Leo's hand finds my shoulder from behind. Brief. He feels it too.
I stay close. My hand on her hip, my body against her side, watching Jim learn her. His mouth on her throat, her collarbone, moving down. Her hands in his hair. Her back arching when his mouth finds her breast — and I watch his technique, the deliberate patience of it, the way he registers every sound she makes and adjusts. That's Jim.
I recognize the approach. I've watched her face from a different angle for months. I know exactly what he's finding.
"Gray—" She reaches for me without looking.
I take her hand. Bring it to my mouth.
Jim's hand slides between her thighs and she gasps and I feel it through the bond — the fullness of all of us connected, her pleasure running through every arc simultaneously, amplifying. He works her open with his fingers, patient, watching her face the whole time, and she gets loud and doesn't try to stop it.
"Jim—"
He makes her come twice with his hand. By the second time she's shaking, my name in her mouth, her grip on my arm tight enough to leave marks.
The possessive thing rises — not at Jim, at the sight of her undone, the wanting that's been building since she shifted and I've been across the compound following protocol and telling myself the distance was necessary.
Jim looks at me over her. Reads it accurately.
He gives me her.
I move between her thighs and push inside her and the sound she makes — the sound she makes when it's me, when the fit of us is exactly what it always is — goes straight to my bones.
"You're mine," I say against her throat.
"Yes," she says. "Yours. Gray—"
I move. Not gentle. She doesn't want gentle from me, never has, she wants the hunger and I give it to her, deep and driving, her legs wrapped around me and her nails in my back and Leo somewhere behind me saying something low and filthy that makes her laugh and then not laugh when Jim's mouth finds her breast again.
Three of us. Her in the middle.
Jim's hands on her, his mouth on her skin, his cock hard against her hip while I'm inside her and he's watching my face with the expression of a man who understands exactly what he's looking at. Something older and cleaner than competition. Pack. This is what pack feels like.
She comes and I feel it everywhere — in the bond, in my body, in the way she clenches around me and says my name like it's the only word she has.
I don't stop.
"More," she says. "I want—"
"I know what you want."
I pull out and lift her. Her legs around my waist at the edge of the bed, her arms around my neck, pushing back inside her like this, deeper, her weight in my hands, her forehead dropping to mine.
"Gray." Barely a word.
"I’m here," I say.
Leo moves behind her. Patient for Leo, which means visibly impatient but not acting on it. His hands on her hips, his mouth at her ear. He says something I don't catch. She shudders.
"Yes," she says. To him. To whatever he asked.
He takes his time preparing her — his fingers slick, her breath coming faster, her grip on my shoulders tightening with every stroke until she's grinding against both of us simultaneously and making sounds that have no restraint whatsoever.
"Leo—"
"I know," he says. "I know, I've got you." And then, lower, something that makes her whimper.
He pushes in.
