Beau. Head tipped back, his thick cock hard in his fist, jaw tight as instinct finally drags him under. His hand working himself steadily, hips flexing, chest heaving. I imagine the way he groans when he’s close—low, and rough, and barely human. I picture the heat of his come splattering the tile, the weight of his release, the rawness of his restraint breaking.
And I imagine that it’smewho pushed him there.
My fingers work faster now, circling and then sliding lower. I bring two to my entrance and push in slowly. My inner walls pulse around the intrusion, greedily drawing them deeper as I arch into the touch.
My breath breaks as I add a third finger. I’m so open already, sowet, and the stretch is filthy and perfect.
I fuck myself on my fingers with ragged determination, hips lifting, thighs shaking. The rhythm turns desperate, driven by a need that isn’t just mine, but isours.
My clit aches for more friction, so I curl my palm, thumb brushing over it with every thrust. The pressure spikes hard and fast, and I can hear them now—Theo, whispering my name like a vow. Connor’s laugh, hot against my ear. Beau’s groan, guttural and broken as he knots me from behind, every inch of his weight pressing me into the mattress until there’s nowhere left to run.
My release hits like a shot to the spine.
I clamp down hard on my fingers, pussy fluttering violently as the orgasm tears through me. My muscles lock as my vision goes white, and I grind against my hand, riding it out with frantic, needy movements as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
I cry out into the pillow, muffled and hoarse.
It still sounds like surrender.
When the spasms finally ease, I collapse back into the mattress. My hand slides free, drenched and trembling, and I feel the mess between my thighs—slick and sweat and arousal soaked into the sheets.
The house creaks softly around me, and when the showerfinallyshuts off, the sudden silence makes my heart kick hard in my chest.
I lie there, breathing slowly through the aftershocks. My instincts haven’t quieted completely, but they’ve settled into something deeper.
Somethingdangerous.
And I know, with a clarity that makes my chest ache, that this isn’t just proximity or tension or a bad idea fueled by exhaustion.
It’s something waking up. Something that doesn’t care how careful I want to be.
Something that already knowsexactlywhere it’s pointed.
Chapter Nineteen
Beau
Iwake before my alarm.
That part’s normal. My body’s been trained for it since my teens—early skates, road games, and dawn lifts that didn’t care whether you’d slept or not. Habit drags me upright before the thought finishes forming.
Whatisn’tnormal is the tightness in my chest the second I sit up. It’s not pain, or anxiety, but the same feeling I get when I step onto the ice and realize I’m missing a piece of gear: like something essential has shifted and my instincts noticed before I did.
The house is morning-quiet. Pale light seeps through my bedroom window, reflected snow throwing everything into washed-out blues and greys. Even the air feels colder than it should.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pause.
Something’s off.
Not wrong. Not dangerous. Just…altered.
I step into the hallway, rolling my shoulder out of habit, slow and careful. It answers back with a dull pull, but no spike, no warning. Emery’s work is still holding. The joint feels supported, steadier than it has in weeks.
That thought settles heavier than it should.
Downstairs, the smell hits me first.
My coffee. But… it’scleaner. As though the bitterness has been rounded off instead of left to burn.
