The words are pure sin, laced with dark promises that make every nerve in me hum. I try to keep my voice steady. "Funny. From what I remember, your methods came with a whole different kind of ache."
His grip tightens a fraction, and his mouth is suddenly at my ear, his voice low and intimately dangerous. "Don't pretend you didn't like it. I remember how you sounded."
I don't answer. I can't. Because part of me still feels the ghost of that night—his palm sharp on my skin, the edge of power, punishment, and pleasure.
And then Kayden's hand moves, sliding slowly, deliberately up my thigh under the blanket, warm fingers tracing over the soft fabric of my stockings like he's already memorized my body.
I should stop him. Say something. But I don't.
His palm presses lightly between my thighs, nothing frantic, just pressure.
I shudder, breath catching as heat coils low in my belly.
"There's still unfinished business," he murmurs, his breath brushing the curve of my neck. "You didn't give me the whole truth…"
His fingers shift, teasing my core, coaxing a fresh rush of fire through me.
"…but that part can wait."
My head tips back against his shoulder, helpless to the sensation.
"I've got something else I want to finish," he growls, voice rough and low. "I don't like leaving things undone. Especially not something I wanted to taste so damn badly."
His movements deepen, intensify, and I feel the tide rising again, fierce and electric.
"Do you have any idea what it felt like?" he breathes. "Having you on my lap, taking what I gave you… hearing the sounds you tried to swallow, the way your scent gave you away? Do you know what kind of hell it was, holding back when every inch of me screamed to bend you over, bury myself in you, and fuck you until you sobbed out the truth?"
His hand tightens.
"I should get a medal for self-control."
His voice, his touch, the promise in those words, they almost undo me.
And then he leans in and murmurs against my skin, "You should stay."
A pause. His touch presses firmer, wickedly precise.
"I could keep you well quelled every night, and while you recover," he adds, lips brushing my ear, "my dear brother can keep cooking your favorite waffles."
A laugh nearly escapes my throat, choked off by a moan I refuse to let out.
Of course he'd say that.
Of course he'd make temptation sound like a perfectly reasonable life plan.
"Am I relegated to your chef now?"
Asher's voice slices clean through the haze.
He steps out from the house casually, holding a steaming mug of hot cocoa topped with an indulgent swirl of whipped cream.
I flinch instinctively, squirming in Kayden's lap, suddenly all too aware of where I am, what I'm doing, and who's watching.
Kayden just laughs, unbothered. His grip on me tightens. "You startle too easily, nymph."
"Don't stop on my account," Asher says.
He sets the mug down on the table between us, his movements smooth, unhurried, then sits across from us, spreading his arms over the back of the bench. His expression remains cool, but there's heat simmering in his amber eyes.
