My fingers push into Cole's hair and press my body against his. Cole grips my waist. He kisses back without hesitation, his mouth opening under mine, his fingers digging in.
The kiss fills the kitchen. The wet sound of it. Our breathing. The small noise Cole makes against my mouth that he would normally muffle if we were alone.
He lets it out now.
I pull back. His expression has changed. His fingers flex once at my waist, and his breath roughens against my mouth.
With Dante watching from the chair his 2 AM choice put him in, I pull my shirt over my head.
Cole's hands slide across my ribs. His mouth lands on my neck, on the spot below my ear, and I arch into him. My fingers go to his belt. His jeans open under them, and I wrap my hand around him.
The sound he makes is low and rough enough to fill the kitchen.
I look at Dante.
Both of his hands are fists on his thighs. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle jumps. His stare is locked on us, burning. And lower, his jeans show exactly what watching is doing to him, what he can't hide and can't act on.
Cole lifts me onto the kitchen table. My hips lift as his hands work my jeans down. He pulls a condom from his pocket, tears it open, and rolls it on while Dante stays in the chair.
I wrap my legs around Cole's waist and pull him in. He pushes into me, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the shock of having him inside me while Dante sits three feet away with his hands locked to his thighs.
My fingers grip the edge of the table. Cole holds my hips. The first thrust shifts the table on the floor.
"Look at me," I say to Cole.
He does. Blue eyes, dark now.
"Just me."
He moves. Deep, slow, the rhythm deliberate.
The wall between our rooms is gone, but nine years of wanting is still there in the way he holds my hips and waits for my next breath.
Cole is inside me, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat. My body runs hot and tight, the pulse between my legs building on every thrust, my skin flushing from collarbone to navel.
"You feel incredible," Cole says, his voice honest and rough, every word carrying in the quiet room. "Maya—"
His mouth finds my collarbone. The rhythm builds, his hips and mine, the table rocking beneath us, my breathing going ragged. His hand slides between us, finds my clit, circles. The sound I make is sharp enough to cut through the room.
I look at Dante.
He's watching with his hands in fists. His eyes are bright, wet at the edges, the tendons in his neck pulled tight. His focus drops to Cole's hands on my body, then lifts to my face. Three feet away. He can't touch either of us. His body strains against the stillness he promised, the arousal visible and unaddressed.
Cole's rhythm changes, faster and deeper, his hand working my clit in circles that match his thrusts.
I'm close.
"Come for me," Cole says against my throat.
I come on the kitchen table with Cole's hand between my legs, his body inside mine, and Dante three feet away in a chair. The orgasm tears through me, and I don't muffle it. The sound comes out full-throated and sharp enough to make Cole's grip tighten.
Cole follows. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his hands gripping my hips, the sound rough and broken and honest.
Just Cole. The room quiet around us.
His breathing against my neck. My fingers in his hair. The table shifted from where it started. Dante in the chair.
When Cole pulls back, his thumb crosses my cheekbone. He takes care of the condom, fixes his jeans, then steps back to the counter.
