“Good,” he said when my body opened around him. Quiet. Certain. The word landed everywhere at once.
A second finger. Scissoring, stretching, the burn deepening into something richer, and I pressed my back into the pillow and said, “More,” because more was what I wanted and asking for it seemed like the responsible thing to do.
“Greedy,” Mitch said, and added a third.
By the time he was satisfied, I was shaking slightly. My hips had been shifting without permission for several consecutive minutes, driving down onto his fingers, seeking pressure, seeking more, and Mitch had given it to me—thorough, patient, exact, the way he did everything that mattered.
He slicked his cock. Thick, hard, his hand wrapping around himself, spreading lube, and the sight of him—Mitch Pruitt on his knees between my thighs, ready, his jaw set, his eyes dark on mine—was something I filed under its own category: Worth The Wait. Possibly Worth Several Waits.
He flipped me over onto my hands and knees and pushed in slow. One hand braced on my hip, the other guiding himself, and I breathed through the stretch and the heat and the fullness of him, my body opening, taking him, the weight of Mitch inside me a thing my brain had been imagining every second of everyday and my body was now confirming was even better than advertised.
He stilled. Checked my face. His jaw was set, his hands braced on either side of my hips, holding himself together by what looked like a very thin margin, and the restraint in him—the sheer, disciplined restraint of a man who could stop when every instinct said go—was its own kind of heat.
“Move,” I said.
Mitch moved.
The rhythm built from careful to urgent in increments. Each thrust deeper than the last, Mitch’s weight braced over me, one hand pinning my wrist above my head, his grip firm and warm.
His hips drove into me with the same long, unhurried stride that covered ground at a pace that surprised people, and right now it was surprising me in approximately seventeen different ways, all of them excellent.
Caleb watched from beside the bed. His hand was on his cock, stroking slow, his eyes dark and wrecked, and when I reached for him, he came to me without hesitation, his mouth finding mine, his body warm against my side. Mitch fucking me deep, Caleb kissing me thorough, three bodies moving together in a rhythm that shouldn’t have worked, but did.
I got my hand between us. Found the bottle of lube. Slicked my fingers. Reached for Caleb.
He went onto his back beside me, his thighs falling open, and my fingers pressed against his ass slow, careful, feeling the heat and the tightness and the way his body resisted and then gave, resisting and then gave, like Caleb himself—open, yielding, trusting in a way that made my chest do something complicated behind my ribs.
“Please,” Caleb murmured against my shoulder. One word. Spent carefully. Directed at me with a warmth that cut through every defense I’d built.
I pulled Caleb underneath me and pushed my cock into him. Slow. Deliberate. Feeling the stretch and the heat and the way his body opened around me, warm and tight.
Behind me, Mitch was still buried deep, his hips pressing forward with each thrust, driving into me while I drove into Caleb, and the coordination of it—three bodies, one rhythm—was so perfect it bordered on offensive.
I got my free hand on Caleb’s chest, feeling his heart hammering under my palm, fast and hard, and the warmth of him—Caleb, open, yielding, taking me completely—did more to my control than anything that had happened so far.
“I’ve got you,” Mitch said against my shoulder. His voice was rough. Wrecked. The sound of a man who had stopped performing and started meaning it. “I’ve got both of you. Let go, Sterling. Just let go.”
I came hard. Mitch’s cock deep inside me, Caleb clenching around me warm and tight, and the release hit with a force that pulled a groan out of me that bounced off the low ceiling and the pine walls and the window gone black with night.
My whole body pulled tight, hips driving into Caleb, ass clenching around Mitch, and the warmth spread through me from somewhere behind my sternum and didn’t stop.
Caleb followed. His body tensed, his cock pulsing hot against my stomach, his groan muffled against my shoulder, and the feeling of him coming around me—warm, tight, shuddering—drew a second groan out of me that I hadn’t planned on having access to.
Mitch was last. Driving into me hard through both our orgasms, his hips snapping against my ass, and the sound he made—low, ragged, pressed into the muscle between my shoulder blades—was the most satisfying thing I’d heard in months.
We collapsed together. Breathing. Warm. Mitch’s weight partially on me, partially braced, his arm across my middle. Caleb nestled against my side, his head on my shoulder, his hand flat on my chest.
The lamplight held. The wood stove’s warmth reached upstairs and wrapped around us, and the bunkhouse creaked, steady and patient, entirely unconcerned with whatever had just happened inside its walls.
Which, from where I was lying, was considerably more than I had dared to hope for.
Twenty years of walls. Gone in one night. Dismantled by Mitch’s mouth and Caleb’s hands and the particular warmth of two men who had decided, without debate, that I was worth keeping.
I didn’t try to rebuild them.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
