I'm drifting in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep when I feel it—a different kind of touch. Julian's hand has moved from my foot, sliding up my calf, past my knee, to restwarmly on my thigh. At the same time, Tristan's fingers graze the side of my breast through the thin t-shirt.
My eyes flutter open to find both of them watching me.
"We thought you might sleep better with an orgasm first," Julian says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. His hand inches higher on my thigh. "Does that sound good?"
The suggestion sends a rush of heat through me, arousal blooming sudden and intense. I nod, unable to find words as Julian's fingers trace the seam of the sweatpants along my inner thigh.
"Use your words, Cami," Tristan teases, his breath warm against my ear. "We need to hear you say it."
"Yes," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please."
That's all the permission they need. Julian tugs gently at the waistband of the sweatpants, and I lift my hips to help him slide them down my legs. The cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building between my thighs.
Julian settles between my legs, his broad shoulders pushing my thighs wider. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his stubble a delicious friction against my skin. Tristan's hands find the hem of my borrowed t-shirt, pushing it up to expose my breasts. His fingers trace circles around my nipple, which tightens in immediate response.
The first touch of Julian's mouth between my legs pulls a gasp from me. His tongue traces a deliberate path through my folds before circling my clit with maddening precision. Tristan captures my mouth in a kiss that makes me melt.
Every nerve ending in my body seems to ignite at once. Tristan breaks the kiss to move lower, his mouth closing around my nipple just as Julian sucks gently on my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming—Tristan's tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while Julian's works between my thighs.
One of my hands tangles in Julian's hair, the other gripping Tristan's shoulder. The tension that's been building all evening, from the moment we arrived at Kate's, transforms into something electric, something demanding release.
"That's it," Tristan murmurs against my breast, his voice rough with his own desire. "Let go, Cami."
Julian's tongue flicks faster against my clit, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me open as my hips begin to rock against his mouth. Tristan's teeth graze my nipple, just enough pressure to send a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.
The orgasm builds with startling speed, coiling tight before exploding outward. I come with a cry, my body arching off the couch.
Julian presses one last kiss to my inner thigh before sitting back, his lips glistening in the dim light. Tristan's hand strokes my hair back from my face, his touch gentle as my breathing gradually returns to normal.
Every muscle in my body has gone slack, Kate's accusations and cold stares disintegrated by pleasure and the warm certainty of being cared for.
"What can I do for the two of you?" I ask suggestively when I can finally form coherent thoughts again, aware of their obvious arousal.
"Nothing, baby," Tristan says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "We just wanted to make you feel good before we tuck you in for the night."
Julian pulls the sweatpants back up my legs with surprising tenderness, then settles beside me, pulling me against his chest. "Better?" he asks, his hand finding mine.
I nod, suddenly overcome with emotion for these two men who defend me, comfort me, and expect nothing in return. Whatever Kate thinks, whatever the rest of the world assumes—they know what we have is real. And in this moment, wrappedin their warmth with pleasure still humming through my veins, that's all that matters.
Chapter 30
Alexander
I'm not used to closed doors. People open them for me—literally and figuratively—but Camille's office door remains stubbornly shut.
Her assistant eyes me from behind her desk, the same answer ready on her lips that she's given me three times this week. "Ms. Montclair isn't available." Her voice has lost the politeness it held on my first visit, replaced with a flat finality that tells me she's been instructed to keep me out. I check my watch, adjust my tie, and consider my next move.
"Could you at least tell her I stopped by? Again?" I keep my voice even, though frustration simmers just beneath the surface.
The assistant—older, sharp-eyed, clearly loyal to Camille—gives me a look that borders on pity. "Mr. Kingsley, I've passed along your messages. All of them. If Ms. Montclair wanted to speak with you, she would."
The truth in her words stings more than I care to admit. I've left voicemails, sent texts, even had flowers delivered—all met with silence. Two weeks of reaching into the void and receiving nothing in return. It's a new experience for me, this powerlessness, and I hate every second of it.
"Thank you for your time," I say stiffly, turning toward the elevator.
Outside on the sidewalk, I loosen my tie, suddenly feeling like it's choking me. The summer air is warm against my face, carrying the scent of blooming trees and city exhaust. I check my phone—habit more than hope—but there's nothing from Camille. Only emails, meeting requests, things that once seemed important but now feel peripheral to the only thing that matters.
I climb into the back of my waiting car, instructing my driver to head back to the office. As buildings slide past the window, I replay our last encounter for what feels like the thousandth time. Fiona's intrusion. The hurt that flashed across Camille's face. Her quick exit with Julian and Tristan flanking her like guards.
