Three. The Perfect Number Bonus: White & Gold

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R. S. Aria

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19,0K

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R. S. Aria

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19,0K

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Athletes Drama Bad Boys Contemporary Alpha Males Polyamory Threesome

White & Gold

Note from the Author:

Ever felt the urge to know more about the side characters of a story who weren’t quite in the spotlight?

Well, Sam and Ezra are the two everyone seemed most curious about from Three. The perfect number—so I thought, why not give you a little peek?

Ezra is Madison’s oldest brother (one of two!), and Sam has been Madison’s best friend for as long as anyone can remember. While Madison heads off to college to chase her management and business degrees, Sam stays behind, holding things together—looking after her brother and her disaster of a mother.

But she’s always welcome at the Davis house… even if Madison’s older brother can be a bit of a pain in the ass.

So what happens when Sam takes Madison’s place at a masked gala?

This story is a glimpse into how Sam and Ezra happened—a few weeks before Madison came back home, and just before the real mayhem began.

Thanks for reading,

R. S. Aria

***

The fresh summer breeze washes over me as a soft reminder of the shenanigans I’m letting myself fall into. The private path along the beach, outlined by black-and-gold lanterns, tells me I’m in the right place and that it’s not too late to turn back.

The Gold invite burns a hole in my handbag, and never like this time, I wish my best friend were here as I slowly start to regret every single choice made in the last twenty-four hours.

“Stop it. Just go there and relax, nothing bad is gonna happen if you let yourself live a little.” That’s what Madison said when she dropped the bomb on me that I was supposed to take her place at a black tie event tonight.

Many reasons to say no, and yet when Liam, her older brother, dropped by my door with a dress, a number for a babysitter already paid for, and all the accessories needed, I couldn’t say no.

So here I am, walking in a black satin dress that clings to me like a secret I’m not supposed to tell. Every curve is traced in liquid black, and the fabric catches the light with a dangerous gleam. The bodice grips me tight, framing my collarbones, and the deep plunge feels like it’s both a dare and a warning.

Damn Madison and her fashion sense.

Sam

I feel like a fraud.

Maddi

You look stunning. Besides, didn’t you always want to go to one of these events?

Sam

With YOU! Not alone…

Maddi

You are not alone, Ezra and Liam are there.

Sam

And that should make me feel better… why?

Of course, she left me on read.

Putting my phone back in my bag next to the golden invite, I take a turn and just as I’m about to reach the Grotta’s entrance, a man in a black suit stops me in my tracks.

“Good evening, may I see your invitation, Madam?”

“Good evening. Oh, yes, of course.” The moment I hand it to him, another figure steps out holding a golden mask—Venetian style.

“The mask has to stay on until you leave… and a nickname is required.”

“Trouble.” I whisper without thinking, but I nod, and the mask is gently pushed over my face, light but firm, the gilded filigree clinging delicately to my skin as though it already owns me.

I catch my reflection in the glass door. My short, wavy curls fall around my face in unruly waves, brushing against my cheeks as my own doe-shaped, olive-green eyes stare back at me from behind the mask—and for a moment, I hardly recognize the woman looking out. This mask is working.

The man gestures toward the arched entrance carved into the cliffside, and I swear I’m walking into another world entirely.

The Grotta opens like a secret—a cave turned cathedral, carved stone softened by velvet curtains and golden chandeliers suspended from hidden beams. Flickering sconces cast shadows that move like whispers along the walls. The air smells faintly of salt and expensive perfume, threaded with the low hum of conversation and music.

White and gold masks everywhere. Black ties, sharp suits, polished shoes. Men turn when I pass, eyes glinting behind their porcelain anonymity. The women—few compared to them—move like liquid gold, their laughter carrying like a siren’s call.

I square my shoulders. Don’t fold, Sam. Just breathe. Own it.

At the bar, I manage a smile. The bartender, silent and masked in black, slides a crystal coupe across the counter before I even open my mouth. Champagne, chilled and shimmering under the low light. My fingers curl around the stem, grateful for something to hold onto.

For a moment, I let myself blend in. Sip. Breathe. Pretend I belong.

That’s when he appears.

Tall, broad, his white mask catching the chandelier’s light as he leans too close, brushing against me like we’re already acquainted.

“Not often we see someone new,” he says, his voice smooth, but the hand that drifts too casually toward my waist makes my stomach tighten.

“And how would you know that I’m new?”

“Being able to recognize when someone steps in for the first time comes with time.” He chuckles, low and unbothered, and closes the space again.

“Well…I’m just here for the champagne.” I reply lightly, angling my body away.

“A shame to waste a night like this drinking alone. Why don’t we step outside? The view of the sea is unforgettable.”

The way his hand presses lower on my waist has my skin crawling. “No, thank you. I prefer it here… besides, I haven’t even had time yet to look around. I’m new, remember?”

The charm on his face cracks. His grip tightens around my wrist, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me he thinks he has the right.

“You don’t say no here, sweetheart. You’ll learn.”

Rage spikes sharply in my chest, fear not far behind. I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his lesson—but before I can, he’s gone.

Not vanished, just removed.

A strong hand clamps on the jerk’s shoulder, yanking him back with a force that makes the man stumble. The newcomer steps into the space between us, tall, imposing, his tux impeccable, his mask gleaming like carved ivory and that scent of pine and whiskey that reminds me of someone.

The white-masked stranger doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t make a scene. But the warning in his stance is undeniable.

“Walk away,” he says.

The man who grabbed me sputters, trying to reclaim some dignity, but one sharp tilt of the stranger’s head has him muttering something foul under his breath and slinking into the crowd.

The newcomer lingers. Not touching me, not crowding me. Just… there. Solid. Watching me with an intensity I can feel through the mask, and something in my body tingles. The feeling of knowing exactly who is standing in front of me, but with no certainty whatsoever.

“You alright?” His voice is low, steady, muffled by the mask covering his face.

My breath shudders out, and I realize I’ve been holding it. I nod, forcing composure. “Yes. Just—he was—”

“I know,” he cuts me off gently, like he doesn’t need the details. Like he already saw everything.

“First time here, is it?” His voice curls between us, velvet and unyielding at the same time. I tilt my head, clutching my glass like a shield. “Do I look that lost?”

A faint sound escapes him, half amusement, half study. “You look… still impressed by this. That’s all.”

His presence should be overwhelming—towering, masked, protective in a way that feels far too personal—but instead, I find myself leaning toward him. My pulse doesn’t settle; it only shifts into a new rhythm.

“And you?” I ask, trying for nonchalance. “You make a habit of saving damsels in distress?”

“Only when the damsel refuses to admit she was in distress.” I can’t see his face, since the mask hides most of his expression, but I can feel the smirk curving his lips.

Heat curls through me, uninvited but relentless. I sip the champagne to cool myself, though it does nothing but sharpen the fizz already humming in my veins.

The music swells around us—something dark, orchestral, with a thread of seduction woven through its notes. His hand extends, palm open, steady, waiting. “Dance with me.”

I should refuse. I should tell him I don’t dance with strangers. But my hand is already sliding into his, my body betraying me with its hunger for something reckless.

His palm is hot, his grip sure, and when he pulls me onto the floor, the crowd dissolves. He doesn’t touch me indecently—just his hand at my waist, guiding, commanding, every brush of contact setting sparks against my skin. I follow his lead, though really, it feels like I’ve stepped into his orbit.

“Don’t be nervous. I won’t bite you,” he murmurs, his lips dangerously close to my ear.

“Hard to know since I don’t even know your name.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “Does that bother you?”

My stomach twists because though I don’t know his name, under the mask and tux, he feels… familiar.

“Nope. What about you?”

“No… Sometimes it’s better this way… so, what brings you here?”

“My incapacity to say no to my best friend, apparently… and well, a little curiosity too… you?”

“…work. I was also told to look after a friend, but she hasn’t shown up, so…” He chuckles just as the song ends, and for some reason, I’m breathless when my chest rises against his. I should step away, but I don’t. He keeps me close, his hand trailing the curve of my spine, lower, lower, until my thighs ache for friction I won’t admit aloud. I get a feel of his muscles hidden beneath the expensive fabric of his tux.

“Come with me?” he says, giving me the choice even though I feel like that has already been made.

I let him lead me up a staircase, tucked discreetly at the back of the Grotto. The thrum of the party fades as we climb.

He opens a door, and the room beyond is dim, drenched in gold light spilling from a chandelier, the wide window framing the sea outside. The crash of waves echoes faintly through the glass.

He closes the door, but doesn’t lock it. Almost giving me all the time in the world to leave if I want to.

I don’t breathe as he steps toward me, not until his hands skim down my arms, deliberate and slow. He doesn’t go for my mask, doesn’t even try. Instead, he cups my jaw with reverence, his thumb stroking along the line of it.

“Is this okay with you?”

He isn’t just asking if I want him to touch me—he’s asking if I want this.

“Yes.” My answer is a whisper, but he seems to catch it.

“Do you want to stop… and go back downstairs?”

I shake my head quickly.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” My voice is steadier this time.

“I’m a stranger…” Something in his tone makes me feel the entire opposite of his statement.

“I know.” But do I?

He leans closer, lifting his mask just enough to bare his mouth. His lips trail along my throat, teeth scraping lightly at my collarbone until I arch against him, desperate for more. His hands know exactly where to grip, how to pull me flush against the hard line of him.

But before he takes more, he stills. His lips hover at my ear. “I need you to tell me—what do you want tonight?”

Heat floods my cheeks under the mask. “You.”

That single word is all it takes.

His hands tug at the straps of my dress, sliding it off my shoulders inch by inch. The satin pools at my feet, leaving me bare and trembling under his gaze.

He doesn’t rush. He lets his eyes roam, devouring every inch of my exposed skin without touching. When his fingers finally move, it’s to unfasten his jacket, dropping it across a chair, then his bow tie, then each button of his shirt. I’m the one who pushes the fabric off his shoulders, palms brushing over his sculpted muscle that flexes under my touch. His chest is broad, ridged with strength, his abs cut like stone, and his skin feels hot beneath my fingertips. Forbidden, dangerous.

“You’re staring,” he teases.

“You expected me not to?” My reply is breathless, but bold, and I feel the urge to bite my bottom lip, but I don’t.

His short light-brown hair is mussed from my fingers, his jaw shadowed, and when his eyes catch the low light, green, aren’t they? Why does it seem like I know those eyes?

I shake those thoughts away—and instead run my hands lower, over the waistband of his trousers, but I don’t dare to go lower, not when his fingers grip my wrists. “So, Trouble, are you always this… adventurous or just tonight?”

How… I want to ask how he heard my nickname, but I just let that go instead and answer firmly. “Just tonight… I guess.”

“Mh. I see… and are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’m sure.” My voice is steadier this time.

His lips curve into a smirk I can feel more than see. “Good. Because I intend to take my time.”

Then he leans in and trails a slow path along my neck with his tongue, teasing, licking, biting ever so gently at my earlobe before sucking on it, and I arch into him, desperate for more.

A low, hungry grumble leaves his throat. His hands roam my waist, down my ass, along my thighs—never rough, just enough to make me ache. When a shiver escapes me, he slides one hand between my legs, fingers tracing the wetness already coating me.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, voice husky with hunger.

I gasp, biting back a moan, fingers tangling in his short, light-brown hair as his gaze meets mine.

“You like that, Trouble?” he teases, running his fingers along my slick slit as his thumbs find my clit. The nickname sends a thrill straight through me, but his fingers are what make me bite my lips.

“I do,” I manage to gasp just as his middle finger pokes at my entrance.

“Then let me hear you…”

His hot whispers burn against my skin, and another gasp leaves me. But it’s when his lips find my hardening nipples and his middle finger enters me that I let go and let him hear me.

His assaults on my nipples don’t relent, and he bites the sensitive skin just enough to have me moan. “So wet…for a stranger,” he whispers, adding a second finger inside me, which slides in easily considering how wet I am. The sound of my wetness is the only thing we can hear.

“Fuck it…I need to taste you,” he says.

Before I can even comprehend what’s happening, he kneels in front of me and slides up his mask just a little more. He pulls one of my legs on his shoulder before diving between my legs, but not before licking clean the two fingers that just a moment ago were driving me crazy.

“Fuck…”

When his tongue finds me, it’s a slow, deliberate torture. He tastes me, teases me, bringing me to the edge again and again. My hips rock helplessly against him, nails scratching down his back, until I’m shivering, lost entirely. He sucks and bites my clit when his tongue is not busy eating me out, but it’s when his fingers thrust in me again that I’m a goner.

“Oh my…fuckkk.” I come, all over his face, but he doesn’t stop until my legs give in. “God…” He licks my thighs, kissing the sensitive skin before standing, pressing my leg down, holding me still. I’m still trembling—butter against his body. The satisfactory smirk is not visible, just like his strong jaw.

“You taste like trouble, too.” He licks his lips before taking my hands.

He guides me backwards until my bare back presses against the cool glass of the windows overlooking the sea, a dark, silent witness beyond.

“I don’t know how you taste,” I say, feeling bold, even if my voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m afraid that’s gonna have to wait.”

His pants reach the floor the second after a foil packet has been taken from his pocket. His boxers follow, and my mouth drops open when I see his erection. However, I don’t have time to think about it because with his teeth, he tears the foil open—and in a second, he sheaths himself.

Grabbing my thighs, he manhandles me in the best way, wrapping my legs around his waist and pinning me against the glass.

“Last chance to stop…”

“I don’t want to.”

Pressing into me, he steals my breath away, inch by inch. I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Breathe…” he whispers before filling me some more. When it feels like he is ripping me apart, he stills, taking a deep breath of his own.

His lips find mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he bites me before moving his lips on my jaw, where he leaves kisses and bites. When I’m ready to beg for him to do something, he pulls out, then thrusts into me again, one deep but slow move.

He does that a few times, moving measuredly, deliberately, savoring every inch. His body is honed by years in the gym, a weapon of strength and precision. Each roll of his hips is devastating.

“Still okay?” His voice is ragged at my ear, but he waits.

“Yes,” I manage, the word a moan.

Then he lets go and his pace builds, harder, faster, driving me higher. His hand slides to my throat, adding just enough pressure to make me feel owned, seen, and utterly desired.

“You feel so…” Thrust. “Fucking…” Thrust. “Perfect.” Thrust.

My mind is fogged and I can feel my orgasm ready to burst.

His movements are now even more measured and deep, and I’m sure he has poked places inside me never hit before.

The climax blindsides me, violent and consuming, tearing through me until I’m shaking apart in his arms. My legs are jelly, and if he weren’t holding me, I’d be melting on the floor. He follows shortly with a low growl, muffled against my shoulder. His thrusts slow down, and he spills inside the condom as he holds me through the aftershocks.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is our ragged breath and the crash of waves behind us. Our pulses thrumming between us.

With one kiss on my forehead—almost too intimate—he withdraws carefully and helps me down.

Once I’m stable on my feet, he turns slightly to discard the used condom, and the dim light catches his left shoulder, and that’s when I see it.

The tattoo—three triangles crossed by an arrow. The middle one is filled in black, and the other two are outlined, just like Madison’s.

I can’t lie to myself anymore. The man who just ruined me against the glass, wearing a mask I should have torn off long ago, has the name my mind was screaming at me—it’s my best friend’s older brother, my longtime crush, Ezra.

Facing me once again, naked and with only the mask still in place, he locks his green eyes with mine and for a moment, I hope that the floor would swallow me whole.

“I think we can both stop pretending now, don’t you think, Sam?” Ezra asks.

***

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the bonus content. Check out my newest book, UNEXPECTED STORM, out November 13th, 2025.

-- R. S. Aria