Chapter 40: Pool Table Domination
The billiards room air was thick with the sharp scent of whiskey and the heavier, animal smell of sweat. Lee drove into Carissa with a merciless rhythm, her cheek mashed against the green felt where a striped ball still wobbled near the corner pocket. Simon watched, one hand pinning Tiffany’s hip to his lap, the other tilting his glass. “Easy, Lee,” Simon drawled, his voice a lazy contrast to the slapping skin. “That’s imported felt.”
Grant stood apart, his back to the scene, staring at the bank of monitors on the polished wall. One screen showed the silent, steam-fogged bathroom, two vague shapes motionless in the churning water. Tristan appeared at his shoulder, his presence a cold current. “This is pathetic,” Tristan stated, his gaze not on the monitors but on Lee’s frenzied movements.
“It’s what they’re for,” Grant replied, his voice devoid of its usual playful charm. On screen, Briana’s head tilted back against the tub’s rim, her face a mask of exhausted peace. The sight sent a sharp, possessive twist through Grant’s gut. Lee groaned, a final, shuddering sound, and collapsed onto Carissa’s back.
Simon chuckled, pushing Tiffany off onto the floor. The spectacle was over. Grant turned from the monitors, his eyes meeting Tristan’s. The understood assignment hung between them: manage the chaos, protect the asset. But the raw hunger in Grant’s stare was new, a crack in the polished facade. “I’m done watching,” Grant said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
He pushed past Tristan, his stride purposeful as he moved toward the hall, toward the stairs, the noise of the billiards room fading behind him like a bad dream.
He pushed past Tristan, his stride purposeful as he moved toward the hall, toward the stairs, the noise of the billiards room fading behind him like a bad dream. The kitchen was a cathedral of silence, a stark contrast to the humid violence he’d just left. He moved with a focused precision, pulling dark chocolate, cream, and fresh raspberries from the fridge, his large hands surprisingly deft as he crafted two perfect chocolate pots de crème.
He garnished each with a single gold-leafed berry, then plucked a pre-rolled blunt from a jar on the counter. The walk to their door felt longer than it was, the hallway a tunnel. He knocked, three soft, definite taps.
The door opened just a crack, then wider, steam and the scent of jasmine blooming into the hall. They stood there in matching silk swimsuits, hair piled up, skin glowing from the heat. “Just wanted to bring treats,” Grant said, his voice easy, his smile reaching his eyes as he offered the decadent desserts and the blunt on a small tray.
He made no move to enter, his posture relaxed, his hands visible. “Figured you deserved something sweet after the… ambient noise.” Lilly’s guarded expression softened into genuine surprise, and Briana’s cautious eyes flickered from the offerings to his disarming grin. They looked gorgeous, and he didn’t linger on it, just held the tray steady.
A slow smile spread on Lilly’s lips first. “You made these?” she asked, taking the tray. Briana nodded, accepting the gesture with a quiet, “Thanks, Grant.”
“Enjoy,” he said, already stepping back. He gave a casual wave, turned on his heel, and disappeared down the shadowed hall, the click of their closing door a soft period at the end of his sentence.
He gave a casual wave, turned on his heel, and disappeared down the shadowed hall, the click of their closing door a soft period at the end of his sentence. Grant went back to the private security room. The cool, dark space hummed with the low light of the monitors, washing his face in a pale blue glow.
Tristan was already there, a silent statue in a leather chair. “I brought them dessert,” Grant said, sliding into the seat beside him, his voice flat and analytical. “The chocolate pots from the fridge, and one of Robert’s blunts.”
A ghost of a smile touched Tristan’s lips, his eyes fixed on the screen where Briana was now lifting a spoon. “Well played, brother,” Tristan said, the approval colder than the room’s conditioned air. They locked the door, the decisive thunk of the bolt sealing them in.
And they watched. On the screen, Lilly took the blunt first, lighting it with a practiced flick. Briana brought the porcelain cup to her nose, inhaling the rich scent before taking a bite, her eyelids fluttering slightly at the taste. The tension in their shoulders, so evident an hour ago, was unwinding under this calculated kindness.
Smoke curled in the steam of the bathroom, a new layer of haze. Lilly passed the blunt to Briana, who hesitated for only a second before taking a small, cautious pull. A soft, shared laugh escaped them, muffled by the speakers, as Briana coughed.
Grant leaned forward, resting his elbows on the console. “See that?” he murmured, more to himself. The sisters settled deeper into the water, the treats and the smoke doing their silent work, eroding the careful barriers they’d built. Tristan watched Briana’s head loll back, her lips parting as she exhaled a gray plume toward the ceiling.
He said nothing, his own stillness a form of concentration. The monitors showed a pocket of surrender, soft and fragrant, that he had engineered from a distance. In the billiards room below, another glass shattered, but up here, the only sound was the quiet electronic hum and two brothers breathing in the dark.
Lilly reached for her phone, her fingers glistening with bathwater, and tapped the screen. A slow, familiar rhythm seeped from the Bluetooth speaker, filling the steamy room with muted bass and aching vocals. Briana’s lips curved, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached her eyes, smoothing the tension from her forehead.
She sank deeper into the churning water, letting the music wrap around her like a second skin. "Remember this?" Lilly whispered, her voice husky from the smoke. Briana nodded, her smile widening as a memory flickered—a dorm room, cheap wine, this same song.
The blunt passed between them again, its ember glowing like a tiny, wicked star. In the surveillance room, Grant leaned closer to the monitor, his breath fogging the glass. "There it is," he murmured, watching Briana’s smile with a possessive intensity.
Tristan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from the screen where Briana’s hand now drifted absently over her own collarbone. On another monitor, a feed from the game room showed Simon pinning Tiffany against the pool table. He yanked her thong aside, the fabric tearing, and drove into her with a grunt.
"Fuck, yes," Simon snarled, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Tiffany’s cries were sharp, punctuated by the crack of balls scattering across the felt. Lee was on the floor, Carissa’s head bobbing in his lap, her mascara smeared in black streaks.
"Suck it deep, you greedy slut," Lee groaned, fisting her hair to control her rhythm. Grant watched it all, but his eyes kept snapping back to Briana, to the way her body swayed slightly to the music. "She’s melting," Tristan observed, his voice a low scrape in the dark.
Grant’s hand dropped to his own zipper, a deliberate, slow movement. He palmed himself through his jeans, his gaze locked on Briana’s parted lips, on the water sluicing between her breasts.
He palmed himself through his jeans, his gaze locked on Briana’s parted lips, on the water sluicing between her breasts. In the tub, the music’s thump seemed to sync with Briana’s pulse, a heavy warmth spreading from her stomach to her limbs. Her own hand, moving as if of its own volition, drifted from her collarbone down over the slick silk, cupping her own breast.
“God,” Lilly breathed out, watching her, her own fingers tracing the line of her hip beneath the water. Briana’s thumb rubbed slowly, deliberately over her nipple, the silk now a wet, clinging barrier, and she arched into her own touch with a soft, shaky sigh. They were both moving now, hands exploring their own bodies with a languid, stoned curiosity, their pretty nipples hardening into visible points against the soaked fabric.
“Does that feel good?” Lilly asked, her voice thick, her own eyes half-lidded as she watched Briana. Briana could only nod, biting her lip as her other hand slid lower, past the waistband of the bottoms, her head tipping back against the tile. On the other monitor, David shoved a blonde girl onto her knees before Simon, who was still buried in Tiffany.
“Open wide,” Simon grunted, and the blonde leaned in, her tongue darting out to lick his shaft where it disappeared into Tiffany. Lee, grinning, pulled the other new girl by the hair toward his mouth, forcing her down onto his cock with a wet, gagging sound. The room became a tangle of limbs and grunts, a stark, obscene counterpoint to the steamy self-discovery in the bath.
Grant’s zipper was down, his hand working over himself in time with Briana’s subtle rocking. “Look at her,” he muttered, mesmerized by the slow circle her fingers were now making beneath the water’s surface. Tristan remained motionless, but his breathing had shallowed, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrest.
In the bath, Briana’s breath hitched, her movements becoming less exploratory and more urgent. “Lil,” she whispered, the word a confession. Lilly’s own fingers were a blur beneath the churning surface, her forehead pressed against the tub’s edge as she murmured, “Yeah, just like that, Bree.”
On the other screen, David took his turn, pushing into the blonde from behind as she still serviced Simon, a chaotic, groaning chain of flesh. Grant’s pace quickened, his own focus singular, predatory. “She’s going to come for us,” he said, the words a hot promise in the dark room.
Tristan’s silence was a taut wire. In the tub, Briana’s hips lifted, breaking the water’s surface, a silent plea. “I can’t— oh god,” she choked out, her fingers a frantic press and circle against her soaked clit.
Lilly’s own moan echoed, a low, unraveling sound as her body seized, her back arching sharply. Their cries tangled, raw and unselfconscious, fracturing the last of the evening’s careful restraint. Water sloshed over the tub’s edge onto the heated floor in warm, forgotten waves.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the churning jets. Then a disbelieving giggle bubbled from Briana’s throat, followed by Lilly’s fuller, throatier laugh. They sunk back into the water, limbs loose and heavy, the absurdity and the release crashing over them in a welcome wave.
“Holy shit,” Lilly gasped, wiping water from her eyes, a wide, genuine grin splitting her face. Briana just nodded, a breathless smile of her own as she stared at the fogged ceiling, her body humming. “The chocolate,” she finally managed, “was a tactical weapon.”
Their shared laughter filled the small, steamy room, a sound of pure, unguarded relief. In the surveillance room, Grant watched their satisfied, languid smiles, his own hand stilling. He slowly zipped his jeans, the moment of voyeuristic conquest now feeling strangely hollow. Tristan finally moved, rising from the chair with a stiffness that betrayed his own prolonged tension.
“They’re finished,” Tristan stated, his voice devoid of its earlier hunger, flat and final. He turned and left the dark room without another word, the door sighing shut behind him. Grant remained, watching the now-static screen, the aftermath of their laughter hanging in the air like a challenge he hadn’t anticipated.
The distant, water-muffled sound of their laughter followed him down the hall, a trophy he hadn’t known he wanted. He found Tristan in the kitchen, methodically wiping the granite where their earlier dishes had been. Grant leaned against the Sub-Zero, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “They’re ours,” he said, the words quiet and definitive.
Tristan stopped polishing, looking up. “You’re sure?”
“The chocolate, the privacy, the respect,” Grant listed, his voice low with satisfaction. “It’s the long game, brother.” He replayed Briana’s unguarded smile in his mind, the way her body had finally relaxed into the luxury they provided. “She feels safe with us. That’s the foundation.”
The next morning, Briana woke to sunlight and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Grant was in the kitchen again, swapping the blunt for a French press, his grin easy. “Sleep okay?” he asked, his eyes clear, no hint of the predator from the surveillance room. Briana, wrapped in one of the lodge’s thick robes, nodded. “Surprisingly well,” she admitted, and meant it.
She took the proffered mug, her fingers brushing his, and felt no immediate urge to pull away. Across the room, Lilly gave her a subtle, approving nod. The strategic kindness had worked, its hooks sinking deep. Briana sipped the rich coffee, watching Grant joke with Tristan about the ski conditions, and a part of her, the part that remembered the shattered glass and the screams, began to quiet. They had created the chaos, but they had also built her a sanctuary within it. For now, that felt like enough.
For now, that felt like enough.
The feeling lasted exactly until the scent of coffee was replaced by the industrial aroma of sunscreen and the rustle of technical fabrics. “Up and at ‘em, princesses!” Grant’s voice echoed up the stairs, too cheerful for the early hour. “Fresh powder waits for no one.”
Briana found her muscles pleasantly sore in new places, a lingering ghost of the bath. Downstairs, the great room was a chaotic locker room of clicking ski boots and scattered gear. Tristan stood near the rack of polished skis, his gaze sliding over her as she entered, a silent assessment that made her skin prickle.
“You’re riding with me and Lilly,” he stated, handing her a helmet. It wasn’t a question. Across the room, Grant was helping—or more accurately, overseeing—Simon and Lee as they clumsily bundled a still-wobbly Carissa into her snowsuit. Her laughter sounded thin and stretched.
“Remember, blue squares only today,” Grant called to the room, his eyes finding Briana’s. “Safety first.” The irony was a live wire in the air, considering the wreckage of the previous night. Lilly appeared at Briana’s side, already zipped up, her eyes sharp.
“Stick to the plan,” she murmured, tapping her own helmet. “Easy runs, clear visibility.” Briana nodded, pulling on her gloves, the stiff new leather feeling like armor. As they filed out into the blinding white morning, the cold air slapped the last of the steam from her lungs.The private lift hummed ahead, a metallic scar up the mountain.
The private lift hummed ahead, a metallic scar up the mountain. They boarded the cold, swaying chair four across: Briana, then Lilly, Grant, and Tristan on the end. The safety bar clicked down with a heavy, final sound, locking them into the crisp, thin air. As the chair lurched forward, Briana felt fine, the strange peace from the chocolate and the steam and the shared, secret laughter still warming her bones.
The valley fell away beneath their boots, a silent, white plunge. She studied the brothers’ profiles against the stark morning light. They were both handsome, her mind supplied, almost clinically. Biracial, light-skinned like their sister, with that striking, sharp-boned elegance.
Grant was a little more outgoing, already pointing out a distant cliff face to Lilly, his voice a warm, easy contrast to the frozen quiet. Tristan just watched the pines pass below, his stillness a different kind of intensity. The lift cables whined overhead, a lonely sound. Briana replayed Grant’s easy smile with the coffee, the strategic kindness of the chocolate pot. She felt the weight of Tristan’s silent gaze from the other end of the seat, a tangible pressure against her cheek.
He turned his head, and his eyes met hers, holding for a second too long before flicking back to the mountain. The chair swung gently in a gust of wind. No one spoke. The peak approached, a jagged teeth of rock and ice, and the world below them seemed to shrink into something manageable and small.
The peak approached, a jagged line of rock and ice, and the world below them seemed to shrink into something manageable and small. The chairlift reached the disembark point with a sudden, jarring steadiness. “Feet up,” Tristan instructed, his voice close to her ear as the chair pushed them forward.
Briana swung her skis up on instinct, but her exit was clumsy, a shuffle and a near-stumble on the packed snow. Grant’s hand was instantly on her elbow, a firm, guiding pressure. “Easy there,” he said, his chuckle warm, but his grip held for a beat longer than necessary.
Briana was the least experienced on the snow; she had only been to a place like this one time before in her life but on a much smaller scale. A day trip to a middling hill with rental gear that chafed, nothing like this silent, vast expanse of expert terrain. The memory of that clumsy, joyful day felt like a relic from another person’s life. “You good?” Lilly asked, clicking into her own bindings with a confident snap.
“Yeah,” Briana said, fumbling with her pole straps. The cold was already biting through her gear. “Just getting my bearings.” She looked down the sheer, glittering face of the run marked ‘Leviathan,’ a black diamond that seemed to fall off the edge of the world. Her throat tightened.
“We’re starting on Serpentine,” Tristan announced, nodding toward a gentler, winding path to the left. His tone left no room for discussion. “It’ll get your legs under you.” Grant pushed off toward the trailhead, his turns crisp and arrogant. “Stay close, Briana,” he called back, the words hanging in the frozen air like a command disguised as care. She pushed off, the skis sliding faster than she expected, and the controlled chaos of the lodge was replaced by the pure, silent terror of the mountain.
The initial plunge stole her breath, a cold, silent vacuum that sharpened every sound—the hiss of her skis, the crunch of ice beneath them, the frantic drum of her own pulse in her ears. She managed a clumsy snowplow, the edges biting and spraying a fan of white, slowing her descent from a fall to a controlled slide. Ahead, Grant carved a deep, confident arc into the mountainside, then another, painting a series of perfect, linked S’s down the virgin slope. Tristan followed with a quieter precision, his movements economical and devoid of wasted motion, a shadow tracing Grant’s path.
They made it look too easy, a fluid dance with gravity she couldn’t begin to mimic. Briana laughed at herself, the sound snatched away by the wind, a release for the coiled tension in her chest. Her thighs were already burning, protesting the unfamiliar, rigid stance. “Find your rhythm!” Grant called back, his voice buoyant, as he executed a effortless hop-turn over a small ridge.
She focused on the space between his turns, trying to mirror the shape, but her skis chattered and fought her. A patch of uneven snow jolted through her legs, and for a heart-stopping second, she felt the sickening slide of a potential fall. She windmilled an arm, pole dragging, and somehow recovered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “You’ve got it,” Tristan said, suddenly beside her, having glided back uphill with infuriating ease.
His presence was a stabilizer. She nodded, gritting her teeth, and pushed into the next turn, committing to the slope. The ski held, and she swooped down, a fleeting, glorious sensation of flight replacing the terror. “Hell yes!” Grant whooped from below, watching her. She didn’t dare look at him, her entire world narrowed to the next ten feet of snow, the next shift of weight, the burning in her legs that now felt like purpose. The trail curved, and she leaned into it, the wind cooling her flushed cheeks, the silent terror slowly transforming into a fierce, private concentration.