“Again,” he growls.
My lips part on a broken sound. “Graham?—”
“No.” His hands are already moving, sliding up my trembling thighs, anchoring me in place. “Don’t think. Don’t talk. Just give it to me.”
My body obeys before my brain can catch up.
Carson brushes his fingers over my wrist, still loosely restrained, his touch soft where Graham’s is demanding. Hunter’s hands grip my thighs, grounding me, holding me open like I’m theirs to explore, to ruin, to worship.
And I am.
Somewhere in the haze, I realize I stopped fighting this a long time ago.
Another wave crashes through me, unexpected and sharp, and I cry out—only for Graham to drag it out even longer, until I’m shivering with the aftershocks, tears slipping down my cheeks from the sheer intensity of it all.
“I can’t—” I gasp. My legs tremble as I try to close them.
“Yes,” Graham growls, as he snakes his hand up my body, his thumb pressing lightly against my lower lip. “You can, and you will. You’re doing amazing, Willow. Let go. We’ve got you.”
Those words—we’ve got you—break something open inside of me. A dam, a wall, a lifetime of carefully constructed control.
I’ve been holding on for so long.
Too long.
Now I’m free-falling—and somehow I know they’ll catch me. Even if I don’t know where this ends. Even if this breaks me in new, terrifying ways.
It’s too late either way.
As my breath slows and I start to come back into myself, Graham runs two fingers over my clit. The touch is so sensitive I cry out, my body going tense.
“More,” he demands.
My body is an instrument in his hands—one he’s tuning with precision. And he doesn’t just want perfection.
He craves it.
“Graham—” I gasp, already trembling again.
“No thoughts, Willow. Just pleasure.”
“Let go, peaches,” Carson murmurs from beside me, his touch the opposite of Graham’s unrelenting control. He kisses my temple, gentle and soft, grounding me in a way that makes the contrast almost unbearable.
Hunter’s hands glide over my stomach, hiking my shirt higher with each slow stroke. I try to focus on that, on the warmth of his touch, the safety it offers. But then Grahamcurls his fingers just right, and I’m dragged back into the fire, attention zeroed in on the intense pressure building inside me.
I move my hips, trying to chase the release, to take control.
Graham stops instantly.
He leans back on his heels, his fingers trailing my slick across my inner thighs as he pulls away.
“Do you need more?” he asks, his voice low and dark. “Or something else? Too much pleasure, omega?”
His questions are a dare—dark, dangerous, and completely addictive.
I shiver, already aching.
I want it all.
