A Kiss For Three

chapter 22

The moment I stepped inside Steve’s new house, it was exactly what I had imagined—too large, too polished, too loud. Everything smelled of fresh paint, expensive wine, and desperation dressed up as celebration. Marble floors gleamed like mirrors, chandeliers hummed with light, and the guests wore smiles sharp enough to cut glass. It was a zoo of egos in tailored suits.

I held my chin high and walked through the main hall like I belonged there. Maybe once I did. Not anymore.

Steve’s voice cut through the noise like static on silk. He stood in the center of the room, microphone in hand, his fiancée Jennifer glowing beside him in a dress that probably cost more than my car. His grin was the same as ever—smug, charming, rehearsed.

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice rich with false humility, “life betrays you. Sometimes people do. But you rebuild. You grow. You become better than you were before.”

I took a slow sip of my drink, muttering under my breath, “Betrayal, my ass.”

The crowd laughed and clapped on cue. Steve thanked them like a saint forgiving sinners. Jennifer beamed at him like she was in love with a ghost. I couldn’t decide who I pitied more.

Then the speech ended, the main lights dimmed, and soft hues of violet and gold flooded the room. Music started—slow but steady, the kind that crawled into your pulse whether you wanted it to or not. The party morphed instantly; laughter got louder, bodies drifted closer.

I headed toward the bar, grabbed a beer by the neck, and retreated into the swirl of people. Cold glass against my palm, noise buzzing in my ears, I almost started to feel like I could disappear.

Then a hand grazed my shoulder.

It was light—barely there—but it jolted me enough to almost choke on my drink. I turned sharply, ready to bite, and stopped dead. Nico looked brilliant. Sunglasses, cap low, casual clothes that somehow still looked like art. His mouth curled into a small, knowing smile.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” I said.

“Didn’t think you’d actually invite me.” He leaned closer, his voice low enough to disappear beneath the bass. “You look incredible, by the way.”

I snorted softly. “Flattery won’t make this place less unbearable.”

“Maybe not.” He tipped his head toward the dance floor. “But dancing might.”

Before I could second-guess it, I nodded. “Fine. But if anyone recognizes you, I’m pretending you’re my bodyguard.”

Nico grinned, and just like that, we melted into the crowd.

The music shifted into something slow, rhythmic. The lights painted everything in blue and amber. Around us, people swayed in clusters of laughter and perfume. I let him lead—not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t seem to remember how not to.

We moved easily, naturally. Every step felt like a conversation I hadn’t known I wanted to have. His hand found my waist, steady and warm. I told myself it was nothing, just part of the dance.

Then his fingers traced a lazy path up my back, barely touching the skin beneath the thin fabric. My breath caught, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. He tilted his head closer, eyes gleaming under the lights. “You’re tense,” he murmured.

“I’m surrounded by people I hate,” I replied.

“Then look at me instead.”

And I did. I looked at him—and it was a mistake. Because for a moment, everything else faded: the music, the crowd, the noise. There was only him, and the warmth that bled from where his hand rested on my spine.

Then the crowd shifted, and a familiar energy rippled through the air behind me. I didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

I felt Adrian before I saw him—tall, calm, composed even in disguise. A cap pulled low, dark jacket, hands in his pockets. He moved closer with the kind of quiet confidence that made people part like water.

When our eyes met, there was no accusation or surprise. Just understanding.

He gave Nico a small nod, a silent question. Nico answered with a half-smile that was somewhere between mischief and challenge. And then Adrian stepped in.

The rhythm didn’t break; it deepened. Nico’s hand stayed on my waist as Adrian’s slid along my arm, light as silk. They moved with me, not against me, like we’d rehearsed this all along. I should have stopped it—this impossible, insane dance—but I didn’t.

The air grew heavier, thicker, every breath shared between us three.

Adrian’s hand brushed against my chest for a fleeting second; it was an accident, it had to be, but my heart skipped anyway. Nico leaned in, his lips barely grazing my ear as he whispered, “Careful. You’re burning.”

Maybe I was.

Their closeness felt electric, dangerous—two magnets pulling me in opposite directions but somehow holding me steady in the center. My skin felt too tight, my heartbeat was too loud.

Adrian’s hand found my hips, and for a moment, his nails dug into my skin like fire leaving burns. Nico’s fingers left a trail against my stomach. I was hypnotized.

I didn’t know where to look. Nico’s smirk, Adrian’s calm intensity—they were both the same gravity pulling me apart.

Nico’s lips almost touched my earlobe; Adrian’s—my neck. I held back a sound too intimate to be accidental. This was just an accident, it had to be. But it didn’t feel like one, and I didn’t want it to be one.

The music drowned me; the lights spun; and for one breathless instant, it didn’t matter that this was my ex’s house or that half the room would have destroyed me if they knew. It was just us—three people caught in the quiet storm of what we weren’t supposed to want.

Then the lights snapped back on and the music died mid-beat.

Steve’s voice cut through the haze: “And now, everyone, a toast!”

The crowd turned toward him, clapping, laughing. I stood frozen, my pulse wild, Nico’s hand still warm on my back, Adrian’s breath ghosting near my shoulder. I took a step back before anyone noticed.

“Go,” I whispered.

Nico frowned slightly. “Iris—”

“Later,” I said, already moving.

I pushed through the bodies, the laughter, the champagne glasses clinking in the air. I didn’t stop until the cold night air hit my face.

Outside, the city felt mercifully empty. I pressed my back to the nearest wall, dragging in a breath like I had been drowning all night. My skin still hummed with their touch—every place they’d been felt branded, alive.

The world tilted softly around me. I tried to calm my breathing, to remind myself of who I was, of what I did. But the line was already blurred.

Because what I felt in there wasn’t strategy or curiosity or control. It was surrender. And I hated how much I wanted to feel it again.