He climbs onto the bed. Settles between my thighs. Lines up where Atlas's fingers just were—slick and stretched and aching.
"Put it in," I say. "Bane. I need you."
He pushes in. One smooth thrust—the slick making it effortless, my body remembering him, welcoming him. The stretch is familiar and perfect and I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper.
"Fuck—" Bane drops his forehead to my shoulder. His hips roll—slow, deep. He fucks me like he did in the facility. Unhurried. Savoring. Every thrust a full withdrawal and a long, steady push back in that lets me feel every inch of him.
"God, Bane—" My fingers dig into his back. His mouth finds my neck. Presses open-mouthed kisses along the tendon while his hips keep that devastating rhythm—in, hold, out, in, hold, out. Like breathing. Like a tide. His hand slides under my lower back, tilting my hips, and the angle shifts and he hits the spot and I gasp.
"Right there?" he murmurs against my throat.
"Right there. Don't stop. Just like that—"
He doesn't stop. Holds the angle. Rolls into me with that same patient, thorough rhythm, his cock dragging over the spot on every stroke. My legs tighten around his waist. My heels press into his lower back, pulling him deeper, and the sounds I'mmaking are embarrassing—high, breathy, keening sounds that Bane drinks in like he's been starving for them.
"How does he feel?" Atlas. From the side of the bed. His voice thick. His hand still in my hair, his other hand pressed against the front of his pants where he's straining against the fabric. He's watching Bane's hips move. Watching where Bane disappears inside me. "Tell me."
Bane lifts his head. Looks at his eldest brother over my body with glassy eyes. "Tight." His voice is wrecked. "Wet. Warm. Like he was—" A thrust. His jaw clenches. "Like he was made for this."
Atlas's hand tightens in my hair. His breath hitches. I can feel what that answer does to him—the coiling anticipation, the jealousy and desire braided together, the hunger of a man watching his brother have the thing he's been denying himself and knowing his turn is next.
"Harder." Zero's voice from the chair. His hand is on his cock now—pulled free from his jeans, thick, dark, his fist working slow strokes. "He can take it. Open him up."
Bane obeys. His rhythm shifts—the tenderness giving way to something harder, deeper. His grip on my hips tightens and the wet sound of him fucking me fills the room—slick and filthy, the slap of skin. I'm moaning with every thrust, my cock trapped between our stomachs, and Bane is panting against my neck, his composure cracking with every stroke.
Atlas's hand is in my hair. His mouth against my ear. "You look so fucking good," he murmurs. The strategist undone. "Taking him like that. Sounding like that. You have any idea what you're doing to me?"
"Touch yourself," Zero says to me. An order. "Wrap your hand around your cock, Max. I want to see you."
I reach between our bodies. Wrap my hand around myself. Stroke in time with Bane's rhythm. The dual sensation—Bane inside me, my own hand working—is so much I can barely see.
"He's ready," Zero says. "Pull out."
Bane groans. The effort of stopping visible in every muscle—his hips stutter, his jaw locks, and he pulls out slow. Leaving me empty. Aching. My hole clenching around nothing, slick and stretched and desperate to be filled again.
"Atlas." Zero's voice. "Your turn."
Atlas stands. Undoes his belt. Slow. His eyes on me the entire time—spread out on his sheets, flushed, slick running down my thighs, my cock hard and leaking in my fist.
"You're—" He stops. His jaw works. "Mine." Steps out of his pants. His boxer briefs. And—
Fuck. He's bigger than Bane. Thicker. Flushed dark, curving upward, the head slick. My hole clenches at the sight and fresh slick runs between my thighs.
A pathetic whimper slips out of me and my cheeks burn.
Atlas flips me onto my stomach. Pulls my hips up until my chest is on the mattress and my ass is in the air. His thumb drags through the mess between my thighs—Bane's precome and my slick mixed together.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes.
"Spread your knees," Zero says from the chair. Directing. Orchestrating. The man who can't touch giving orders to the men who can. "Wider, Max."
I spread them wider.
Atlas lines up. The blunt, thick head pressing against me—bigger than Bane, the extra thickness making me tense. His hands find my hips. Trembling.
"Max. Look at me."
I turn my head.
