That’s all it takes.
He shrugs the flannel off, the movement smooth and practiced, and suddenly there’s skin where there wasn’t before. My palms spread over his shoulders without thinking, calming myself in the proof of him.
Wyatt steps closer on my other side. His touch is careful, like he understands how big this moment is for me.
Marshall’s hands settle at my waist from behind. He doesn’t rush. He simply breathes warm against my neck until I lean back into him.
No one speaks. The quiet is thick with awareness, with the sound of breathing and the faint crackle of the fire in the other room.
I feel seen. Chosen.
Jesse’s hands skim my arms, thumbs brushing lightly over goose-pimpled skin. Wyatt reaches for his glasses, setting them aside with care before tugging his shirt over his head. Marshall shrugs out of his jacket, then his shirt, movements controlled, but no less charged for it.
One by one, their layers disappear.
Denim. Cotton. Barriers.
Jesse’s forehead rests against mine. Wyatt’s hand laces with my fingers. Marshall’s palm presses reassuringly on my lower back.
“You okay?” Marshall murmurs again.
I nod. “More than okay.”
Their attention doesn’t waver as they guide me gently, together, toward the bedroom. Hands warm, movements slow, every step chosen.
The door closes softly behind us.
And whatever happens next doesn’t need to be rushed, or explained, or justified.
It’s already decided.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Wyatt
Saturday
My hands are shaking.
The deeper the kiss gets, the more on fire I am. All I want to do is devour her, but I know I’m not alone, especially now.
I wait, lips parted, breath heavy, until Jesse’s mouth pulls away and his hands cup her jaw.
Marshall lifts her dress, guiding it slowly up and away, before sinking onto his knees. Then, he tugs her panties down, but instead of rushing, he just… pauses. Lifts one of her feet, kisses the inside of her ankle.
He’s being gentle. It makes my chest ache, the way he can’t stop being protective even when he’s wild for her.
I’m the opposite. My pulse is churning so loud I can’t think. I need her. I want to break her open, pour myself in.
Whenever I try to hold back, it just gets worse, sharp and hungry and impossible to ignore.
So I edge myself behind her, and she arches for me, her hair spilling down her back.
Jesse leans back on his heels, watching. His mouth looks wet, raw above the neatness of his beard. She makes this little noisein her throat, half irritation, half pleasure, and twists to glare at me.
“You’re being greedy,” she says, eyes shimmering with accusation.
“Yeah,” I say, “I can’t help it.”
