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Nobody needs permission from anything except the person they’re touching.

That might be my favorite part.

I lean forward and kiss Ezra while Malakai’s mouth moves along his throat.

Rhett laughs behind us.

“Greedy.”

I pull away just enough to look at him. “You complaining?”

“Never.”

“Then get over here.”

He does.

The couch becomes useless within minutes.

We spill onto the rug in front of the fire in a mess of limbs and laughter, the poker still keeping my wrists together but no longer fixing me anywhere.

I can move.

I can crawl.

I can climb into whichever lap I fucking choose.

So I do.

I choose Rhett first.

Then Malakai.

Then Ezra.

And they choose each other between me.

There is no order to it.

No Sower.

No Reaper.

No Tiller.

No Keeper.

Just us.

Hands gripping.

Mouths finding skin.

Someone laughing when an elbow lands somewhere it shouldn’t.

Rhett cursing when Malakai bites him.

Ezra losing that carefully controlled expression when Rhett reaches for him.