* * * *
Willow poured a glass of peach tea, lit a small fire in the hearth, and sat to watch it.
Alone.
She’d needed some space away from the men to sort through her feelings, but now that she was here, she missed having their energy around her.
Boone’s size had been overwhelming in every sense of the word, but he’d known how to use it — the patience to let her burn herself out fighting, the skill to keep her right on the edge until she gave in. He was like this bigimmovablebeing. Like she could throw everything she had at him and he’d still be there, steady, ready to take more.
Silas was heat and edge, the kind of man who could be brutal one minute and coaxing the next, and make both feel equally natural. She’d caught him watching her more than once, reading her like an open book, making her feel raw, exposed, and yet somehow safe.
And he’d known when she needed the tears. No one had ever given her that without trying to fix it.
And Kenny — quiet, calm, the gravity that kept all of it from spinning out. He hadn’t barked orders, hadn’t needed to. Just a look, or a mild suggestion. She’d thought Alphas were all hard edges and unmovable rules, but he’d shown her how control could feel like a shelter instead of a cage.
It shouldn’t have worked. Three men with different styles, different energy, all focused on one submissive for a single afternoon. But it’d absolutely worked.
Perfectly.
Had they been telepathing? Everything had been terribly well orchestrated, so it made sense. Also, an indisputable leader probably helped, but she was still amazed had how smoothly the whole thing had gone, moving from one position to another, aiding and assisting each other, swapping out her holes like she was…fuck. A toy. A shared amenity.
She tossed a pillow on the coffee table and propped her feet on it, wincing a little when her muscles pulled.
She hadn’t expected the tears, but once they started there’d been no stopping them. Deep shit welling up and releasing, along with the control the men hadn’t let her pretend tohave while Boone’s cock had nearly split her open and she hadn’t safeworded. Somehow, they’d made her give up complete control, made her surrender more than anyone else had before.
They’d made it about more than just her body, they’d included her will. Her autonomy. They’d made it about what they wanted, not what she wanted, and had made her an active participant in giving up her sovereignty, a participant in her own undoing. The tears had been relief that she’d finally found what she wanted, and terror that she’d never find it again.
If she could bottle this — the exhaustion, the hum under her skin, the sense of being exactly where she was meant to be — she’d never have to look for anything else.
But real life didn’t usually work like her romance books. They’d been clear about it being one scene. No strings.
And that had been perfect, in her eyes. Get over James, have some fun, move on. Simple.
But then they’d used another scene tomorrow as incentive to get her through that hellish assfucking.
Her rectal muscles clenched at the memory, pain spiking through them.
Fuck, she didn’t think she could handle that two days in a row.
But no way in hell would she turn them down if they offered.
Because she’d caught all three of them lookingintoher, rather than merely at her, and every damned time, it’d felt like more than a no-strings scene.
Chapter 7
She heard the men approaching the following morning and had enough time to slide loose jeans and a T-shirt on before they knocked on the door a little before seven. She’d been awake, but reading in bed.
When she opened the door, the smell hit her first — bacon and sausage, warm eggs, the sharp bite of melted cheese. Kenny was holding her cast-iron pan with a folded kitchen towel, steam curling from the top.
“Thought we’d save you the trouble of breakfast while we returned your pan,” Silas said, brushing past her into the kitchen. Boone followed with a plastic grocery bag she soon discovered held blackberry preserves, and a large stainless water bottle filled with coffee and heavy cream.
“What is that?” she asked, pointing at the pan.
“Biscuits, bacon, sausage, eggs, cheese — baked all together,” Kenny said. “Cut it into squares, plate it, done.”
Boone already had plates down, cutting generous squares and sliding them across the counter toward her. “You went through hell for another scene with us. If you’re still game, figured we’d talk about what comes next.”
“Right,” Kenny said. “Less about pain, more about power exchange. Protocol. Pain’ll happen if orders aren’t obeyed, but it isn’t the focus.” He smirked. “And won’t be fun pain, anyway.”
