I want her to tell me with her body.With every gasp, every hitch in her breath, every tremble in her thighs when I touch the places he’s just worshipped.
I want to taste him on her.
I want to feel him in the way she moves beneath me.The way her hips roll.The way her back arches.
I want her to carry the imprint of both of us—until she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“You let him kiss you here?”I ask, brushing my lips down her neck.“Right here?”
She shivers.
Her fingers fist in the front of my shirt.I don’t even wait for her to answer.My mouth drags lower, across her collarbone, to the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and skin and something that isn’t mine but could be if I sink deep enough.
“If I put my mouth where he had his,” I whisper, voice cracked and uneven, “will I still taste him?”
She gasps and doesn’t deny it.Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling in short bursts.
That’s a yes.
I groan and lift her and she wraps around me like she’s done it a thousand times.Her legs lock at my hips.Her breath ghosts across my neck.
I carry her up the stairs.Not to the main bedroom, but mine.Because I want to claim this moment.I want her—soft and flushed and ruined all over again.
But I also want him.
Every part of her that still tastes like Barret.
I want it all.
And I’ll take it slow if I have to.
But only until I lose control.
Because I’m not just going to fuck her.
I’m going to feel him inside her, too.
And maybe—just maybe—it’ll be enough to pretend we’re all in this bed together.
Her legs tighten around my waist as I carry her upstairs, her breath hot against my throat.The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly there’s nothing but silence and the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears.
I set her down slowly, letting her slide down my body until her feet touch the floor.My hands don’t leave her waist.I don’t want them to.
She’s only wearing one of my shirts and a pair of panties.That’s it.Nothing else—just her.And it kills me a little how fucking beautiful she looks like this—flushed, already swollen from Barret’s touch, wearing clothes that aren’t hers but ours.
Meanwhile I’m still dressed for a world I don’t even belong to right now.Dress shirt clinging to my shoulders, slacks hugging my hips, boxer briefs beneath—all too tight, all too restrictive.I let my knuckles graze up her thigh, just beneath the hem of the shirt, brushing against the damp cotton between her legs.My voice drops low.
“Did he kiss you here?”
Her breath hitches.
I smile, slow, dark.“Or was his mouth lower?”
I press a kiss to her jaw, then trail down the side of her throat, open-mouthed, dragging my tongue across skin still warm from him.“Tell me, Cleo.Did Barret have you moaning right here—” I bite lightly at the curve of her shoulder, “—or did he keep going until you begged?”
She gasps, fingers tightening in my shirt, but doesn’t answer.
That’s okay.I don’t need her to.Her silence is permission enough.
