Oliver wrapped his arms around me. “What do I do?”
“Hold her. Stroke her hair. Tell her she’s safe, she’s good, she’s cherished.” Kiernan’s hand settled on Oliver’s head, his fingers threading through his hair. “Ground her with your touch and your voice.”
“You’re safe,” Oliver murmured against my hair. “You’re so good. I’ve got you.”
His body shifted against mine, and he grew hard where we pressed together. His lids had drooped, his mouth fell open, and a flush crept up his neck.
Kiernan’s fingers worked slowly, stroking through the strands, scratching lightly against his scalp. Oliver made a barely perceptible sound, but I heard it.
“Good,” Kiernan said, and Oliver shivered at the praise. “You’re taking care of her. That’s what she needs right now.”
Oliver nodded, but his attention had fractured. Half of him was focused on holding me, murmuring reassurances, being present. The other half was lost in the sensation of Kiernan touching him.
Oliver’s hips pressed forward infinitesimally, seeking contact.
Through it all, Kiernan praised him. Kept drawing responses Oliver didn’t know he was giving.
I looked up and caught Kiernan staring at Oliver with a look I recognized. Hunger. Patience. Certainty.
He knew.
Oliver pressed his lips to my forehead, but his body arched subtly into Kiernan’s touch. Seeking more. Needing more.
He had no idea what he was revealing. But Kiernan did. And now, so did I.
11
KIERNAN
I’d endured seven years of celibacy, discipline, and channeling every ounce of my desire into control. Years spent observing—commanding—others in scenes at Thorned Thistle while I stood apart, untouchable, unreachable.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. In that first year, I’d willed myself to attempt normalcy. A woman at a conference—attractive, willing, uncomplicated. We’d gone to her hotel, and when she’d kissed me, nothing but ice spread through my chest. My body rejected the intimacy with a violence that left me shaking.
Six months later, I’d tried again. Someone from the lifestyle—no expectations, no romance; I only wanted physical release between consenting adults. She’d been skilled and patient. And I couldn’t perform. My body simply refused. The harder I pushed, the more it retreated, until I’d had to stop the scene entirely.
After that, I stopped trying.
I’d built the club to give myself purpose when everything else had crumbled. But I’d never let myself fullyparticipate—not the way I once had. Not since I’d proven to myself exactly what kind of man I was.
One night with Ophelia had shattered all of it.
My body thrummed with the memory of being inside her as I stood at my bedroom window. The tight heat of her. The sounds she’d made when I’d commanded her to come. How she’d clenched around me like she never wanted to let go.
I wanted her again. The need was a constant ache, a hunger that my lengthy abstinence had made ravenous. I wanted to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she screamed. I wanted to tie her to my bed and spend hours wringing orgasm after orgasm from her body. I wanted to claim every inch of her until she forgot anyone else had ever touched her.
I had three days to do it. Three days to claim her—or lose her forever.
Except she wasn’t the only one I wanted.
I closed my eyes and let myself feel the desire I’d been holding at arm’s length since the moment I’d met Oliver. How my pulse quickened when he challenged me. How my cock hardened when he submitted, even reluctantly. How I’d imagined, more times than I could count, what it would feel like to have him on his knees before me.
Last night had nearly broken my restraint.
Punishing Ophelia had been necessary, a lesson in consequences that she’d needed to learn. But watching Oliver watch me—the way his breathing had changed, the evidence of his arousal in his sleep pants, how his eyes had tracked my hand rising and falling on her arse—had tested every ounce of my control.
The fantasy of ordering him to fuck her had played out in vivid detail even as I’d delivered each strike. I’d tell him to stand, to strip, to position himself behind her while she was still draped across my lap. I’d watch his face as he sank into her wet heat—the shock of pleasure, the loss of control, the desperate sounds he’d make as he thrust. Then I’d stand behind him with my hands on his hips and my cock pressing against his virgin hole. He’d freeze, then tremble as I breached him for the first time. I’d slide into him inch by inch while he was still buried in her, and the three of us would be connected in the most intimate way possible.
I’d fuck him slow at first. Let him adjust to the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being taken while taking. His moans would vibrate through Ophelia’s body. Her clenching would drive him deeper intomadness. And I’d control it all—the pace, the depth, the timing of every orgasm.
