“Pussy.”
It feels like a miracle I got the word out without stammering. My cheeks flare instantly, heat crawling up my neck before I can stop it.
Then he moves, rolling over me until he’s above me, bracing himself on his forearms as he pins me into the mattress.
“I love cherries, baby,” he murmurs, voice dropping rougher as he leans in. “I can do great things with a cherry stalk.”
His mouth brushes mine, just enough to steal the breath from my lungs, his teeth biting my lower lip in a teasing, unhurried pull.
“Focus,” I whisper, though it lacks any real force.
His mouth curves faintly, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“I am focused,” he murmurs. “Call me the secret agent…shit, what was it? The Manchurian Candidate…I think that’s it? Fucking sounds like someone applying to be a soccer fan…butanyway, doesn’t matter. Point is, consider me activated with the special key phrase.”
I have absolutely zero idea what goes on in his head half the time, but he’s so cute when he runs off like that—trying to include me in whatever chaotic thought spiral he’s in.
God. I love him.
The sound of movement filters in from beyond the bedroom door—footsteps in the hall, the low murmur of voices as the house begins to settle around us again. Security shifting positions. Someone laughing quietly down the corridor. The faint thud of doors closing upstairs.
Normal life, carefully reconstructed.
Even Niko is staying. Refusing to leave Chace, like distance has become its own kind of threat. All of them under the same roof, spread out through the upper floors like watchpoints in a fortress we pretend is still just a home.
I should be thinking about that.
I am thinking about it.
But it all blurs the second Trey’s hand returns to me.
His fingers slide up my body slowly, unhurried. The roughness of his fingertips catches against my skin—callused from years of guitar strings, from work and obsession and everything he’s built himself out of.
He kisses me again, and then pushes the soft cotton t-shirt up, revealing my body.
Heat follows him. The quiet collapse of everything else.
I know what he’s doing.
He presses against me, his mouth licking and sucking, his attention unhurried, leaving me marked in ways no one else will see.
Then he stills.
It happens so suddenly I feel it before I fully register it. His movement slowing, his weight easing back just enough for him to lift his head and look at me properly.
“Do you think our baby will have red hair like you,” he murmurs, thumb moving in a slow, absent circle, “or dark like me?”
There’s something different in his voice now. Almost thoughtful in a way I’m not used to hearing from him.
His dimples appear—brief, boyish.
“I want to play my guitar for him.”
A pause settles between us.
“Him?” I repeat quietly, searching his face.
Trey’s smile widens like the idea has already taken root, like it’s already become truth inside him. “Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “It’s a boy.”
