I’m not enough.
I fucking hate that I’m not enough.
He leans toward us, crowding my space, apparently giving in.
Then Sawyer is suddenly here with me again. All her attention focused on us. She rolls her hips forward and plants the sweetest kiss on my lips. “It’s not one or the other, Ty. I need you both.”
Eyes slammed shut, I try like hell to ignore Eden’s presence.
“Touch me,” Sawyer whimpers.
She has to be talking to him, because my hands haven’t left her body since she climbed into my lap.
I bow my head and focus on where we’re connected. The way she trembles around me, shifting her hips back and forth and using my cock to drive herself higher. She wants this. She wantsme. She’s riding my cock and whispering my name.
“May I?” Eden murmurs.
I open my eyes, finding him inches from my face, staring directly at me.
I’d jump back if I had anywhere to fucking go or any strength left.
Because of the way we’re sandwiched in the small space, with me in the middle so Sawyer can straddle my lap and Eden pressed against my side, I’m trapped.
I should feel caged and desperate to get away.
Instead, I feel a strange gratefulness. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m indebted to the man beside me. Despite his presence annoying me to no fucking end, Sawyer wouldn’t be safe and in my arms—and on my cock—if it wasn’t for his and Noah’s help tonight.
That, and I’m in so much fucking pain right now, I’m worried I can’t get Sawyer off on my own.
So as much as I’d love to tell the good professor to fuck off and leave us the hell alone, I relent.
“Be my guest.” Teeth gritted, I turn my focus back to Sawyer.
Eden tsks, condescension layered in the noise. “I need non-sarcastic verbal consent.”
Fuck.
Fine.
I guess that’s fair, all things considered.
For as much as I fucking hate this guy, and for as many offenses as he’s committed against me, at least I know he’s a decent fucking human. Sometimes. When he wants to be.
“You have my permission to participate,” I say, trying to match his uppity tone.
Eden either doesn’t catch it or doesn’t care. No, because suddenly his knuckles are brushing against my nutsack.
He inserts his hand between my body and Sawyer’s and murmurs, “Jesus H, sweetheart,” nuzzling close enough that his chin brushes my shoulder.
“Merce,” Sawyer sighs, her body loose and languid as she seeks out his mouth. “You’re really here.”
They kiss, and a zip of agony tears through me.
Vigor renewed by jealousy, I thrust up. Partly to displace Eden’s hand, and partly to refocus my girl. “Let’s get her there and get home.”
Mercer hums his assent as he pulls back and removes his hand.
“You’re hurting,” he states plainly.
