My breath catches.A shot.Like I’m something worth winning. Not owned. Not claimed. Chosen.
I should laugh it off. Tell him he’s laying it on thick. But instead, I just stare, heat rising up the back of my neck as something dangerous and hopeful curls low in my belly.
“Sounds like you just need a little convincing. Proof that not all packs get it wrong,” Dylan’s voice cuts in.
I give a shaky laugh, even as my throat tightens.
“Convincing, huh?” I arch a brow, swallowing the ache before it shows. “Well, I’m open to arguments. Especially if they involve fewer clothes and more hands.”
It works. Dylan’s eyes darken, his lips twitching at the corner. “Lift your hips,” he says, gentle and firm all at once.
I do, and together they move like they’ve done this a hundred times—Dylan tugging my jeans and underwear down while Mason crouches to unzip my boots with a tenderness that undoes me completely. His hands are big, rough from work, but careful. Like I’m fragile.
They strip me down to nothing but the glinting chain around my waist and then sit back like they need a second just to take it all in.
And maybe I need a second too, because under their eyes, I feel stripped bare in more ways than one.
“Let’s not dive into the tragic backstory tonight. Clothes off. Now. That’s the only agenda I’m interested in.”
Mason chuckles, low and rough. “If that’s what you wish.”
But the look they both give me says they’re already seeing straight through my act and they’re not done convincing me yet. Not even close.
Mason stands and strips with the kind of confidence that steals breath. His sweatpants and briefs hit the floor in one motion, and for a second, I can’t move.
He’s all golden skin and hard muscle, cut in the kind of way that makes you wonder what it would feel like to be held down and worshipped at the same time. Broad chest, carved abs, thighs like tree trunks. But it’s the way he looks at me, like I’m already his, that makes my lungs forget how to work.
And he’s hard. Thick, heavy, and already flushed, bobbing slightly with every step back toward the bed. He’s proud of it, but not in a cocky way. He’s watchingmewatchhim, smiling. The way I react is clearly what gets him off most.
Then Dylan rises and drops his own pants, and the air leaves my body in a stuttering exhale.
He’s just as thick, longer maybe, veins running up the shaft. I can’t look away. He catches my gaze and raises a brow.
“Still think we’re just sweet?” Dylan teases, voice low and full of promise.
I lift a brow, letting my gaze drag over both of them with deliberate slowness, as if I’m debating it, then flash a wicked grin. “Sweet? No. Devious? Hell yes. Sexy as sin? Unfortunately, also yes.”
Dylan chuckles, head tilting. “Unfortunately?”
“Tragically,” I deadpan, even as heat curls through me. “It’s very inconvenient for someone trying to maintain a little self-control.”
That earns a dark, amused sound from Mason. “Good thing we’re not here to make that easy.”
He moves back onto the bed with a predator’s grace, his bare skin warm against mine as he settles beside me. One large hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking just beneath my eye, tender and grounding.
Mason leans in. “You already made your choice when you let us touch you.”
My breath hitches, that single line sinking straight through my skin like heat.
“And now,” he murmurs, lips brushing the corner of my mouth, “we’re going to make damn sure you never regret it.”
Then he kisses me.
Mason’s mouth stays on mine, unhurried and claiming as though he has nowhere else to be and no intention of letting me forget it. His tongue moves with purpose, coaxing rather than taking.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to smirk down at me, brushing his thumb over my lip. “Funny,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat, “how one powdered pastry that made me an Instagram sensation led to this.”
I raise an eyebrow, breathless. “Who knew blowing sugar on a man could get me so far?”
