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Me stretched between them, passed from one set of arms into another because I keep reaching for more.

At some point, Ezra catches my bound wrists and presses them above my head against the rug.

His body settles over mine. “You good?”

“Yes.”

“You need them off?”

“No.”

His eyes darken.

“Then keep them on.”

He kisses me.

Behind him, Rhett grabs his hips.

Ezra’s breath breaks against my mouth.

I grin.

He narrows his eyes.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Start.”

“Too late.”

Malakai laughs somewhere beside us.

Then Ezra isn’t laughing anymore.

Neither am I.

The room dissolves into heat and mouths and bodies.

Pleasure builds without ceremony.

Without instruction.

Without anything beneath the floor demanding we perform for it.

And when I finally break, it isn’t because one of them commands me to.

It happens because Rhett is whispering filthy encouragement against my ear while Malakai’s hand is tangled with mine around the iron poker and Ezra is looking directly into my eyes.

I come apart between them.

No flowers erupt from the floor.

No corn grows outside.

No ancient voice whispers through the walls.