Page 102 of What We Become

He pushes into me in one long stroke, and the groan that leaves him is broken. Grateful. Starving. He fills me so deep my heels dig into the padding and my back bows off the bench, and Micah is there instantly, one hand cradling my skull, his mouth finding mine.

“Breathe, baby girl,” Micah whispers against my lips, an echo of Eli’s earlier command, and the symmetry of it makes me dizzy. They share everything now. Even the words.

Eli sets a rhythm that isn’t gentle. Each thrust rocks me against the restraints, the silk biting my wrists, the remaining wax petals cracking loose from my skin and scattering across the black padding like evidence. I love it. I love the mess of it. I love that there’s no part of me they’re being careful with right now except the parts that still need it.

“Look at her,” Eli grits out. “Look at that hunger in her eyes. She wants more.”

“Is that right, baby girl?” Micah asks, his thumb circling my nipple where the wax burned it. “You still need more?”

“More,” I confirm, because I’m greedy, because I’m the kind of person they make these rooms for.

“Tell us what you need,” Micah says, his gray-blue eyes steady on mine. There’s no demand there, just openness, like always—the quiet offer to give whatever I ask for, no matter how raw or reckless.

“You in my mouth,” I manage, breathless. “I want to choke on you.”

Micah’s breath catches, and for half a second the gentleness wars with the want on his face. “Your ribs⁠—”

“My ribs aren’t in my throat.”

Eli huffs a laugh that breaks into a groan as he shifts his hips, staying buried but going still. “You heard her,” he says. “Give the lady what she asked for.”

Micah moves up my body, kissing the redness between my breasts where the wax has been removed, and then he’s rising over me, one knee braced beside my shoulder, his hand wrapping around the back of the bench above my head. He’s being so careful with me, even now, even with his cock flushed dark and inches from my mouth.

“Shake your head if it’s too much,” he says, voice gone rough. “Then I stop. No negotiating.”

I answer by licking the head of him, slow, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of his skin.

“Fuck.” His whole body shudders. “Sage⁠—”

I take him into my mouth, and his words dissolve. He eases in shallow, trembling with the effort of holding back, and I make a low sound of protest and take him deeper myself. My bound hands can’t guide him, so I use my throat instead—relaxing, opening, swallowing around him until his head drops forward and the noises coming out of him aren’t words anymore.

“So fucking perfect,” Eli breathes, and I feel him start to move again, slow and deep, matching the rhythm of Micah in my mouth. “And she’s ours, Micah.”

Micah looks down at me through his lashes, his curls falling forward, and the expression on his face is ruined in the best way. “Baby girl,” he manages. “You feel—God, your mouth⁠—”

I hum around him, and he curses. Eli picks that exact moment to roll his hips, and my vision sparks. The moan that comes out of me vibrates straight through Micah, and suddenly we’re a closed circuit, every movement feeding the next. Eli’s thrusts rock me up onto Micah, Micah’s gasps spur Eli harder, my body the wire the current runs through.

“I’m close,” Micah warns, giving me every chance to turn away. “Sage, I’m⁠—”

I keep my eyes on his and swallow him deeper, and that’s what does it. He breaks with my name cracked open in his mouth, spilling down my throat while his whole body shakes over me, and I take all of it, greedy, triumphant, drinking down the proof that I can still undo a man this completely.

“Beautiful,” Eli grits out. His rhythm stutters, and his hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit. Three strokes is all it takes, and I’m coming with Micah still in my mouth and Eli buried to the root, everything tightening and releasing at once, the rope creaking at my wrists as I pull against it just to feel it hold.

Eli lasts exactly as long as it takes Micah to ease gently from my mouth, his thumb tracing my swollen bottom lip as he whispers, “Breathe, baby girl.”

“Sage—fuck—I can’t—” The sentence dies unfinished.

Eli’s hands grip my hips, and his rhythm falls apart. All that discipline disappears as he buries himself deep and comes in hot pulses while I clench around him. “Fuck—Sage⁠—”

When he finally stills, the three of us breathe together in the flickering dark. My skin is mapped in cooling petals and sweat, my wrists aching sweetly against the silk.

“Okay?” Eli asks, panting.

“Very okay,” I say. “Somebody untie me before I fall asleep like this and wake up cranky.”

Micah laughs—wrecked, warm—and moves first. His fingers work the knots at my wrists while Eli eases out of me slowly, one hand braced on my hip, his mouth pressed to my temple through the whole withdrawal like he’s apologizing for leaving.

The silk falls away. Micah lifts each of my wrists to his mouth in turn, kissing the reddened skin where the rope bit, checking the circulation with his thumbs, watching my fingers flex.