The confession hangs in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I look at each of them in turn, these three men who’ve become my entire world.
Adrian with his severe beauty and barely controlled violence.
Marcus with his protective fury and Spanish whispers.
Elijah with his angel face and filthy imagination.
They’re all watching me like I’m something precious and dangerous, like they’re fighting themselves and losing.
“Then stop fighting,” I whisper. “Just for tonight. Let’s forget everything except this.”
Something breaks in all three of them simultaneously.
Adrian’s mouth crashes against mine, desperate and possessive.
I gasp into the kiss, and Marcus’s hands find my waist from behind, his body solid and warm against my back. Elijah’s fingers thread through my hair, tilting my head so Adrian can kiss me deeper.
“Eres nuestra,” Marcus murmurs against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “You’re ours, Charlie. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathe, and the confession makes all three of them groan.
They move me toward Adrian’s bed with coordinated precision, each touch deliberate and claiming.
Adrian strips my dress off, his gray eyes tracking every inch of exposed skin.
Marcus works my bra clasp, his calloused fingers trailing fire down my spine.
Elijah kneels before me, pressing kisses to my thighs as my underwear pools at my feet.
What follows is overwhelming in the best way. Adrian is possessive and commanding, his control finally shattered as he claims my mouth while his hands explore every curve.
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I welcome the marks, the proof that this is real.
Marcus is deliberate fire, speaking to me in Spanish and English, his tattooed hands marking my skin with touches that promise I’ll remember this tomorrow. “Tan hermosa,” he whispers against my throat. “Tan perfecta.” So beautiful. So perfect.
Elijah is playful yet filthy, praising me with that angel face while his fingers and mouth do sinful things that make me cry out. “That’s it,chérie,” he murmurs against my inner thigh. “Let us hear you. Let us know we’re making you feel good.”
They edge me, bringing me closer, switching when I’m on the cusp and whimpering at the loss of one of them inside me, only to be filled once more. When they finally let me shatter, all three of them surround me, touching, tasting, fucking until I’m boneless in their arms.
We lay together in Adrian’s bed, my body deliciously sore and my mind still spinning.
Adrian’s arm is around my waist, Marcus’s hand rests on my hip, and Elijah’s fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
For a few hours, we pretend the world outside this room doesn’t exist. That Bishop Carmine isn’t arriving in the morning.
That Victory Life isn’t circling like vultures. That we’re not about to face an investigation that could destroy everything.
But morning comes anyway, brutal and unforgiving.
I slip back to my apartment before dawn, my body still humming with the memory of their touches. I shower quickly, trying to wash away the evidence of what we did, but I can still feel them on my skin. Can still taste Adrian’s kisses, feel Marcus’s hands, hear Elijah’s whispered praise.
The Bishop’s car arrives precisely at nine, a sleek black sedan. I watch from my window as Bishop Vincent Carmine emerges, tall and imposing with steel-gray hair swept back from a high forehead.
He’s wearing traditional clerical attire, a pectoral cross catching the morning light, and everything about him radiates authority.
Sister Margaret follows, tall and angular in full traditional habit, her sharp blue eyes already cataloging everything she sees.
Adrian greets them at the church entrance, his cassock perfectly pressed, every line crisp. From this distance, he looks like the austere priest everyone expects him to be. No one would guess that hours ago, he was buried inside me, groaning my name like a prayer and a curse.
