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Neither of the twins move, and I’m too desperate to be embarrassed about demanding it. I already ogled them both in the shower. After seeing Jace’s spiral grooves along his erection, I’d expected the same when I peeked at Atticus from the tub. Nope. The miracle worker who carved him added grooves, curves, and wicked circles. And thinking about their packages with all the extra perks does nothing to help ease my hormones rocketing to high-alert warnings.
“Kiss me, please.” See? I can remember my people-pleasing skills and be polite while ordering them to make out with me.
Jace tucks his wings to come closer to where I kneel, and his scent makes me want to run my fingers over his abs and tug the knot on those low-slung sweatpants to have him skin to skin again. His lips linger over mine until I take over the kiss, frantic in trying to tease my tongue against his.
“Can’t mess the runes until the magic takes hold,” he whispers against my mouth, and I sigh.
Right. The runes. The whole reason we’re all in bed together. It’s a nice, big bed too. One that fits the three of us. Apparently getting my thoughts scrambled with whatever telepathy witchery happened earlier opened me up to getting more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. I wiggle in Jace’s hold, wishing I could ride his thigh. Something. Anything to ease this overwhelming ache.
The kiss is wonderful—hot with a whole lot of sweet—but I need more.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I don’t want to tell him the kiss isn’t enough. He might mistake me for meaning he’s not enough, and I don’t have the headspace to deal with that right now. “I need more,” I whisper.
“You need a release,” Atticus says, his voice grumbling in a way that sends shivers through me. “We can give you that.”
I glance at the dark romance book with a skull, roses, and scrollwork on the front. “I’ll bet you can,” I say before thinking the words through.
“Stay on your knees,” he orders in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “But lower to your elbows.”
Keeping my gaze on Jace, I drop as Atticus commands, a hot flush spreading over my body. Even with my knees squeezing together, the pose is vulnerable, leaving me completely exposed.
Atticus sweeps a touch along the backs of my thighs, and I moan.
“Like that?” he asks, all smug and sure of himself.
“More.” I lower my face to the sheets to hide my blush, except Jace lifts my chin.
“Another kiss?” His hair falls against my cheek, still damp from our shower. Those silvery blue eyes hold my gaze without embarrassment or judgment. He seems curious as much as he’s turned on, and I want to trace my lips over the lines of his tattoos. He fists his hand in my wet hair, a gentle hold to keep the strands out of the paint. It’s comforting and full of tenderness—just like Jace. For all his muscles, power, and strength, he lets me lead.
I meet his mouth with mine, teasing him and nipping ever so slightly at his fangs in a delicious, delirious kiss that has me stretching so he can lick into my mouth while I push back into Atticus’s sweeping touches.
Oh god, those touches.
His rough hands smooth over my thighs, his wings brush the sides of my breasts, and I don’t know what’s massaging my ankles and heels, but I’m betting it’s his tail. Other than my spine where the runes mark me, the twins stroke me everywhere except where I need it most.
Anticipation and pleasure tangle inside me, making me unravel so I can lose myself in the two of them until this staggering need is satiated. Because it steals my reason, focusing my every nerve on take, take, take. Instead of give. My mind skids to a halt.
I’m a giver. It’s my default. It’s how I navigate life. Pleasing others, not hoarding the goodness, greatness, OMG perfection for myself.
My body freezes, and the withdrawal sparked by my realization hurts. It physically burns, throbbing in my veins, sending shooting pain through my head, and tightening my chest so I can’t catch a breath.
Atticus growls, yanking me back against him without letting my spine touch him.
His claws dig into my hair, tugging my head to the side and pulling lightly at the scalp in a pressure that centers every nerve on what he might do next. I glance at him, not worrying for a moment about the paint they painstakingly applied.
They wouldn’t let our play ruin the runes.
They’ll protect the symbols I need.
They’ve got me.
The thought settles me, and I relax into Atticus’s hold.
“This isn’t about us.” He tightens his fist in my hair, and his snarl-roughened voice comes next to my ear. My body melts with his command. “Tonight is about you.”
“The need.” I manage the words around a pant that would humiliate except his tail lassos around my thighs as if I’ve lost control of this situation. Good. I don’t want control. “The ache.” I don’t like putting words to how absolutely desperate I feel. Speaking the craving out loud might break this spell. “Is it a ritual thing?”
