I let them move me because Ichosethis. Chose them.
Atticus lifts me easily, one arm under my thighs, one around my back. My towel gapes; I don’t bother fixing it. Maverick pads ahead, yanking the bedcovers back with a flourish. Conrad hangs close, fingers brushing my ankle like he needs to feel me breathing.
They carry me through the doorway in a tangle of damp skin and low curses, into the soft dark of my bedroom.
The lights are low, just the bedside lamp on, throwing honey-colored pools over the big bed. Sheets turned down. Pillows fluffed. The kind of setup that would’ve made me lock up before.
Now it looks like a landing pad.
Atticus sets me down in the center of the mattress with ridiculous care, like I’m made of glass and on fire at the same time. The towels fall open. Cool air kisses damp skin.
I don’t cover myself. In fact, I pluck my nipples until I’m sure they’re about to snap.
Their eyes go hungry in four different ways.
Storm sits on the mattress beside my hip, one hand splayed on my thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles. “One last time,” he says quietly. “You say no, we stop here. No questions. No guilt.”
My heart squeezes.
“I said green,” I remind him, meeting his gaze. “I meant it.”
Conrad’s jaw flexes like he’s swallowing every argument he wants to make and replacing it with trust. Atticus’s shoulders ease. Maverick’s grin goes softer around the edges.
“I want you,” I say, letting my eyes track over each of them in turn. “All of you. Here. With me.”
I swallow, the truth like a live wire on my tongue. “I want to feel you. I want to watch you lose it because of me.”
Something hot and electric runs through the room, snapping across bare skin.
Storm is the first to move this time.
He eases me onto my back and shifts over me, braced on his forearms so his weight doesn’t press too much. His eyes search mine one more breath, then he lowers his head and kisses me slow and deep, taking his time, stealing the air out of my lungs and giving it back rearranged.
When we’re both breathless, he pulls back just enough to look me in the eye as our bodies line up.
“This okay?” he asks, voice shredded.
“Yes,” I say, no room for doubt.
He joins our bodies with a slow, steady push, every inch deliberate as his cock slides home.
My hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in. It’s intense in a way that sends my brain offline for a second, then everything slams back, double bright. He holds still, a tremor running through him, forehead pressed to mine while my pussy trembles around him.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “With me.”
I do. In, out. His rhythm. Our rhythm. Once I nod, he starts to move—measured at first, then deeper when my hips lift to meet him. The sounds leaving my throat are not polite. I don’t care.
The pleasure builds fast, rising in hot, rolling waves.
When I tip over the edge with him, it’s sharp and clean, a detonation that leaves me shaking. Storm follows me down with a harsh, guttural sound against my throat, his body going tight and then shuddering apart.
He kisses my jaw, my cheek, my mouth, like thank you is a language made of lips and breath.
Before I can fully come down, Atticus is there, trading places with Storm in a practiced, careful choreography. His hands are steady at my waist, eyes locked on my face.
“Color?” he asks, even though he heard me.
“Still green,” I pant. “Atticus, please.”
