I take a breath, steadying myself.
"And because I'm tired of second-guessing what I want," I add more quietly. "Terrance spent two years telling me my dreams didn't matter, that wanting a career made me selfish, that I'd change my mind about babies and staying home once I 'grew up.' He made me feel like wanting things for myself was wrong."
Grayson's jaw tightens. "That's bullshit."
"I know that now." I grip his shirt tighter. "But it still messed with my head. Made me doubt myself. Wonder if maybe he was right and I was just being stubborn."
"You weren't being stubborn. You were being honest about what you wanted."
"Yeah, well, he didn't see it that way. And being with him taught me to keep my wants small. To not ask for too much." I force myself to meet Grayson's eyes. "But I want this. I want you. All three of you. And I'm tired of apologizing for it."
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "You don't have to apologize. Not to us. Not ever."
"I'm still getting used to that."
"Then let me help you get used to it." His eyes search mine. "Let me show you what it's like when someone actually listens. When your wants matter just as much as ours."
Something in my chest loosens.
"Okay," I whisper. "Show me."
He kisses me.
It's different from Seth's kiss. Seth was gentle and questioning. Grayson is sure and claiming and absolutely devastating. He kisses like he tattoos—with complete focus and artistic precision. His tongue slides against mine and I make an embarrassing sound that's half-moan, half-whimper.
Heat floods through me, and I feel the telltale slickness building between my thighs. My body responding to his alpha scent, his dominance, his claim on my mouth.
"Been wanting to do that for weeks," he murmurs against my lips. "Do you know how hard it's been? Watching Seth and River get to touch you while I held back?"
"Then don't hold back." I grab his shirt, pulling him closer. My scent spikes with arousal—cinnamon and apples going sweeter, sharper. "Please don't hold back anymore."
He growls—actually growls—and lifts me onto his desk. Sketches scatter to the floor but neither of us cares. His hands are everywhere, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips, tangling in my hair. I can feel the rumble starting in his chest—that alpha purr that makes every instinct I have sing in response.
"Grayson—"
"Tell me to stop and I will." His voice is rough, strained. "But if you don't stop me now, I'm going to make you come apart right here in my studio."
Oh god. More slick pools between my legs at his words, and I know he can smell it. The way his pupils dilate, the way his purr deepens—he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please don't stop."
"Thank fuck." He captures my mouth again, kissing me like he's been starving for it. Maybe he has been. Maybe we both have.
His hands slide under my shirt and I arch into his touch. His palms are rough from years of work, calloused and warm, and they feel incredible against my skin. The rumble in his chest intensifies, vibrating through me everywhere we're touching.
"Can I?" he asks, fingers hovering at the hem of my shirt.
"Yes. God, yes."
He pulls my shirt over my head in one smooth motion, then just... stops. Stares. His scent darkens with arousal—ink and leather and pure alpha want.
"Grayson?"
"Sorry." His voice is hoarse. "Just—give me a second. You're perfect."
"I'm really not?—"
"You are." He traces the edge of my bra with one finger, and I shiver. "So fucking perfect. Can I take this off too?"
