“Tessa...” His voice breaks.
“Is that okay?”
He answers by pulling me into a kiss. Deep and slow and full of three years of wanting. His tongue slides against mine, and I taste wine and need and something that feels like coming home.
When he pulls back, his eyes are nearly black with want.
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “That’s okay.”
He stands, pulling me with him. My legs are shaky. My whole body is trembling. But when I look at Ben and Elijah, at the way they’re watching us without a trace of jealousy, only anticipation, I know this is right.
“We’ll be here,” Ben says. His voice is steady, but I see his hands fisting in his lap. Controlling himself. Waiting his turn.
Elijah nods once. “Take your time.”
Milo’s hand tightens around mine. He leads me toward the hallway, toward the guest room, and I don’t look back.
I’m done looking back.
I’m finally, finally looking forward.
Chapter 27
Milo
She chose me first.
The words keep echoing in my head as I lead her down the hallway. Me. Not Ben, who’s been showing up for three years with muffins and bad jokes and the kind of stubborn devotion that should’ve won her over ages ago. Not Elijah, who built her a goddamn nesting bench and never said a word about it.
Me.
“You saw me first,” she said. Like that meant something. Like seeing her. Really seeing her, the stress and the control issues and the soft heart she hides behind her clipboard. Was some kind of gift.
She has no idea. Seeing her has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. It’s the not touching that nearly killed me.
I open the guest room door and guide her inside. Moonlight spills through the windows, turning everything silver and shadow. She’s trembling. I can feel it where our hands are linked.
“Hey.” I turn her to face me, cupping her jaw. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. We can just...”
“Milo.” She cuts me off with a look. “I’ve been ready for three years. I’m shaking because I want this so much it scares me.”
Christ.
I kiss her before I can think better of it. Soft at first, testing, giving her space to pull back. She doesn’t. She leans in, her hands fisting in my shirt, and opens her mouth against mine with a desperate little sound that goes straight to my cock.
She tastes like wine and want. Her scent—lavender and citrus—wraps around me until it’s all I can breathe. And underneath, getting stronger by the second, the sweet musk of her arousal. Her slick.
Three years of mixing her drinks. Three years of watching her stress about events. Three years of listening to her rant about “impossible alphas” while I stood behind the bar wishing I could be one of them.
Now I am.
I walk her backward toward the bed, my hands finding the zipper at the back of her dress. “I’ve thought about this,” I murmur against her mouth. “So many times. What sounds you’d make. What you’d taste like.”
“Yeah?” Her voice is breathy, hitching when I drag the zipper down. “What else?”
“Whether you’d beg for me.” The dress pools at her feet. “Whether you’d say my name when you came.”
She whimpers. Actually whimpers. The sound makes my cock throb.
