I look to my left. Bane. His hazel eyes bright in the fading light. He’s moved close enough that I can smell him—amber and sandalwood.
"I walked into a cage for you, Max." The polish stripped clean. "You think I'm going to walk away from this?"
Zero. To my right. Those dark eyes steady on mine. "I'm here."
Two words. From Zero, that's a fucking soliloquy.
Atlas's scent wraps around me—cedar and leather—and my body responds, warmth spreading low in my belly, my skin going sensitive, my cock thickening against my thigh because three men just saidyesand my body heard it before my brain did.
"Inside," Atlas says. His voice has dropped into the register that makes my spine tingle. "Come inside."
We go. The four of us up the slope, across the lawn, through the back door. Nobody speaks. The house is dark and quiet around us—Margot and Richard out for date night, jazz band, won't be back until midnight.
We enter Atlas's bedroom. The same room where he kissed me and kicked me out two weeks ago. The same bed. The same cedar-scented sheets. He closes the door. Locks it. The bolt slides home loud in the empty house.
I’m so nervous I can barely stand it, an energy coiling through me like a current.
Bane stands near the foot of the bed. Arms at his sides. His eyes move between me and Atlas with a calm I didn't expect—as if he imagined this. As if he wanted this too.
Zero heads straight for the chair in the corner. The leather wingback near the window. Legs spread. Arms on the rests. His eyes already on me.
He reaches between his legs and rubs himself through his pants, then winks at me.
Atlas's hands find my face again, tilting my chin up, gray eyes burning.
"Tell me to stop," he says. "At any point—"
"Atlas." I grab the front of his shirt. Pull him closer. "If you say that one more time, I swear toGod—"
He kisses me.
Atlas Graves with the walls down and months of denial pouring through his mouth into mine. His hands slide from my face to my neck, my shoulders, my waist—touching everything, his fingers pressing into my skin hard enough that I'll feel it tomorrow. I kiss him back with equal force. My hands fisting in his shirt, yanking buttons, not caring when one pops off and skitters across the hardwood.
I need his skin. Need to know this is real and not another night that ends with an open door.
The shirt comes off. His chest—broad, solid, so fucking warm. I press my palms flat against his sternum. Feel his heart slamming. His scent this close is overwhelming—the deeper alpha note underneath that makes my knees buckle and my cock ache.
"Off," he says, spinning me around. Tugging my t-shirt. Easing it over my head, his fingers careful around the faded scars on my back. He sees them. His jaw tightens. He bends and presses his mouth to the longest one between my shoulder blades, his tongue tracing the raised line, and the shudder that rolls through me is full-body.
His mouth traces up my spine. Vertebra by vertebra. His hands hooked in my waistband, thumbs pressing circles into my low back just above the hem of my pants. Every touch deliberate. Precise. He's reading my body, cataloging what makes me gasp and what makes me shake and adjusting in real time.
"Atlas—" Breathy. Wrecked. His mouth is at the nape of my neck and his hands are sliding my sweatpants down, thefabric dragging over my cock on the way, and then his palms are on my bare hips pulling me back against him.
I feel him. Hard against the small of my back. His cock pressing through his dress pants, thick, insistent, and the whimper that escapes me fills the room.
"I've wanted this." His mouth against my ear. His voice shaking. "You have no idea how long I've—every morning, every night, every time you walked through a room and I had to pretend you were my stepbrother instead of the person I—"
I turn in his arms. Press my mouth against his throat, the hollow below his ear where his pulse is hammering.
"Show me," I whisper. "Stop telling me and show me."
"Shirt off, Bane."
Zero. From the chair. His voice low, carrying the authority of a man who's used to being obeyed. I glance over—he's sitting with his legs spread, watching us with dark, lidded eyes. His cock is straining against his jeans, the outline thick, a single hand on himself stroking through the fabric.
"If we're doing this," Zero says, "we're doing it right. All of us."
Bane strips his henley in one motion—the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the body that's all discipline and dedication. He crowds me, then grabs me. He twists me so my back is against Atlas’s warm chest again, then grips my jaw.
