explored the newly revealed skin.

Her stomach was soft and warm under my palms, muscles fluttering when I traced patterns across her ribs.

She made little sounds into my mouth every time I found a sensitive spot, cataloging her reactions for later use.

When I broke the kiss to trail my mouth down her throat, she tipped her head back and let out a shaky breath.

"This is so weird," she said.

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don’t know yet." Her hands found my hair, fingers threading through the strands. "Ask me later."

I kissed my way down to her collarbone, then lower, following the line of her bra. Her skin tasted like vanilla body wash and something that was uniquely her, addictive in a way that made me want to map every inch with my mouth. When I reached the valley between her breasts, she arched under me with a gasp that sounded like a prayer.

"Lukas, please."

"Please what?"

"Don’t make me say it."

"I want to hear you say it."

She glared down at me, but the effect was ruined by how breathless she sounded. "Touch me, you bastard."

Close enough.