Monty’s jaw tightens as he dries himself with a towel.
“Good,” I say softly.“Because you’ll have your mouth on him ...while I’m eating you.”
She makes a sound—half gasp, half whimper—that goes straight to my spine.
I slide my hands to her waist and guide her toward the edge of the pool.Monty’s already there, towel in hand, waiting.Always fucking ready.
I help her up, water streaming down her body as she climbs out.Monty wraps the towel around her shoulders, drying her gently, reverently, like she’s something precious and breakable.
Then, without a word, he scoops her up.
Just lifts her into his arms like she weighs nothing.
She wraps her arms around his neck instinctively, clinging.
I follow close behind, my hand resting on her thigh as Monty carries her toward the bedroom.
We might claim him tonight—if she allows it.
ChapterForty
Callaway
The second Monty carries her into the bedroom, everything shifts.
The air thickens with something heavier than steam—want, anticipation, the press of everything we’ve held back.Her body glistens in his arms, droplets trailing down the curve of her spine and dripping off the backs of her thighs.Her hair clings to her damp skin, and her breathing has changed—quieter now, almost reverent.
Not a sound in the room but her soft breathing—and the pulse pounding through my ears like it belongs to her.
He sets her down on the rug beside the bed, slow and careful, as if the ground itself should be grateful to feel her skin.Her feet touch first, and then her knees, and for a second, she stays there—kneeling, naked but for her soaked panties, glistening under the lamplight like something to be worshipped.
I head into the bathroom and grab two thick, warm towels from the heated rack.When I return, Monty’s standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for me like he already knows what I’ll ask.
I hand him one.
“Spread it out,” I say.
He moves without a word, smoothing the towel over the comforter like he’s preparing an altar.I turn my attention back to her.
Vesper stands near the edge of the bed, skin glistening under the low bedroom light, droplets trailing slowly down the backs of her thighs.Her soaked panties cling to her pussy, nearly translucent now—lace molded to every curve, every crease.They’re obscene.Gorgeous.
And they need to come off.
I step close.My hands find her hips.
“You ready?”I ask, low.
She nods, breath catching.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
She lifts her hips just slightly, like she’s offering herself, and I hook my fingers under the waistband of the lace and begin to peel them down.
They don’t come willingly.
They cling to the slick between her thighs like they belong there.Drag over her folds, sticky with heat, with need.The fabric peels away slow—so slow—like it wants to keep hiding what’s already mine to see.
My breath hitches.
