Cain slides in behind me, a long, lean presence that fits against my spine. He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His skin is cool, but his energy is a furnace. Soren kneels in front of me, one hand hovering over my sternum like he's afraid touching me too quickly will make me vanish.
Ira's gaze locks on mine. "Look at me. You answer. If you want this, you say it. If you don't, we stop and find another way."
My breath stutters. The hollow place inside me echoes with the shape of the spirit's pain, cold and hungry and wrong. But Ira's hands are on my face, Cain's arm is around my waist, and Soren's magic flickers warm against my skin, waiting instead of taking.
"Yes," I whisper.
Ira keeps one hand at my jaw until my eyes focus on his, while Cain stays behind me, arm locked around my waist, and Soren reaches for the hem of my shirt only after I manage to nod.
The fabric peels away slowly. Soren’s hands are careful as he pulls my shirt up and over my head, his fingers brushing my ribs on the way down. Cain’s arm stays tight around my waist, holding me steady against his chest. Ira doesn’t look away from my face. His thumb strokes once across my bottom lip, grounding me.
“Stay right here,” Ira says, low and steady. “With us. If anything feels wrong, you say it. We stop. Understand?”
I swallow. My voice comes out rough. “I understand.”
He nods once, then leans in and kisses me. It’s deep and controlled, his tongue sliding against mine like he’s reminding me how to stay in my body. Behind me, Cain’s mouth finds the side of my neck, warm and deliberate. Soren’s hands move down my chest, palms hot as they map over my skin. They undress me together—Soren tugging my jeans down my legs while Cain keeps me upright, his free hand sliding along my hip. I’m naked between them before I fully register the cool air on my skin.
Ira’s hand stays at the back of my neck as he guides me onto my back. Cain moves with me, settling behind so my spine is pressed to his chest. His arm stays locked around my waist. Soren shifts to my side, one hand already trailing down my stomach.
Ira settles between my legs. He doesn’t rush. He runs his palms up the inside of my thighs, spreading me open, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Look at me,” he says. “Breathe. Feel my hands.”
His fingers wrap around my cock, stroking once, slow and firm. The friction sends a jolt straight through me. I’m already half-hard from the way they’ve been touching me, and the first real stroke makes my hips twitch. Soren leans in at the same time, his mouth finding mine again. His kiss is warmer, messier, his tongue sliding against mine while Ira keeps stroking me in that same deliberate rhythm.
Behind me, Cain’s hand moves lower. He palms my balls, rolling them gently in his fingers while his mouth stays at my neck. The three of them are touching me at once—different pressures, different temperatures—and the hollow, drained feeling in my chest starts to ease under the weight of it.
Ira doesn’t stop stroking me as he reaches for the small bottle on the nightstand. He coats his fingers in the slick herbal oil and presses one against my entrance. He holds there, letting me feel the steady pressure.
“Push back when you’re ready,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s heat underneath it. “Take what you need.”
I do. I bear down slowly, and he slides the first finger inside. The stretch burns at first, then settles into something heavier. He works me open with the same focused patience he uses on everything else—slow, steady, one finger becoming two when my body starts to yield. Every time I tighten around him, he waits, his other hand still stroking my cock in long, even pulls. Soren’s mouth moves down to my chest, tongue circling one nipple before he sucks on it gently. Cain’s arm tightens around my waist, and I can feel the low, steady pulse of his blood magic feeding into me through the contact—cool and anchoring, not overwhelming.
Ira adds more oil and works a third finger in. The stretch is deeper now. My breath catches, and Ira’s hand on my cock slows to almost nothing, just holding me while I adjust.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. You’re doing so well.”
He crooks his fingers, pressing against that spot inside me, and a broken sound slips out of my throat. Soren swallows it with another kiss. Cain’s free hand slides down to join Ira’s, his fingers brushing where Ira is working me open, adding pressure without pushing in.
When Ira finally pulls his fingers free, I feel empty for a second—open and aching. He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against me. He doesn’t push in right away. He waits until I meet his eyes again.
“Still want this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He sinks into me slowly. The stretch is intense—Ira is big, and he doesn’t rush it. Inch by inch, he fills me, his hips pressing forward until he’s buried deep. My body clamps down around him instinctively, and a low groan rumbles out of his chest. Behind me, Cain’s arm tightens, holding me steady. Soren’s hand returns to my cock, stroking me in time with the slow, deep roll of Ira’s hips.
Ira sets a steady rhythm—deep, controlled thrusts that grind against that spot inside me with every movement. He keeps one hand braced beside my head and the other on my hip, guiding me. Cain moves with us, his body rocking against my back in time with Ira’s thrusts. His cock is hard against the curve of my ass, but he doesn’t push for more. He just holds me, his mouth at my neck, feeding that steady warmth into me through the bond.
Soren leans over me, kissing me again while his hand works my cock faster. The three of them move together—different rhythms, different pressures—but all of it focused on me. The hollow, drained feeling inside me is filling fast. Not with words. With heat. With pressure. With the solid weight of their bodies and the way the bond pulses warm and steady between us.
Ira’s thrusts deepen when I start pushing back against him. He groans, low and rough. “There you are. Take it. You can take it.”
Soren’s hand on my cock tightens, twisting on the upstroke. Cain’s mouth finds the sensitive place behind my ear, and I feel his fangs graze the skin—not biting, just there. The pleasure builds thick and heavy, spreading through my limbs until I’m shaking between them.
I come apart with all three of them holding me in place, my body clenching around Ira while the bond floods with warmth. When I finally come back to reality, I'm tucked into the center of the bed with all three of them around me, pinned by heat and weight and the kind of care I don't have enough energy to mock properly. Ira's hand is still resting on the back of my neck, histhumb tracing the base of my skull. Cain is behind me, his chin hooked over my shoulder, his breath finally evening out. Soren is curled against my chest, fingers still linked with mine, his reddish-orange hair tickling my chin.
I should be embarrassed. I should have a sarcastic comment ready about how this is a very unconventional way to handle medical first aid. But the humor won't come. I'm too full, too quiet, too here.
