He goes back to the container and keeps doing it. Every third or fourth berry, he'll inspect one, decide it meets some invisible standard, and hold it out to me. Each time there's a half-second where my mouth brushes his fingers, and the air between us thickens by a degree.
At some point, a small plate appears on my armrest. Cubed watermelon. Knox pushes the plate a quarter inch toward me.
I take a piece. Cold. Clean. Perfect.
"Thank you," I say.
"Pleasure," he rumbles.
I reach for another piece at the exact same time he adjusts the plate, and his fingers close over mine for a second. My hand stays there, trapped under his, much longer than it needs to.
Then Mason walks over.
He's holding half a nectarine, peeled and pitted.
As he holds it out to me, I reach for it, and my fingers slide against his where they're wet with juice. His hand is warm and rough, and neither of us lets go.
"Thanks," I manage to whisper.
I bite into the nectarine right out of his grip, the sweet juice running down my wrist.
I could really get used to this. The sun. The deck. Three gorgeous alphas hand-feeding me fruit. All while enveloped in the sudden, intoxicatingly rich scent of cedar, the bracing winter chill of amberwood and fir, and fresh rosemary.
Wait, their scents, again—
I go completely still.
Arthur stops reaching for the strawberry container. His hand hovers in midair. His head snaps toward me.
Knox goes perfectly rigid, his hand freezing on the rim of the watermelon plate, his gaze locking onto my face with laser focus.
Mason straightens. Slowly. Like something just pulled him upright by the spine.
All three of them are looking at me.
I'm looking back.
Nobody says a word.
30
Beth
Mason's mouth is on mine and something in my chest cracks open.
The drive home from the cabin was two hours of Maren talking and Harper singing along to the radio and me in the backseat with my window cracked, breathing through my mouth because every inhale through my nose brought them back. Three scents I couldn't scrub from the inside of my skull no matter how many miles we put between us.
By the time I walked through my front door and smelled all three of them in the hallway, I was done pretending I had any willpower left.
Now, I'm anchored in place by Mason's hand at the base of my skull, his other gripping my hip.
A warm breath ghosts across the side of my neck before Arthur's mouth presses right below my ear. The sudden contact pulls a sound from my throat that I've never made in front of another person.
Over by the doorway, Knox still hasn't moved. Even with my eyes half-closed, I can feel the heavy weight of his stare as hewatches, patiently cataloguing every single reaction before he decides exactly where to put his hands.
The intense pressure shifts as Mason pulls back just enough to catch my gaze. His eyes are pitch dark, and the fresh bruise under his left eye makes him look completely wrecked before we've even started.
"Are you sure?" he asks. His voice is incredibly low. Rough.
