Page 98 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I am gone, I’m dying, I’m being rewritten from the cells upward. Every nerve is cranked to its highest register, and I hear myself pleading, don’t stop, please, don’t, harder, fuck, in a voice that doesn’t even sound like mine. My thighs are slick, my whole body shuddering in time with Rex’s perfect, punishing thrusts.

He’s lost himself, his rhythm desperate, and the way he drives into me makes it feel like my bones are going to shake apart. Wayne’s fingers clutch around the back of my head, the other hand circling my clit with a single, maddening precision, and I lose it, the world dissolving to blur and bloom.

When my climax hits, it isn’t a wave. It’s a detonation, a white out, a full body tremor that leaves my vision star-stamped and my arms numb. I can’t tell if I’m making noise or if the sound is just inside my skull, rattling around.

Rex yells a ragged curse, and I feel the pulse of him as he buries himself deep, his hands digging so hard into my hips, I swear I’ll carry the bruises for weeks. Wayne’s mouth is on my throat, caught between bite and kiss, and Fletcher is holding my face, kissing away the hot, ugly tears as I sob and ride the tremor out.

There is only this, only heat and pressure and want. The world narrows to the clutch of hands, the desperate press of skin on skin, the aftershocks blooming inside and out. I am wrung raw, emptied and overflowing all the same, gasping against Wayne’s shoulder as he finally lets me breathe again.

Rex slumps, spent and heavy, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades, his breath rough against my skin.

I’m weightless, boneless, utterly unmade. Wayne’s arms wrap around my ribcage, holding me up as the world tilts and then rights itself in slow, bright waves. Fletcher kisses my temple, anointing me with every slow, powerful brush of his lips.

We collapse together, a heap of sweat and laughter and tangled limbs, all the sharp edges scoured clean. Rex is first to recover, rolling onto his back and flinging his arm over his face, chest heaving.

Wayne doesn’t let me go.

His arms stay firm around my ribs, holding me upright like he knows I’d drift if he loosened his grip. Fletcher’s hand stays cupped at my jaw, thumb brushing absently over my cheekbone.

I don’t feel torn or reckless. Or guilty.

I feel like I’ve been split open, and instead of breaking, I’ve multiplied.

It’s a feeling I never want to let go of.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rex

Morning in Redwood Run doesn’t rush.

It stretches.

Yawns.

Let’s the fog hang low over the river, considering its options.

I step out onto the porch of my place and take a long pull of coffee that’s strong enough to qualify as a personality trait. Bolt noses the screen door open behind me as if he pays rent.

“You ready to go see the guys?” I ask him.

His tail thumps once.

That’s a yes.

The walk to Last Mile isn’t long, but I take it slow anyway. The town’s just waking up. Fern’s already got her neon buzzing. Tess is dragging a hose across The Mile Marker patio, hair piled up in an untidy knot.

Bolt trots ahead, acting like a sheriff making rounds.

By the time we push through the open bay door at the garage, the place is already alive.

Metal clinks. A compressor kicks on. The radio’s arguing with itself between classic rock and static.

Hank is half under a truck, boots sticking out as a caution sign.

Fletcher’s at the main workbench, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he tightens something with slow, intense precision.

Wayne’s near the lift, coffee mug in hand, staring at an engine.