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“Trust us,” Grayson adds, his thumb rubbing circles on my lip, still wet from his arousal. “We’ll take care of you.”
“Grayson,” I whisper against his thigh, moments before taking him into my mouth again. The salty-sweet taste of him is intoxicating, and I savor the power I hold as he groans above me.
Their hands are everywhere—stroking, teasing, pushing me closer to the edge of reason. Conrad’s finger moves within me with an expertise that leaves me breathless, his other hand roaming across my breasts, pinching my nipples until they’re taut peaks of need.
“More,” I beg, my words muffled by Grayson, my hips grinding in rhythm with Conrad’s thrusts.
“Everything,” Grayson vows, his fingers tightening in my hair. “We’ll give you everything.”
The room spins, my body coils tight like a spring, and I’m close, so close to shattering apart. Sparks of light burst behind my closed eyelids, and I can almost touch the stars?—
“Come for us, Brielle,” Conrad commands, his voice rough with his own desire.
“Let go,” Grayson urges, his hips bucking into my eager mouth.
And I do. I come apart in their hands, cries and moans escaping me as pleasure overwhelms my senses. It rips through me, a tidal wave of ecstasy that drowns out thought.
They continue to pleasure me, drawing out my first orgasm of the night until I’m limp, spent, floating in the aftermath of our shared passion. Their touches become softer, almost reverent, as I tremble between them, the echoes of my climax ringing in my ears.
They gently help me to the bed where I’m brought to the heights of pleasure again, Grayson taking his turn inside me this time as Conrad covers my trembling body in kisses. Once we’re all spent and lying in a heap together on the bed, our breathing returning to normal, I let out a contented sigh. “That was amazing.”
“Perfect, just perfect,” Conrad whispers, kissing my shoulder tenderly.
“Ours,” Grayson asserts, his gaze locked with mine, heavy with promise.
And in this heated, tangled web they’ve spun around me, I realize—I don’t ever want to be untangled.
13
BRIELLE
The scent of musk and sweat hangs heavy in the air, unfamiliar and intoxicating. My eyelids flutter open to a ceiling that isn’t mine, cornflower blue instead of the soft ivory I’m used to. Heat pools under my skin, sticky and uncomfortable, and there’s sweat dotting along my forehead as I shift on sheets that feel too silky against my overheated body.
I’m not home. The thought spirals through my mind, dizzying and laced with a thrill that has nothing to do with fear. It’s reckless, the knowledge spreading over me like the flush that creeps across my cheeks. The room swims into focus, and so do last night’s events.
Conrad. Grayson. I see their hands, their mouths, the places their bodies met mine…
Images cascade through my mind, vivid and sharp. Fingers entwined, gasps swallowed by kisses, whispers of need answered by movements both rough and tender. The recollection ignites something within me, a warmth that starts deep in my belly and spreads outward, flushing my skin with a guilty pleasure.
The morning light seeps through half-closed blinds, casting a glow on the tangled mess of sheets and limbs. My gaze drifts down to where Conrad’s head rests near the foot of the bed, his dark, silver-streaked hair a stark contrast against the pale linens, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep. His snores are soft but distinct, a comforting rumble in the quiet room.
The weight of Grayson’s arm is secure around my waist, a possessive band of heat that pins me to the spot. Even as I shift ever so slightly, he stirs, his fingers tightening before relaxing again, his breath warm on the nape of my neck.
Panic flits through my thoughts. It’s a Saturday, but I have a meeting for a group project at some point this morning. I need my phone, need to check the time…
I recall the placement of my phone with sudden clarity—on the kitchen counter, abandoned in a moment of heated distraction.
Sliding out from under Grayson’s arm feels like peeling away a second skin, delicate and silent. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t break into wakefulness. My pulse thrums with the thrill of the escape, my movements slow-motion careful.
I inch my legs free from Conrad’s tangle, my skin mourning the loss of contact. A quiet snore reassures me; he’s still deep in slumber’s grip. The cool air of morning kisses my bare shoulders, a stark contrast to the lingering heat of their bodies.
One foot, then the other, touches down on plush carpet, grounding me. I’m on my feet now, heart racing not just from the risk of waking them, but from the memory of how they made me feel—wanted, wild, free.
A discarded shirt—Grayson’s, I think, by the faint scent of cedar and spice that clings to it—catches my eye. It’s crumpled on the floor, a casualty of our tangled night. I snatch it up, slipping it over my head, the fabric hanging loose and long on my frame.
The room behind me fades as I step into the hallway. I slip into the kitchen, the cold tiles a shock against my bare feet. My phone lies there, accusing, on the counter, its screen dark.
Please don’t be dead.
