Page 151 of Play Dirty

The pantry. The hallway. Up against the wall.

In the shower, afterwards.

Back on the bed again, once everyone was clean.

Because it was open season now. And I was in season.

They were the hunters.

I let myself be the prey.

And Grayson? Grayson took his time. Even now, when everything else was straight chaos.

He still made it feel like control.

Like choice.

Like I was stepping into it, instead of being pulled.

Even when I was being pulled — into the closet. The nearest bedroom. Down into the makeshift pile of pillows and blankets, scattered across the floor.

Not stopping, not refusing, not even once. Because I wanted it. I needed it.

And that, I realized, was the most dangerous part of all.

There wasn’t a point where I asked to stop. Not once. Not when it shifted, or when it escalated, or when it became something that would’ve terrified me only a week ago.

Now? Now it felt inevitable.

Expected.

Right.

A whole day passed, until it was dark outside. Or maybe it had been dark the whole time. It didn’t matter one bit. The house was too warm, the air too thick. There were too many blankets to get lost under. Too much skin, too much flesh, too much surging muscle, to be worried about something as insignificant as time.

“You’re going to be the death of us,” Sebastian said at one point. Half laughing. Half not.

“Pretty sure that’s you,” I shot back.

Ares shook his head. He threw a water bottle.

“No,” he said. “You started this.”

I blinked. Tilted it back. Swallowed hard.

Wondered if it was true.

“And you didn’t stop it,” I protested.

“No,” Grayson agreed. “We didn’t.”

Fingers in my hair. Hands at my wrists. My body bent — wherever they wanted it.

The sink. The loveseat. Wherever and whenever.

Open season.

Always.