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Briggs drives into me with purpose, yet there's patience woven through every movement. He's savoring this. Watching. Learning. His gaze never leaves my face as he tracks every reaction, every flicker of pleasure and discomfort, adjusting with the ruthless precision that seems hardwired into him.

There's nowhere to hide.

My legs are spread wide open.

The wet sounds of our bodies clashing fill the room.

My own desperate moans part of them.

My hands search for anything to hold. One finds the back of Torin's neck. He's still slumped from his release, watching Briggs fuck me with an expression that's softened into something strange and vulnerable. My other hand buries itself in Ashby’s hair. I tug hard enough to force his head up so he can see it too, can watch my body seize and shudder beneath every thrust Briggs drives into me.

Briggs changes the angle, and the entire world narrows to a single sensation. Every part of me locks onto where he's reaching deepest, on the way he drags across the most sensitive part of me each time he pulls back and drives forward again. I’m whimpering, moaning, pleading with him to take me harder, faster.

Briggs’ focus is absolute. He’s watching me with that relentless concentration of his, intent on extracting every last reaction my body can give him.

“There, right there…” I pant.

The words barely leave my mouth before he finds it again.

And again.

My back bows off the table. I hook my ankles behind his hips and pull him closer, chasing more, demanding more, daring him to finish what he's started.

He does, spectacularly.

The release tears through me so hard my vision flashes blue at the edges. I want to scream. What escapes instead is a ragged gasp. My body clamps down around him, and Briggs drives deeper, his gaze fixed on mine.

“Perfect,” he growls, thrusting deeper, pinning me in place while I buck uncontrollably as wave after wave of ecstasy rolls through me, breaking apart whatever fragile structure I've been trying to hold together.

Briggs keeps moving but holds himself in check until I've completely lost the ability to pretend composure exists.

Only then does he allow himself to let go.

The change hits immediately.

The meticulous control that defines him gives way to raw need. Every carefully measured movement disappears beneath it. His breath catches. His grip tightens. His hands dig into my hips hard enough that I suspect I'll be carrying the evidence for days.

I want that.

Briggs drives deep and comes apart with a staggered cadence that drags a helpless cry from both of us. I feel the heat of it. I feel the involuntary contractions that follow, and the sensation sparks fresh tremors through my own exhausted body.

Time stops making sense after that.

Everything dissolves into skin and heat and the frantic pounding of hearts trying, and failing, to keep pace with what's happening between us.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Briggs

By seven in the morning, we're back in the SUV, running on coffee, Ashby’s precious notebook, the map, and a level of optimism that should probably qualify as a medical condition.

Laurel sits beside Ashby in the passenger seat, looking far more alert than anyone has a right to after the night we had. None of us slept much. Between Maggie, the search, and everything that happened after, rest never really stood a chance.

What catches me off guard is how normal everything feels after it all. The lines between us have blurred, everybody knows it, and yet nobody seems interested in acting like we're navigating a minefield.

Laurel blushes whenever she catches one of us looking at her too long. Ashby keeps inventing excuses to pass her things she doesn't need. Torin watches the whole situation with the fascination of a man studying a puzzle that keeps changing shape.

I've spent the last hour trying to focus on the route instead of the memory of Laurel's mouth against mine, of being inside her and watching her fall apart. But every attempt to concentrate fails, and my brain automatically wanders right back to her.