“Take her from me,” he breathes.
I don’t hesitate. Kiss him hard, desperate. Because I am. He responds immediately, melting against me with a sound that makes something fierce flare in my chest. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.
He tastes like salt and heat and Wes. But underneath, I can taste her. Vanilla lip balm, and something sweet. Proof he was with her first.
It should bother me. Instead, it makes me hungrier. I deepen the kiss like I’m claiming him and the echo of her.
“More,” I growl, and he nods.
“Whatever you want.”
I search his face for hesitation. There’s none. Just want and trust and something that looks like relief.
“Strip.”
He doesn’t hesitate, pulling his shirt off in one motion. The sight of him—chest flushed, faint scratches that weren’t there this morning—makes my mouth go dry.
But as I’m looking at him, something shifts. The excuse I used to get here starts feeling thin. Because yes, I can taste her on his lips, smell her sweetness on his skin. But what’s making my heart race isn’t the echo of her.
It’shim. The way he’s breathing hard. The way he’s looking at me like he’s been waiting for this. The way he’s standing there trusting me completely.
Something wakes up in my chest. Something that’s been sleeping under careful control for months. The excuse crumbles, leaving nothing but raw want and an instinct I don’t recognize but can’t ignore.
Mine.
NotI want him.He’s mine. Mine to claim, mine to take apart. The possessiveness hits like a punch, so intense I can barely breathe.
“Bed.” Not a request.
He moves without question. I follow, watching every line of his body like I’m memorizing it. When he settles on the mattress, looking up at me with dark eyes and swollen lips, something inside me snaps.
I settle over him without touching. Close enough to feel his heat, count his breathing. The careful control I’ve kept around him dissolves.
“You’re mine now,” I tell him. Not a question.
His pupils blow wide. His breathing stutters. “Gray…”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” Breathless, eager. “And hers.”
The surrender unlocks something primitive. Something that recognizes submission and responds with certainty. I kiss him again, deeper, claiming his mouth like I own it.
Maybe I do.
I work my way down his body slowly, deliberately, mapping every response and cataloging every place that makes him gasp or arch beneath me. His skin is warm and salt-sweet under my tongue, and I take my time learning the taste of him - the hollow of his throat where his pulse races, the sensitive spot just below his collarbone that makes him shiver.
When I finally take him in my mouth, he makes a sound that goes straight through me—raw and grateful and completely undone. His hands thread through my hair, not pulling or pushing, just holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.
I lose myself in the weight of him on my tongue, the way his breathing goes ragged when I do something he likes. And then I taste it—really taste it. Not just the faint vanilla from his lips, but something deeper, more intimate. The sweet-salt taste of her, still there from where she touched him, where her mouth was on him. It’s unmistakable and it hits me like a punch to the gut.
I want her too. The thought crashes over me with startling clarity. This isn’t just about claiming Wes or tasting an echo of her. I want Bree—want to know what she tastes like directly, want to feel her come apart under my tongue the way Wes is doing now. Therealization should probably terrify me, but it doesn’t. It just makes everything sharper, hungrier.
I work him with renewed intensity, chasing both tastes—his and hers—like I can somehow have them both through this. Every response feeds something desperate in my chest, something that’s been starving for both of them without me even realizing it.
“Gray,” he gasps, voice breaking on my name, hands tightening in my hair. “I’m not gonna last.”
“Don’t want you to,” I tell him, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Let go for me.”
