Mason groans, his hands gripping my hips. “That’s it, baby. Take every inch.”
He doesn’t let me ride him right away. Instead, he holds me down, fully impaled, and starts a slow, deep grind that hits every sensitive spot inside me. Brookes moves closer and kneels beside us. He cups my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers while Mason fucks me with those devastatingly controlled strokes.
“You feel so good,” Mason rasps against my neck. “So fucking perfect. Warm. Wet. Full of my brother’s cum while you take my cock.”
I whimper, overwhelmed by the heat of his words and the fullness of him inside me. Every thrust pushes Brookes’s release deeper, drawing filthy, wet sounds from my body that fill the living room. Brookes’s mouth finds my other nipple, sucking hard as Mason’s pace begins to quicken.
They work me together, one cock deep inside me, two sets of hands moving over my body, two hungry mouths making me feel adored and undone. I’m shaking, gasping, lost between them. My second orgasm hits me like a freight train, crashing over me so hard my vision whites out. I clench around Mason, crying out as pleasure tears through me.
Mason follows with a deep groan, slamming up into me and flooding me with hot pulses of his own release. He holds me down tight, grinding through every wave until we’re both spent and gasping.
For a long time, we pant against each other. I’m boneless between them, my head spinning and my body buzzing. Mason’s arms are wrapped around me, and Brookes’s hand strokes soothingly up and down my back. I feel claimed and cherished, safe in a way I’ve never felt before.
In the quiet afterward, with their warmth surrounding me and their releases slowly leaking out of me, a deeprealization settles into my bones.
This feels right.
It isn’t only the pleasure, though God, the pleasure is incredible. It is this. Being in their home. Being surrounded by their strength, patience, and hunger. Knowing they want me, all of me, and the baby growing inside me.
They’re willing to be whatever we need.
Lovers. Protectors. Partners. Fathers.
Despite all the risks, I find myself wondering if I could let them.
Chapter 18
Brookes
The kitchen smells like coffee, bacon, and the cinnamon banana bread Janey baked yesterday. Morning light pours through the windows, warming everything, as the three of us sit around the big wooden table for breakfast. Janey is still wearing one of my old flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up, looking soft and sleepy in a way that makes it hard to look away. Last night, I got my hands up under that shirt and made her whimper with pleasure. If we didn’t have a busy day ahead of us, I’d be tempted to take her upstairs and do the same again.
Mason is shoveling eggs into his mouth like he’s late, while I nurse my second cup of coffee. The bad thing about Janey staying with us is that I’m not getting enough sleep, even if it’s for all the best reasons.
I clear my throat. “I’m heading intotown today to see Mom.”
Janey looks up from her plate, with her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Your mom’s in the care home, right?”
“Yeah. We usually go every week. Mason went last time, so it’s my turn.”
She hesitates for only a second before saying, “Shall I come with you?”
I set my coffee down, surprised by how much the offer means. “You sure?” I ask gently. “She isn’t always lucid. Some days we barely talk. She might not even acknowledge you.”
Janey gives me a small, determined smile. “I’d still like to go. If that’s okay with you.”
I glance at Mason. He gives a slight nod, his eyes warm. It’s hard not to read too much into gestures like this, but it seems like a good sign that Janey would want to be included in a family visit.
“All right,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “It’ll be good to have some company.”
***
The care home is a clean, quiet building on the edge of town, with flower beds near the entrance and wind chimes hanging from the porch eaves. The sound of them follows us inside, tinkling faintly like the ones on our porch, as we sign in at the front desk and make our way down the hallway to Mom’s room.
Janey slips her hand into mine as we walk, and I hold on a little tighter than necessary.
I’ve made this journey more times than I can count, past the framed prints on the walls, the cart with folded blankets, the open sitting room where someone always has a puzzle spread across the table, even though they’re not actuallyconcentrating on it. Usually, I walk with my chest locked down tight, already preparing myself for whatever version of Mom I’ll find waiting.
It’s been a slow decline, so I’ve had time to come to terms with the change, but it still guts me when she doesn’t smile when I enter her room.
