Cast’s hand finds the curve of her hip. He squeezes once and loosens, a wordlessyou’re safe. His mouth returns to her cheek, her jaw, the hollow in front of her ear. “You’re here,” he says, kissing each word into her skin. “You’re safe. You’re mine.” He pauses and corrects himself quietly. “You’re ours.”
Her eyes shine. “Say it again.”
“You’re ours,” he repeats, softer now, and his forehead rests against hers.
I stroke my thumb in a slow arc where our hands meet low. Her body answers in small ways—a deeper inhale, the relaxingof her shoulder into me, a heat that’s not frantic, shy but certain. My own body is loud with desire, but I keep it leashed behind the part of me that needs to show her I’ve learned something tonight—that listening can be touch, that touch can be listening.
Cast’s hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her more firmly into the space between our bodies. It’s a reclamation. A rewriting of a terrible moment.
“We can make it all better, Will,” Cast murmurs, his voice a rough vibration against her neck.
“Please, make it better, Cast,” Willow whispers, her eyes fluttering closed as my lips find the delicate skin of her throat. It’s an offering, a granting of permission that makes my chest ache.
My hands find the hem of her shirt. I glance at Cast, a silent question passing between us.Are we doing this?His answering look is pure, unadulterated heat.Yes.I lift the soft cotton up and over her head, letting it fall silently to the polished floor. The sight of her in just a simple lace bra steals the air from my lungs. She is all smooth, pale skin and gentle curves, the faint shadow of the bruise on her jaw the only imperfection.
Cast’s fingers are at the clasp of her bra. “Vincent?” he asks, a formality, a check-in.
“Please,” is all she says, her voice husky.
The clasp gives way. He doesn’t pull it off, just lets it hang loose for a moment, the straps slipping down her shoulders. My mouth goes dry. I lean in, brushing my lips over the newly exposed slope of her shoulder, tasting salt and the faint, clean scent of her skin. I kiss a trail inward, toward the swell of her breast, and feel her shudder against me.
Cast’s hands are on her waist, turning her just slightly, so her back is to his chest. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of her neck, and she lets her head fall back against his shoulder with a soft sigh. The movement makes her bra slipfurther, and this time I’m the one who gently pulls it away, letting it join her shirt on the floor.
God, she’s beautiful.The thought is a prayer. I’m hard, aching, every nerve ending firing, but this is slow. This is for her.
Cast’s hands slide up her torso, palms flat against her stomach, her ribs, until he’s cupping her breasts. She gasps, her eyes flying open to meet mine. I see no fear there, only a dazed, overwhelming want. “Is this…” he starts, his voice thick.
“Yes,” she cuts him off, breathless. “Your hands… they’re so warm.”
He strokes his thumbs over her nipples, and a sharp, needy sound escapes her. I can’t stand it anymore. I lean in and replace his thumb with my mouth, my tongue swirling around the taut peak. She cries out, her hands flying up to grip my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt. The dual sensation—my mouth on her front, Cast’s solid, warm presence at her back—seems to unravel her. Her knees buckle slightly.
Cast holds her up easily, his arms wrapping around her, supporting her weight. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs into her hair. “We’ve got you.”
I move to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, and her moans become a continuous, low melody. My hands go to the button of her jeans, my fingers fumbling in my haste. I look up at her, a question in my eyes.
She bites her lip, her gaze flicking from my face to Cast’s and back again. Her chest is heaving. She gives one sharp, almost imperceptible nod.
The sound of the zipper coming down is obscenely loud in the quiet hall. I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and her simple cotton panties, and slowly, so slowly, push them down over her hips. They catch at her thighs, and Cast helps, his own hands joining mine to ease the fabric down her legs untilshe’s stepping out of them, left in nothing but the low light and our reverent attention.
She stands between us, gloriously bare, her skin flushed. Cast’s hands roam her back, her sides, cupping her rear and squeezing gently. I just stare, drinking her in. My hand finds the inside of her thigh, my thumb stroking the sensitive skin there, inching higher.
Her breath hitches. She’s watching me, her eyes dark with a mix of trust and desperate anticipation. My thumb strokes higher, just brushing the very edge of her core. She’s so warm, so ready. A shudder wracks her whole body.
Cast makes a low, approving sound against her neck. “Look at you,” he whispers, his own voice strained. “So perfect for us.”
My fingers trace her wetness, a slow, teasing circle that makes her whimper and push her hips forward, seeking more pressure. I give it to her, just a little, my own control fraying at the edges. This is the edge. This is as far as we go tonight, right here in the hallway. The promise of more, of everything, hangs thick in the air between us, a debt of pleasure yet to be paid.
Her head is thrown back on Cast’s shoulder, her lips parted, her entire body taut like a bowstring under our hands. “Vincent…” she breathes, and it sounds like both a plea and a prayer.
I lean forward, my forehead resting against hers, my breath mingling with hers. My thumb stills its motion, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. “We should…” I start, but my voice is gravel.
Cast’s hand slides around from her back, his fingers brushing against mine where I touch her. “We should what?” he challenges softly, his own desire a palpable force. “Stop?”
I look at Willow, at her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the raw need in her eyes that mirrors the ache in my own groin. Ishake my head, a slow, deliberate movement. “No,” I rasp. “Not stopping.”
A sharp, relieved exhale leaves her. Cast’s mouth finds her shoulder again, a low hum of approval vibrating against her skin. His fingers, still against mine, gently nudge my hand away from her heat. “My turn,” he murmurs, and he slides his own touch into her wetness.
The sound she makes is different for him—deeper, a guttural moan that she buries against my chest as his fingers explore her. I watch his hand move, see the slick evidence of her desire glistening on his skin in the dim light. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. His eyes are locked on mine over her shoulder, a silent conversation passing between us.She’s ready. She’s ours.
