Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

By Parker Grey

We're snowed in all winter, high in the Rockies at an artist's retreat.

Just me… and the four men who want to share me.

 

It was supposed to be three months of solitude and reflection. I'd paint all day, then maybe read before going to bed early. I thought I'd be surrounded by quiet, retiring artists.

 

I didn't think those artists would be the world's biggest rock band, taking a break from being in the spotlight.

 

And I definitely didn't think they'd seduce me, one by one… and sometimes together.

 

There's Cash, the drummer, who has smoldering eyes and muscles I can't take my eyes off of. There's Dalton, the bassist, who has a body sculpted from marble and a smile that makes me melt.

 

There's Gavin, the British guitarist whose accent does things to me… and whose hands do much, much dirtier deeds.

 

And finally, there's Slate, the mysterious lead singer whose voice alone makes me shiver.

 

I can't help myself. They're commanding, dominant, and so irresistible I can't say no.

 

And best of all? They want to share me.

 

All four of them.

 

Four on the Floor is a complete standalone about an artist and the rock band who shares her. It's a seriously steamy romance, but there's zero M/M action - don't worry, all the attention is on her!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Complicated Octopus Press
• Release date: Oct 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957049182

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

LARKIN

No, I say out loud, my hands death-gripping the steering wheel. Come on. Are you serious? Don’t do this to me.

I push down on the gas pedal just a hair harder, the needle nearly hitting 25 miles per hour, the soft whump of the snow chains on my tires the only sound since I’d turned my music off a couple miles back so I could concentrate on driving.

A quick gust of wind shakes the evergreens arching over the road, sending a huge lump of white snow right onto my windshield.

Stop it, I tell the weather through gritted teeth, my windshield wipers working overtime. I wanted one day without snow. One day, was that so much to ask?

I drive through a clearing in the trees, and without their cover the snow falls thick and fast on my car. Apparently, a day without snow was too much to ask.

Not that there was snow in the forecast. Nope. When I checked this morning, that stupid smiley sun on my weather app gave me a false sense of security about heading into the mountains today. At least I had the snow chains with me, and by some miracle the instructions were clear and easy to understand.

Which is nice, because this California girl does not do snow. I’ve been skiing once and sledding twice in my entire life, and frankly, I find the cold weather alarming and the idea of frozen things falling from the sky rather troubling.

And yet, here I am.

I drive over a slight crest, still going twenty-five miles per hour, still white-knuckling the steering wheel, and all of a sudden there it is on the slope facing me, enormous and stately, looking like a building taken from a fantasy novel and plopped down in the front range of the Rockies.

The Centennial.

There are luxury hotels and there are luxury hotels, and this is the italicized latter of the two. It was built in the 1890s as an escape for the ultra-wealthy of the Gilded Age, and as a place for the mining barons of the time to stay and relax while they visited their holdings in Colorado.

There’s no luxury like Gilded Age luxury. It’s my first time here but I’ve seen photos of the interior, and damn. Not only is the place huge, but everything in it is absolutely beautiful. Huge marble fireplaces. Expensive Persian rugs. Every room has a California King four-poster bed and a jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.

And I’m going to be here for three months, alone with four other people I’ve never even met. I’m just hoping that signing up for this artists’ retreat wasn’t completely insane, because it’s starting to feel that way.

What if you don’t get along?

What if the others are weird, or loud, or party too much?

I take a deep breath in and out, forcing myself to relax my hands a little. I tell myself for the thousandth time that everything will be fine — the others are probably other artists, just like me, who are looking forward to spending a few months working on their craft in relative solitude while The Centennial Hotel is closed for the winter.

The road flattens out, and it doesn’t take me long to drive the rest of the way up to the massive building. The view from here is incredible, winter weather notwithstanding — if it were clear, I’d be able to see almost to Kansas, but even now the snow and fog are highlighting the mountains into sharp relief, canyons and crags looking majestic and a little spooky.

I pull up to a stop right in front of the huge wooden doors. The driveway is plowed, but that’s all, so I just park there. I can figure out where my car should stay for the winter later, because right now I just want to go inside where it’s warm and I won’t have to drive anymore, and let Poppy know that I made it here alive.

Our interactions have been somewhat limited, but I get the feeling that Poppy’s a worrier. She just has that vibe, you know?

I take a deep breath, cup my hands around my mouth, and blow the warm air through my gloves, giving myself one last pep talk before I open the door into the swirling chill of the outdoors.

Just do it.

Just go.

It’s not going to get any warmer if you wait.

In one big movement, I open the car door and practically launch myself out and toward the front of the hotel, leaping up the steps two at a time in my new snow boots, pulling my hat down on my head and jamming my fists into the pockets of my extremely puffy down coat.

I can’t believe I’m about to spend three months here. Thirty seconds and I’m already half way to hypothermia.

Just as I’m about to knock, the door swings open.

You made it! Poppy exclaims.

CHAPTER TWO

LARKIN

I think it’s bigger on the inside. Somehow, The Centennial’s enormous, beautiful exterior doesn’t prepare one at all for what’s inside.

It’s huge. It’s rustic yet also refined, an odd combination of wood and marble, of antlers and crystal chandelier that I find super charming.

I feel like it’s the year 1895 and I’ve just arrived after several days on a stagecoach. I feel like I should be wearing a high-necked silk dress with a bustle and have two ladies’ maids in attendance.

In other words, I feel very, very fancy.

The lobby is enormous. The check-in counter is on one side, the stairs on the other, and in the huge space in between is a fireplace that’s taller than I am and a whole squadron of leather couches, all looking buttery soft and perfectly supple, a few wool throws casually tossed over the back for good measure.

You must be so cold, sweetheart, Poppy says, my arm still in her hand. Come on this way, we’ve got some hot cocoa ready for you.

She pulls me out of the lobby and into a nook. Sure enough, there’s a teapot on a warmer, and she pours me a mug of delicious-looking hot chocolate, then offers me a bowl of mini-marshmallows.

I resist the urge to dump all the marshmallows onto the hot chocolate and only take a few, scattering them on top and taking a sip.

This is wonderful, I tell Poppy, who’s already busied herself straightening the stack of mugs.

It’s my grandmother’s recipe, she tells me, quickly wiping a drip off the side table. We’ve been making it every day during the winter since this place has been open. Now, where should we start the tour? I like to finish in your room so that you can stay there for a spell and get situated. When the boys arrived a few days ago I showed them the pool and sauna first but I’m not sure that’s the best plan of attack, it’s not as if you’ll be using either of those things a great deal during your stay…

Boys?

Who are the boys?

For whatever reason, I’d assumed that I’d be the youngest person here at this particular artists’ retreat. It’s the first one I’ve been to, but it just seems like the kind of thing retired people do, you know? I was expecting gray-haired women working on their novels, or middle-aged poets who wanted a properly gloomy winter landscape to gaze upon whilst composing sonnets.

I hope they’re not super young, I think.

I just want to paint in peace for a couple of months with minimum disruption.

After all, I’ve cleared my schedule completely. I’ve told all my graphic design clients — that’s my day job — that I’ll be incommunicado until March.

I’ve got nothing to do for all that time except paint as much as I possibly can, and that’s what I’m going to do.

Besides, if the other artists in residence are obnoxious kids who party too much, avoiding them in this huge hotel will be a cinch. This place is enormous.

Earth to Larkin? Poppy says, and I realize that she’s been talking to me the whole time I’ve been lost in my thoughts. Sadly, that’s not an unusual experience for me.

Yes! Of course, that sounds wonderful, I say enthusiastically, hoping that it’s the response she was expecting.

She raises one eyebrow.

I don’t think it was.

It sounds wonderful that the pipes will freeze if you don’t keep the heat turned to sixty-five and turn all the taps in the East Wing and kitchen when it goes below zero? she asks, clearly amused.

Uh…

She pats my shoulder, smiling.

You’ve had a long drive. I’ll show you around before I start giving you the instructions, Poppy says, and leads me back through the massive, ornate lobby.

It’s a very fancy hotel. Have I mentioned that yet, that The Centennial is a very fancy hotel?

It is. There’s both a formal dining room and a cozier breakfast room; there’s a big industrial kitchen and a smaller ‘breakfast kitchen’ that looks much more like what I’m familiar with. There are mounted deer and elk heads everywhere, but it somehow still looks incredibly classy.

There’s a main lobby with a huge fireplace, and then each wing of the hotel also has a lounge with a bar, plenty of cozy seating, and another fireplace. The fireplaces all have bearskin rugs in front of them, and I’m a little afraid to ask if they’re real.

There’s a ballroom. There’s a sunroom, even though it’s freezing in there right now. There’s a conservatory and I don’t really even know what that is.

Right now, Poppy is walking me toward the indoor pool, still talking all about the history of the hotel.

This was added in the 1920s, dear, she says. She’s taken to calling me dear, and frankly, I’m fine with it. "And of course we’ve updated and renovated it since then, but the mermaid mosaic on the bottom is original, as are the personal dressing rooms. Back when this was built, of course, it was completely inappropriate to go through the lobby in your bathing costume…"

I look down into the clear water of the indoor pool. There is, indeed, a mermaid on the bottom, waving up at me.

…and I won’t drag you outside to see the hot springs, but if you come over to the window you can see them pretty well. Oh, hello!

I’m still looking at the mermaid in the pool when Poppy starts waving through the window at someone outside.

There’s one of them, she says cheerily, still waving as I walk over to her side. I was wondering where they were hiding, though bless their hearts they often aren’t up until noon or later and goodness knows if I’m not out of bed by six at the very latest I can’t get anything done all day…

She keeps talking, but I’m looking at the person she’s waving to, and I swear I can’t hear a single thing he’s saying. There’s just a buzzing sound filling my ears as my eyes go wide.

Holy shit, I’m going to be here with him for three months?!

The hot springs are three pools, sunk into the ground outside and surrounded by big gray stones, and in one of them is a shirtless man.

He’s not looking at us. He’s got his eyes closed and his head back, only in the water from the waist down as the steam from the springs rises and coils around him, almost like it’s licking his perfect abs, caressing his bulging biceps, and snaking through that hip V that really hot men always have.

And I am staring. My mouth might be open. I might be drooling. I don’t know, I just know that all my nervousness about my co-artists-in-residence got multiplied by about ten because I didn’t know that one of them was going to be a seriously hot guy.

Still talking, Poppy raps on the window, knocking me out of my reverie.

Dalton! she calls, knocking again.

The guy in the pool looks up suddenly, confused for a split second. Then he sees Poppy waving like a maniac and smiles at her, waving back.

Larkin is finally here! Poppy shouts at the glass window, pointing at me.

The knots in my stomach draw tighter, but I wave politely at him through the glass. He smiles and waves back as I hear my heartbeat echoing through my ears.

Then he lifts himself out of the hot spring, all in one smooth motion, the muscles in his arms and back bunching and rippling in a beautiful, perfect symphony. He jogs down the wooden boardwalk toward the door to the pool, which Poppy opens for him, already scolding.

—any of you die on my watch, you’ve already signed something saying you won’t sue, she says as he comes through the door, reaching for a giant, fluffy towel.

Good Lord, he’s even better up close. He’s got auburn hair, bright green eyes, and faint smattering of freckles that cover his whole body — or at least what I can see of it. He quickly runs the towel over his hair, making it stick up in every direction, then drying the rest of himself off just as fast.

Bit chilly out there, he says to me by way of greeting. I’m Dalton, by the way.

He wraps the towel around his hips, gives me the most charming smile I’ve seen in my life, and holds out one big hand.

I take it, trying to remember my manners and not stare, which is very hard, because did I mention that he’s got a six-pack and that hip V that hot men always have? The one that points directly to their junk and then forces you to think dirty, dirty thoughts about them?

Larkin, I say. His hand is improbably warm, and he smiles at me as I say it.

It’s also a very good smile, the kind that makes my stomach feel like it’s turned into some sort of warm pudding.

Glad you got here all right, he says. With all the snow we were afraid you might not make it.

He’s adjusting the towel around his hips, making it a little hard for me to focus on what he’s saying. I swear I’m not usually this much of an idiot around hot men, but they’re not usually wet and naked in front of me, I haven’t usually just finished a long, stressful drive, and frankly they’re not usually this hot.

I wasn’t about to miss this for anything! I say, willing myself to meet his eyes. I can’t wait to get to work.

Before answering, Dalton bends over, the towel secure around his hips, and yanks his swim trunks off beneath the towel. They land in a wet pile on the concrete floor of the pool area, and he steps out of them neatly.

I pray the towel falls off.

It doesn’t.

Sorry, he says, smiling at me again.

Holy shit is it a charming smile.

Too cold to keep wet shorts on, he says. Poppy doing a good job of showing you around? She show you where the booze is yet?

There’s now an impressive lump beneath the towel and oh God I am definitely thinking about his dick. I’m thinking bad, dirty thoughts about it, and also about the rest of him.

I drag my eyes to his face at last, hoping that I haven’t turned bright red.

Not yet! I say, smiling. I’m probably smiling like a maniac.

Well, I’ll let her do that, then, he says. I should go get dressed before lunch.

With that, Dalton saunters off into the main hotel, holding the towel with one hand and his wet swim trunks with the other.

I will the towel to fall off.

It still doesn’t happen.

Those boys, Poppy says fondly. Such nice young men.

Yes, I agree, practically craning my neck to watch Dalton walk away. Really nice.

Boys.

Plural.

There’s no way the other three are this hot, is there?

CHAPTER THREE

LARKIN

And, obviously, there’s no linen service during the retreat because the five of you are the only ones here, but you know where the laundry room is, and the linen closet is two doors down the hall to your left…

Poppy is still talking, but I’ve opened the curtains and I’m checking out the view from my room.

No, not a room. It’s a suite, complete with a bedroom and a sitting area. Everything is dark wood and buttery-soft leather, and the place feels like it was made for mining barons in the 1890s. The bathroom has a shower that’s so full of knobs and levers that it’s going to take me a while to figure out, along with a jacuzzi that’s already calling my name.

And the view. Wow, the view. Even today — when it’s cloudy and snowing — it’s majestic as hell, all craggy peaks and deep valleys, the play of light against the snow and granite nearly magical.

I’m not a landscape artist, but I might have to try my hand at a couple while I’m here. It would be criminal not to.

Thanks, I tell Poppy. You got all the supplies I sent ahead, right?