He felt it. Through our damaged but still present bond, he felt the surge of desire that just coursed through me.
His eyes snap open, ice-blue and startlingly alert despite the pleasure clouding them. His gaze finds mine immediately, as if he knew exactly where I’d be. His hand reaches for me, palm up, an invitation I’m not sure I should accept.
I hesitate, caught between desire and caution. This feels like a line being crossed, a boundary being redrawn without my explicit consent. And yet... Isn’t this exactly what we discussed last night? Finding balance between the three of us? Creating a dynamic where I might feel safe enough to explore what exists between us all?
Cillian’s fingers brush my arm, a touch so light it might be accidental if not for the intent in his eyes. “Maya,” he whispers, my name a plea on his lips.
I glance at Logan, whose rhythm hasn’t faltered despite the exchange happening beneath him. His golden eyes hold mine, that same smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. But there’s something else there too—a question, perhaps. Or a challenge.
Cillian’s hand slides up my arm, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Please,” he says, the word barely audible over the sound of skin meeting skin as Logan continues to move within him.
I make my decision.
I shift closer, allowing Cillian’s hand to cup my cheek, to draw me down until our faces are inches apart. His breath is warm against my lips, coming in short pants that match Logan’s thrusts.
His mouth is hot and demanding against mine, his tongue seeking entrance which I grant without hesitation. I taste him—clean snow and pine needles, crisp and somehow comforting—as his other hand moves to my waist, sliding beneath my borrowed t-shirt to find bare skin.
Logan’s rhythm falters momentarily as he watches us kiss, a low growl escaping him that sends a shiver down my spine. But he doesn’t interfere, doesn’t try to separate us or claim my attention. He simply adjusts his position, allowing Cillian more freedom to touch me while continuing his own steady thrusts.
Cillian’s hand skims up my side, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When his fingers brush the underside of my breast, I gasp against his mouth, arching into the contact without conscious thought.
“Yes,” he murmurs against my lips. “Let me touch you. Let me make you feel good.”
I nod, beyond words now as desire clouds my mind. His hand cups my breast fully, thumb circling my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure shooting down my spine, pooling between my thighs where I’m already embarrassingly wet.
Logan’s pace increases, his thrusts becoming more forceful. The change in rhythm affects Cillian, whose kisses grow more desperate, more demanding as his pleasure builds. His hand slips beneath my bra, skin to skin now, and I moan into his mouth at the contact.
“She likes that,” Logan observes, his voice rough with exertion and arousal. “Touch her more. Make her come for us, Cillian.”
The command should irritate me—Logan has no right to direct my pleasure, to tell Cillian how to touch me. But instead, it sends another wave of heat through me, my body responding to his voice in ways my mind still resists.
Cillian’s hand moves lower, skimming over my stomach to the waistband of my borrowed sweatpants. He pauses there, his fingers just barely dipping beneath the elastic.
“May I?” he asks against my lips, ever respectful even as his body trembles with the dual assault of Logan’s thrusts and his own desire to touch me.
“Yes,” I breathe, beyond pride or hesitation now. “Please, Cillian.”
His hand slips lower, finding me wet and ready through the thin cotton of my underwear. I gasp at the contact, my hips bucking involuntarily against his palm. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against my lips where we’re still kissing.
“So wet,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing teasing circles over the damp fabric. “So ready.”
Logan’s rhythm stutters again at Cillian’s words, a harsh breath escaping him. “Fuck,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. “Tell me how she feels, Cillian.”
Cillian breaks our kiss, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine as his fingers continue their maddening circles. “She’s soaked,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “Hot and slick and perfect.”
I should be embarrassed by this discussion of my arousal, this clinical assessment of my body’s response. Instead, I find myself arching into Cillian’s touch, silently begging for more.
He understands without words, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic of my underwear to find me directly. The first touch of skin to skin draws a moan from deep in my chest, my head falling back as pleasure courses through me.
“That’s it,” Cillian encourages, his voice soft but intense. “Let go for me, Maya. Let me feel you come.”
His fingers circle my clit with maddening precision, the pressure perfect, the rhythm matching Logan’s thrusts into his body. It’s as if they’re connected, moving as one entity despitebeing two separate people. As if the pleasure Logan gives Cillian translates directly into the pleasure Cillian gives me.
A chain of sensation, linking us all together.
The thought pushes me closer to the edge, my body tightening with impending release. Cillian senses it, his fingers moving faster, more deliberately. His other hand comes up to tangle in my hair, pulling me down for another kiss that’s all heat and hunger.
“Come for us,” Logan commands from above, his voice the deep Alpha rumble that bypasses thought and goes straight to instinct. “Show us how good it feels.”
