Luther stays there for a moment, forehead pressed to mine, letting me feel the weight of him, the heat, the way my ass is already clenching around him in little pulses I can’t control. He doesn’t move yet. He just breathes with me, one hand braced beside my head, the other resting over my heart again like he’s making sure I’m still here.
Grayson’s hand never stops moving on my cock. Slow. Knowing. He presses kisses into my hair, my temple, the corner of my jaw. Every time my mind tries to drift back to the deck, to the titles, to the careful language that made me feel like an accessory, one of them touches me somewhere that pulls me back. Luther’s thumb strokes the inside of my wrist. Grayson’s fingers tighten just slightly in my hair. Little anchors. Little reminders that I am not alone in this bed with my own head.
Luther starts to move and every time he pulls back, more slick coats his cock and the inside of my thighs. The wet sound of it is loud in the quiet room. I can smell myself, warm and unmistakably theirs, and it makes something in my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the merger.
I make a broken sound and Luther catches it with his mouth. He kisses me through it, swallowing the noise, and I feel something in me finally crack open, from being held exactly where I am.
When I come, it’s quieter than I expected. A full-body release that rolls through me in long, shaking waves. My ass clenches rhythmically around Luther’s cock as I spill over Grayson’s fist in thick pulses, cum streaking across my stomach. Luther groans into my mouth but doesn’t speed up. He rides it with me, letting me feel every aftershock while Grayson’s hand works me through it, gentle now, coaxing the last tremors out.
Luther follows a moment later, burying himself deep as he comes. His whole body goes tight, then softens, breathing against my neck, one hand still braced beside my head, the otherresting over my heart again like he’s making sure it’s still beating steady.
For a long time, none of us move. The only sounds are our breathing and the faint rustle of sheets when Grayson shifts to press closer against my back. My head is finally, blessedly quiet.
Luther shifts eventually, careful with me as he pulls away, then rolls onto his side and gathers me into his chest. He looks over at the nightstand, then reaches for the water Grayson brought earlier.
"Drink," Luther says, holding the glass to my lips.
I take a few sips because his hand is steady and because refusing would take more strength than I've got left. The water's cool against my throat, and the ache in my body feels distant now, softened by the weight of him around me and Grayson pressed close at my side. My limbs feel heavy in a way that doesn't scare me. For the first time all night, the merger deck feels far away, shut inside another room where it can't reach me.
Grayson reaches for the plate he brought from the office. He breaks off a small piece of sandwich and holds it near my mouth, his other hand resting against my hip beneath the blanket.
"Eat a little," he says. "You missed dinner.Again."
I want to tell him I ate. I want to tell him three bites at my desk should count, or that my body can wait until morning, or that I'm too tired to chew. But his thumb moves slowly against my skin, and Luther's arm tightens around my waist before I can shape any of those lies into something convincing.
Grayson feeds me in small bites, patient enough that it makes my chest hurt. He waits when I need a second. He gives me water between them. He doesn't make a victory out of it, and Luther doesn't praise me like I've done something fragile and difficult. They simply keep me there, warm and bare and held, while my body remembers it's allowed to need things.
"I hate that I still want the deal," I murmur after a while, my voice muffled against Luther's chest.
His hand moves through my hair, slow enough to make my eyes heavy. "Wanting help doesn't mean you trust them."
"I know." My fingers curl in the fabric of Grayson's discarded shirt, holding on without meaning to. "I just keep thinking if I can out-think it first, if I can find every weak point before they use it, then maybe we can take what we need without letting them touch anything that matters."
Grayson's hand stills on my hip, then slides up my side with quiet pressure. "You don't have to find every weak point tonight."
I huff a breath against his skin, almost a laugh, but it falls apart before it becomes one. I'm too tired. Too warm. Too aware of Grayson's hand smoothing over my ribs and Luther's heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
The fear's still there, but it's not the only thing in the room anymore.
Grayson offers another bite, and I take it. He smiles faintly, relieved in a way that makes me look away before it breaks something open in me again. Luther's mouth presses to my hair, and his hand settles over the back of my neck, warm and possessive without holding me down. "We'll look at it tomorrow," Luther says, reminding me of what he said before.
My throat tightens. I close my eyes before either of them can see too much, though that's never worked with them. Grayson shifts closer behind me, his chest warm against my back. "You're allowed to relax, babe."
I don't answer because I don't know how to do that without making it sound like surrender. My hand tightens in his shirt. Luther keeps breathing beneath me, steady enough that my body starts matching the rhythm without permission. It was so much easier when I saw that Luca was finally safe five years ago.
But ever since we had the kids, not too long after, I feel like I can’t relax. Not until everyone is safe again. Even if we alreadyaresafe.
“I know,” I murmur. “And I don’t know why I can’t.” I blow out a small breath and curl in tighter between my Alphas. Both of their purrs start up, vibrating through me, pulling me down under. I really need to figure out what’s wrong before I end up hurting my pack and myself more than I already have.
8
Blake
The next afternoon, the merger deck's no longer a pitch. It's a working document, which means every polished insult has been given a version number, a comment thread, and the illusion of neutrality.
I sit in the Keller Industries conference room with my tablet open in front of me, stylus balanced between two fingers, and try not to think about Luther closing my laptop last night. I try not to think about Grayson's hand in my hair, the office bedroom,the food I let them feed me after, the way sleep finally took me under because neither of them asked me to become useful before they let me rest.
Twenty-six hours later, I'm back under fluorescent lights while Victor Hale smiles across the table and speaks around me like my body's inconvenient furniture blocking his line of sight.
