His body pressed into mine—hot, heavy, restrained only by the fabric of his undone shirt. His cock was hard beneath his pants, rubbing against my thigh with each shift.
I reached down to unfasten his belt.
He caught my wrist.
“No,” he said.
“This is mine.”
He didn’t strip me like I was owed. He stripped me like I was sacred. Like worship had to be earned.For him.
He undressed for me like it meant something. Each button undone felt like a confession. Each breath he took before touching me again, a surrender.
His cock was thick. Heavy. Perfect. My body arched toward it before I could stop myself.
He positioned himself between my legs, dragging the blunt head along my slit until I cried out.
“You want this?” he rasped.
“Yes.”
Wolfe didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But I felt his eyes. Watching me.
Watching what I became. Barron pushed inside me in one smooth, devastating thrust.
I gasped.
He groaned.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “So fucking warm.”
His thrusts weren’t fast. They were anchored. Heavy. Intentional.
Every stroke said what his mouth wouldn’t:
I need you to feel me.
I need this to mean something.
I need to exist here.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes. But I didn’t cry. Because this wasn’t shame.This was permission. To want him. To wantbothof them. To fall apart for the man who built the empire and the one still willing to burn for it.
His hands gripped my hips tighter. My legs locked around his waist. Wolfe stepped forward. Closer. Just enough. And Barron looked up at him. Then down at me. His pace stuttered.
“Say it,” he breathed.
“You need me,” I said.
His thrusts snapped harder.
“Say it again.”
“You need me.”
He came with a shudder. Groaning into my mouth like it was the only place left safe.
When he collapsed against me, I held him. And behind him, Wolfe stood still. Watching me. Breathing me. Choosing to stay. But he did.
