My pussy feels tight and slick and so wonderfully tender. I blink slowly, lazily, as I swallow my men, and find complete abandonment in their strong, protective arms.
“You’re ours, Willow, for as long as you want to be,” Toby whispers.
“And you’re mine,” I reply, my breath ragged and my heart throbbing as the sweet glaze of the afterglow washes over me. “Forever.”
I don’t know where the “forever” came from, but none of the Morgan brothers objects. They help me get on the bed and wrap me up close, keeping me warm until we’re all ready to go again.
14
ASHER
Coming down from Willow’s heaven has become painful, but if we’re to keep her safe and happy, my brothers and I need to figure out who tried to poison her—and fast. Fortunately, we’ve made friends all over the city in the past few years, and we’re chasing down every possible lead.
“This is the right address?” Toby asks. He sits on his custom motorcycle, a V-twin beast with chrome steel details and leather-dressed saddle, across the street from a rundown apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen.
“According to Cole’s message, yes,” I reply.
I parked the Lexus a couple of blocks down, not wanting to stand out too much on this side of the city. We’re supposed to discreetly follow up on the information provided to us by Cole’s buddy in the NYPD.
Toby gives me a once-over and chuckles softly, shaking his head.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, slightly offended.
“Is this your idea of blending into Hell’s Kitchen?” he asks as he measures me from head to toe with a skeptical eyebrow.
I didn’t think my black tracksuit would be a problem. It’s supposed to be casual. “I’m not sure what the issue is,” I tell my brother.
“Obviously, it’s been a while since you’ve been out of Manhattan.”
“If this is the right address, then Brett Harvey should be there, right? First floor,” I say, trying to change the subject as I briefly go over Cole’s message once more. Cole is chasing down an avenue of his own, so Toby and I agreed to cover this side.
Toby won’t let go of my outfit issue just yet. Anything to lighten an otherwise somber mood, I guess. “You’re wearing a $2,000 Armani tracksuit in Hell’s Kitchen,” he says. “We must have different definitions of discreet.”
“It’s a tracksuit. Nobody gives a crap.”
A couple of young men in loose-fitting jeans and dark hoodies walk past us—both giving me a long, almost-dazzled look.
“That’s a nice tracksuit, man,” one of them says.
“Screams rich and asking for it,” the other guy replies and moves toward me.
Toby stands up from his bike and clears his throat, drawing their focus away. “Scram, children. You don’t want to pick a fight withus today.”
A few moments later, they’re at the end of the street, nervously glancing back at us and probably hoping we won’t go after them. I suppose there are benefits to having a brother who looks like he could murder you with his bare hands.
“Thank you,” I tell Toby with a curt nod.
“You’re welcome. Stick to jeans and a jacket next time.”
I roll my eyes as we cross the road. With our usual banter out of the way, we shift our focus to the building’s front door and the general layout of the street. Classic recon demands attention to detail.
Several cars are parked along the sidewalk. It’s close to noon, so few people are out at this hour. Most of them are probably at work or at school in this predominantly youthful neighborhood.
“Christmas Eve is tomorrow,” Toby says just as we’re about to walk through the front door of the apartment building.
“I know.”
“It’s going to be a weird one for Willow, given the circumstances.”
