Maceo gives the smallest shake of his head. "That's not how it works."
"Tonight it is." I guide him backward until the backs of his legs meet the bed. He could refuse us easily. We all know that. He could plant his feet and become immovable, and neither Luca nor I could do a damn thing about it. But his hands settle at my waist and Luca's wrist, and when I press him down, he sits.
The sight of him there does something quiet and complicated to me. Maceo's too large for uncertainty, or maybe that's only what people think when they've never been close enough to see the softness he keeps tucked beneath discipline. He sits on the edge of the bed in his dark slacks and crisp shirt, shoulders broad, hands still ready to help, ready to catch, ready to be useful the second anyone gives him a reason. He looks like he's waiting for our need to turn into his next task.
I step between his knees and take his face in both hands.
"You're not here to work," I tell him.
His eyes hold mine. "I know."
"You don't."
Luca's hands move over his shoulders, slower now, warming rather than kneading. "Let us want you without turning it into something you have to manage."
Maceo looks back at Luca, and whatever he sees there makes the hard line of his mouth falter. Luca leans down and kisses the side of his neck, not as a distraction, not to hurry him toward anything, but because he can. Because Maceo's seated in our bed and close enough to be kissed. Because the man who touches everyone else with such steady care deserves to feel hands on him with no emergency attached.
I begin unbuttoning Maceo's shirt.
He immediately lifts his hands to help.
I catch one wrist and press it gently back to his thigh. "No."
His brows draw together.
I don't smile. I don't soften it into teasing. "Let us."
The words settle between us, and for a moment I think he'll argue. Not because he doesn't want this. Want's already darkening his eyes, already changing the shape of his breathing. He wants. He simply doesn't know where to put his hands when they're not protecting, fixing, steadying, carrying. Luca solvesthat by taking one of them and placing it against his own cheek, turning his face into Maceo's palm.
"You can touch," Luca says. "You just don't have to lead."
Maceo's throat works. His thumb moves once over Luca's cheekbone, careful enough that it hurts to watch. Then his gaze comes back to mine.
"Blake."
This time my name's not an objection.
I lean in and kiss him. The first touch is controlled because I know him. Because I know if I push too fast, he'll give us everything and call it receiving. Because tonight's not about taking advantage of his willingness to be used. It's about making him understand that being wanted isn't the same thing as being needed.
His mouth opens under mine, and the sound he makes is low enough that I feel it more than hear it. Luca's hands slide down his chest as I push the shirt open, and Maceo's body tightens between us, caught in the attention he usually deflects before it can settle. I break the kiss only long enough to look at him, at the flush working up his throat, at the restraint still holding in his jaw.
"There you are," I murmur.
Luca presses another kiss beneath his ear. "Stay with us."
Maceo's hand tightens at my hip, and then, finally, his body shifts toward us instead of toward the door.
“Let’s get these off,” I say softly, reaching for his belt. “I want you in this bed. I want you with us.”
Maceo doesn’t fight it. He lets me unbuckle him, lets Luca help slide his slacks down his legs. His hands stay on me the whole time—one resting on my hip, the other loosely curled around my wrist like he needs the contact to stay present. When we finally get him down to skin, Luca and I take our time. We don’t rush. I run my hands over his chest, his shoulders, the thick muscle ofhis arms, and Maceo watches me with those steady silver eyes, something raw and uncertain flickering behind them.
Luca presses a kiss to the center of his chest, then another, slower one just above his heart. “You’ve been carrying us all day,” he murmurs against Maceo’s skin. “Let us carry you for a little while.”
I push Maceo back against the pillows and crawl over him, settling my weight on his hips. I don’t pin his wrists this time. Instead, I lean down and kiss him, slow and deliberate, until I feel some of the tension leave his body. When I pull back, I keep my face close to his.
“You’re not on watch right now,” I tell him, quiet but firm. “You’re here. With us. That’s all you have to do.”
Maceo’s hands slide up my thighs, his grip warm and solid. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to believe it—makes something in my chest pull tight.
