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Matty leans against the tile beside me, concern etched across his face. “You okay?” he whispers, his eyes scanning my face, searching for any signs of distress.
“I don’t hurt.” I try to reassure him, but I can see the worry in his eyes. He’s the gentlest of the three, and the reality of what just happened seems to weigh heavily on him. It’s as if he’s struggling to reconcile his desire and intensity with the need to ensure my well-being.
Desmond, Matty, and Lyric continue to stand with me in the warmth of the bathroom, their concern palpable. The aftermath of our passionate encounter leaves me feeling both vulnerable and cared for.
Desmond gently reaches out and adjusts the water, ensuring it’s the perfect temperature to soothe my sensitive skin. He’s always been attuned to the smallest details, his consideration a constant reassurance. Matty grabs a towel, warming it in the steam before draping it over my shoulders. The gesture is simple but holds a profound sense of tenderness.
“Here,” Matty murmurs softly, guiding me out of the shower and helping me dry off. His touch is delicate, like the brush of butterfly wings, and it eases the remaining tension in my body. Desmond, ever observant, hands me a plush robe, allowing me some modesty and comfort.
Wrapped in the robe, I wander out to the other room and lower myself onto the couch. They sit beside me, creating a cocoon of support and care. Desmond’s arm rests around my shoulders, his touch grounding, while Matty intertwines his fingers with mine in a silent display of solidarity.
“How are you feeling?” Desmond asks, his voice a soothing balm. His concern isn’t just for my physical state, but for my emotional well-being. He wants to ensure that I’m okay on every level.
“I’m okay,” I assure him, offering a faint but genuine smile. The tenderness and affection they display make my heart swell with gratitude. It’s a beautiful reminder of the strong emotional connection we share beyond the passionate moments.
Lyric gently strokes my hand with his thumb, his eyes locked on mine. “We care about you deeply. This was a powerful experience, and we want to make sure you’re comfortable and at ease.”
I nod, appreciating their considerate approach. The atmosphere is laden with an unspoken understanding that our intimacy was significant and needs to be acknowledged and processed.
Desmond offers me a glass of water, knowing the importance of hydration after such an intense physical encounter. I sip it gratefully, feeling the cool liquid soothe my parched throat and settle my nerves.
Matty grabs a blanket and drapes it over us, cocooning us in warmth. Their care feels like a protective embrace, allowing me to unwind and let go of any lingering tension. The touch of the soft fabric against my skin is comforting, a gentle reminder that I am safe and cherished.
We sit in companionable silence for a while, allowing the serenity of the moment to envelop us. Words are unnecessary, because the comfort of their presence speaks volumes. It’s a beautiful affirmation of our connection beyond the realm of desire—a connection built on trust, care, and love.
As the minutes pass, the weight of the encounter begins to lift, leaving a sense of peace and contentment in its wake. The genuine concern and nurturing from Desmond and Matty help me process and integrate the experience, allowing me to embrace the intimacy we share and to look forward to the journey ahead, knowing I am supported and cherished every step of the way.
“I need time.” I finally gather the courage to speak, sensing that I need to set boundaries before they drown me in their persuasive words.
Desmond crosses his arms but remains silent, waiting for me to continue. On the other hand, Lyric looks ready to challenge me, like a predator preparing for a hunt, and then there’s Matty, his expression reflecting understanding and respect for my needs.
“I just need space to come to terms with everything,” I continue, my voice steady and resolute. “To work through my feelings, not just about you, but my…heritage. And before you say anything, you can’t just fuck my emotions away.”
“You can let us try,” Lyric pleads.
“We will give you space, but don’t run, and don’t expect us to disappear,” Desmond states, his authoritative tone underscoring his words. “If you run, Charlotte, we will find you. Lyric will hunt you, and Matty will persuade you to come of your free will. But me? I will bring you home where you fucking belong, uncaring of your protests.”
Fuckingpsycho. “That isn’t space,” I argue, trying to assert my boundaries, even if a piece of me loves the way he speaks to me.
“Space means I’m going to let you walk out that door with Milo and head back to your place.” Desmond’s eyes grow dark, his dominant nature surfacing. “Space means I won’t tie you to my bed. Space means you get time to choose us, but we aren’t leaving you alone.”
“You and I have very different meanings of space,” I counter, realizing that this is likely the most I’ll get from him for now. “All right.”
“See Sara this week,” Desmond says, standing and walking over to press a kiss to my cheek. “But remember, Charlotte, you are still ours. Don’t forget that.”
How could I forget? The three of them have utterly consumed me, leaving my heart and soul marked by their presence, and I’m unable to fathom anyone else touching me in the same way.
Chapter Twelve
Space…Oh, how I yearned for it, the longing for solitude tugging at my soul like an insatiable hunger. It had been my idea, but now that I had it, their interpretation of space felt more like a suffocating embrace.
As November gracefully transitioned into the icy clutches of winter and the allure of holiday cheer wove its magic, I couldn’t help but realize that space was now the very last thing I truly craved. I blame them, condemning their peculiar understanding of what space meant to me.
They allowed me to exit the imposing black mansion with my head held high, my fingers intertwined with Milo’s, and an innocuous brown paper bag filled with leftovers that rattled my emotions.
Yes, leftovers.
In her strange mix of kindness and unnerving intuition, Mama Black had meticulously filled the bag with an assortment of Tupperware containers, each containing a delectable, homemade meal ready to be warmed in the microwave. There was the comforting aroma of fried rice, the timeless appeal of spaghetti, and my personal favorite, the divine chicken pot pie. It should have filled me with gratitude, but instead, it stoked the fires of my annoyance more than it reasonably should have.
