Dante breaks the kiss and returns to the stove. He stirs the sauce with one hand and looks at me over his shoulder with an expression that says later and means it with his whole schedule.
Cole takes his place between my knees. His hands bracket me on the counter, mirroring Dante’s position, and I cup his jaw. His face turns into my palm, the gesture that belongs to him, the way he leans into touch before he seems to remember he has done it.
“You’re sweet,” I say. “For re-dicing my tomatoes without criticism.”
“I would never criticize your tomatoes.”
“You said the pieces needed to be uniform.”
“That was instruction, not criticism. There’s a difference.”
“There’s not a difference.”
“There’s a huge difference. Criticism would be saying your tomatoes looked like a crime scene. Instruction is giving you a chance next time.”
“There’s not going to be a next time. The kitchen tried to kill me.”
I pull him in and kiss him. It is different from Dante, warmer, slower, the kiss that tastes like Cole, like laughter and garlic, warm enough that my fingers tighten in his shirt before I can think better of it. His hand slides into my hair and holds. The kiss deepens, and his body presses between my knees, the counter suddenly the exact right height for his hips against the edge, for my legs wrapping around him, for the hard line of him fitting into the space between my thighs.
“Dinner’s ready,” Dante says behind Cole, his voice low. “If anyone’s interested.”
“Depends,” I say. “What else is on the menu?”
The kitchen goes quiet around the question. The smoke has cleared. The sauce is done. Dante leans against the stove with his arms crossed and his eyes dark, and the look on his face is the opening move. He does not move, and somehow both of us wait.
“Eat first,” he says. “Then I’ll show you.”
We eat at the counter instead of the table, because moving to the table would require separating, and none of us wants to separate tonight. I stay on my spot. Cole stands beside me, eating standing up, his hip against my thigh. Dante sits on the stool across from us. The pasta is good. The sauce is better than mine would have been, a fact I concede without grace. The wine is warm, the kitchen is warm, and the three of us are eating dinner in a position that makes no practical sense and feels exactly right.
I set my plate down and look at them. Both of them. Cole with his easy stance and his hip pressed against my thigh. Dante across from us, dark eyes steady on me, the gaze that used to make me check exits and now makes me lean closer.
“Take me to bed,” I say. “Both of you. Now.”
? ? ?
In the bedroom, the gray sheets are already turned back, and the lamp on the nightstand throws low gold over the bed.
Dante leads me through the doorway with his hand on the back of my neck. Cole follows behind us with his hand on my waist. Their hands keep contact. Dante is in front, Cole is behind, and I am between them, Dante’s fingers at my neck and Cole’s palm spread over my waist.
“How do you want this?” Dante asks.
He stands in front of me with his hands on my jaw, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones. The question lands low in my stomach. I have to say the want out loud before he takes the lead.
“I want everything tonight.” I look at him, then over my shoulder at Cole, then back. “Both of you. At the same time. I want both of you inside me.”
Dante’s thumbs go still against my cheekbones. His hands stay on my face. Behind me, Cole’s breath catches, a sharp inhale against the back of my neck that goes straight between my legs.
“Are you sure?” Dante says, low.
“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” My pulse beats hard enough that I feel it in my throat. “I want this, both of you. I want to feel what it’s like to be that full.”
Dante looks past me at Cole. The communication between them is silent. Dante’s hand flexes once against my jaw, and Cole’s fingers tighten at my waist.
“We go slow,” Dante says. “The whole time. If anything—”
“I’ll tell you. I’ll always tell you.”
He kisses me slowly, and my fingers curl into his shirt as my ribs go tight around the air I almost lose.
