Sharing His Wife: A Rockstar Menage SecondChance Romance

This is a short story in The Tropes and Triggers Masquerade Series, which is self-published on Kindle.

All are 1st person Dual POV and contain explicit sexual content.

Sharing His Wife is a cuckold MFMMM with MM.

If interested: you can purchase this book on Kindle for $0.99 or as a 4"x6" pocket paperback for $9.99.

The Tropes and Triggers Series

+ Bitten by Her Vampire: A Fated Mates Dark Romance

+ Breaking His Bitch: A Tough Love Cowboy Romance

+ Capturing His Butterfly: A Mob Boss Age Gap Romance (in progress on Inkitt)

+ Torturing Her Serial Killer: A SadoMasochistic Dark Romance

+ Sharing His Wife: A Second-Chance Rockstar Menage Cuckold Romance

+ Mated by Her Merman: A Forced Breeding Dark Romance

+ Fighting for Her: A Friends-to-Lovers Romance

+ The Broken and The Bastard: An Amputee Romance

+ Stripping for His Virgin

+ Bullying His Brat: A Bartender/Boxer Romance (prequel in progress on Inkitt)

+ Passed Between The Mascot and The Captain: A MMF Hockey Romance

+ Seducing His Scientist: A Forced Breeding Alien Romance

+ The Student and The Stalker: A Non-Con Somnophilia Romance

A gentle rocking woke me from my slumber. I heard nothing but the continuous, low rumble of the bus underneath me. I was exhausted to the point I didn’t bother to open my eyes. Even with them closed, I could tell the room was dark. I bet we were several hours away from the next stop, whichever city was next on the tour. The locations blurred together after so many, and I couldn’t recall where in the U.S.A. we were or where we were headed. 

I didn’t play in the band. Those details didn’t matter to me.

The tour bus lightly tilted as the driver maneuvered around a steep turn, then we were climbing, climbing, climbing, and falling, falling, falling. So, we were somewhere with hills. The rising and descending stirred a primal hunger in my body, the rhythms matching the building and cresting of tension before a great release.

My body tingled with interest, despite the fatigue. My legs unconsciously widened further, and that’s when I noticed the feather-soft sensation teasing my bare legs. Kisses, so light they were hardly more than a whisper, ghosted up my calves, gently scaled over my knees, and headed to my thighs. A quiet moan filled my throat, and the man between my legs under the blankets rumbled back. I felt his lips part and teeth trail over my flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He moved away from my core, moving back toward my knees.

A grumble of protest left my mouth.

I struggled to free my arms from the tangled blanket, desperate to find my man’s head and pull him to where I ached. I shifted and pulled, but my arms were held down as if tied—that’s when I realized I had a man on either side of me, gripping each wrist and stopping me from taking charge. The one between my legs licked a trail from ankle to knee, then dragged his teeth back down while his hand massaged my thigh. So close to where I wanted him and yet so far.

My hips wiggled, trying to get contact, but he denied me.

“No, please,” I begged breathlessly. “Don’t tease me.”

The one on my left shushed me and began massaging my breasts, squeezing the full weight then pulling at my nipples. The one on my right tickled my abdomen with the tips of his fingers, going lower and lower only to dart away. They were torturing me, and I hated not knowing who was who.

My eyes opened, but the darkness in the room was too black to make out more than shadow.

We all slept in the king-sized bed—the only bed—at the back of their tour bus. I’d been with them for two months, and I couldn’t yet tell them apart from their kisses. They loved to blindfold me and make me guess their identity. Right answers were rewarded with instant gratification. Wrong guesses were punished with bites and spanks. The way they kissed each other made me think they knew each other’s styles and would purposefully trick me—they were devious like that.

If only I could get my hands free. . . I could tell them apart by their hair.

My serious drummer, Joel, had long, soft hair that he recently started letting me braid before their concerts. He used to hide behind those locks, but since I came along, he had slowly been opening up more. And not only to me, but to the audience that craved to see the mysterious and broody band member that dominated his throne at the back of the stage.

My captivating guitar player, Cole, had thick, styled hair that accented his masculine face. He hypnotized me and millions of fans with his deliciously good looks and knowing smile. He had the bedhead, post-sex hair down perfectly. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my own fingers created his signature look after burying themselves in his hair and pulling while he ravished me before he took the stage.

And last, but not least, was the often overlooked and sorely underappreciated bald bass player. My Noel. He never seemed to mind being out of the spotlight. In fact, he enjoyed the shock and awe created whenever he took center stage as if he was a god appearing from another realm. During the rare moments he chose to shine, he glowed more brightly than all the stars in the midnight sky. In the bedroom, he patiently waited for his turn, content to let the other two consume me. Then he’d demand my attention and wreck me in ways the other two couldn’t dream.

Not that it was a competition . . . though they loved to compete, constantly trying to outdo one another. I liked to let them—as long as everyone felt secure and included in our little group.

They made me feel like I was one of them, though I was technically just a long-term groupie. Their only one, at the moment, and they were the only band I was currently sleeping with. They kept me satisfied, and I used every trick in my arsenal to keep them happy. From what I learned, they were most intrigued by group activities like this where they teamed up against me, reducing me to a quivering, aching wet mess.

“Please,” I begged again, my voice an anguished cry now.

Their hands were firmer. Their kisses stronger. Their bites bruising, yet they refused me where I needed them the most. I felt my slickness seeping from my core, sliding toward my back hole and the mattress. They were dangerously talented at pulling my strings. I was their instrument to play.

I needed one touch on my clit. One touch, and I would erupt. I furiously pulled my hands, determined to take myself over the edge. Their grip was too strong. I couldn’t free my arms. I rolled my hips instead, hoping I could create a spark against the blanket if I had to.

I was so close . . .

The blanket ripped away, cold air washing over my naked flesh and making every sensation sharper and more intense.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” the one to my right reprimanded. His hand abandoned my stomach and wrapped around my throat, slightly squeezing. That grip . . . was that my drummer? My bass player?

The one on my left growled, sucking my fingers into his mouth, laving his tongue over the tips. Fuck, if only he would do that on my core. The thought was almost enough. My hips lifted ready to explode, and instead I cried out in pain at the sharp slap of a hand across my breast.

“Oh no you don’t,” the dark voice taunted. My drummer. Definitely my drummer. Joel’s hands cupped my fleshy mound in a soothing manner. “You don’t come until we say you can.”

I pulled against them again, so wet. So desperate.

So fucking close.

Their hands roamed my body with entitled possession. One of them took my shoulder and shook me, calling my name. I wanted to get closer to that high, but I seemed to be falling away. I reached out again, my arms now free but I didn’t find them.

My name was called again. I opened my eyes to answer and . . .

The room wasn’t as dark as I expected. In fact, it was bright and cramped with cream leather seats. The electrical hum I’d heard in my dream was actually the low thrumming of the jet engines. The man to my left stopped shaking my shoulder. His hand trailed down to mine, interlocking our fingers and squeezing. I looked up to his face. Oh, right. My husband.

Paul.

Disappointment hit me like a bitter bite of food. I grimaced inwardly at my reaction, hating how I initially responded. He didn’t deserve to be compared to the idols in my memory.

I willed my body to offer a warm smile in greeting and in silent apology.

Paul, either unaware of or undisturbed by my initial letdown, returned my smile with an affectionate, sheepish grin of his own. He leaned over and whispered, “You, uh, seemed to be having a ‘bad dream.’” He winked. “I assumed you would want me to wake you.”

I snuck a quick look at the flight attendant facing us from her seat a few feet away. She maintained her professional facade, but a knowing smile curled the edges of her lips.

“Thank you,” I said, sinking into my wide seat and turning toward the window on my right.

My pussy pulsed with unfinished desire. Waking unfulfilled was better than crying out an orgasm in front of Paul’s staff on his private jet. I hated that I felt more alive in the dream than I did in reality.

And bless my husband, he was a smart man. He played along, but he was not a fool. We agreed to call them bad dreams, but he knew they were scenes from my past. Usually, he let me indulge in the fantasy, but that was while I slept in the privacy of our home. This was a public space where I could cause embarrassment—for me and for him.

Neither of us wanted that.

I truly cared for Paul. I just didn’t love him with the same strength he loved me. He couldn’t help that he was one man competing against the lingering lust I felt for my first three men. My heart stayed adamant that my first loves were my soulmates. I didn’t mean to keep yearning for them a decade later, but my body refused to forget.

This dream in particular was born from one of my most memorable encounters with my band. It was the first time we said “I love you” to one another. The things we did to celebrate? Lord, have mercy. I had been so flexible back then.

And so had they.

A dangerous smirk tilted my lips as I recalled the positions they introduced me to at that time. All my holes hummed in appreciation, as if the sensations of their cocks filling me were still there. As if I could still grasp onto them, if only I clenched hard enough.

I settled for squeezing Paul’s hand instead. He was a good man, and he never held my past against me. If our positions were reversed, I’m not sure I would be so understanding. My husband was the perfect blend of good-looking and good-natured. He made me smile in ways few could. The sex was . . . pleasant. He was giving and considerate.

I, for whatever reason, needed more.

We tried sex therapy and several toys during our second year of marriage. Nothing helped. My husband was a simple, content man where I was a wild, raving woman. We couldn’t change who we were in the bedroom, so we adapted.

We made it work.

The captain announced overhead that we’d be landing soon. We were flying to the northeast to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary. Paul had planned the entire thing, saying he wanted to surprise me. I had no idea what to expect. Knowing Paul, the celebration would be . . . nice. Is that what I wanted? Not really, but I knew I was lucky to have a man who loved me and who still cared after a decade. So, I’d swallow my disappointment and settle.

Who needed passion when contentment would suffice?