Chapter 17 Marisa #2
Both of them groan, deep, guttural, as they keep pounding through their releases, their cum pumping into me, filling me, stretching me with heat.
Roman’s seed overflows my pussy, dripping down over his balls, while Deacon’s floods my ass, the double weight pressing hot inside me until I feel swollen, stuffed, impossibly full.
I collapse against Roman’s chest, shaking, trembling, his cock still jerking inside my cunt while Deacon grinds deep in my ass, refusing to pull out until he’s drained.
My belly feels heavy, stretched, as if their cum has claimed every part of me.
Roman groans low, his lips against my ear, voice rough. “You’re ours. Marked inside and out. No one else will ever fill you like this.”
Deacon chuckles dark, still grinding his cock in my ass, cum leaking out around the seal of him. “Not like she could handle anyone else. Look at her. Absolutely wrecked. Mine and yours.”
I can’t answer.
I can only moan, eyes rolling back, drool wetting my lips, body quaking as their seed overflows and drips hot down my thighs.
When they finally pull out of me, I whimper, weak and raw. Heat spills from me in thick trails, soaking the sheets, dripping down my thighs.
My body feels stretched open, used in ways I didn’t think possible.
I should feel ruined, but instead there’s only this strange calm — my muscles heavy, my heart slowing, my mind floating in the quiet after a storm.
Roman gathers me up first, laying me down gentle as if I might break, pressing kisses to my damp hairline, my temple, the corner of my mouth.
His voice is hoarse, ragged from groaning my name, but softer now than I’ve ever heard it.
“Good girl,” he whispers, thumb brushing my cheek. “So good for us.”
Deacon wipes me down with a cloth, surprisingly careful, his calloused fingers not lingering, just steady.
He mutters something about not letting me sleep in a mess, but his eyes give him away.
There’s fondness there, even when his mouth keeps its crooked grin.
The bed shifts as they climb in on either side of me, their big bodies bracketing mine, radiating heat.
Roman curls an arm around my waist, tucking me close, his lips finding the curve of my shoulder.
Deacon stretches out on my other side, his hand idly stroking up and down my thigh in lazy arcs.
I sigh, sinking between them, the safety of their weight pressing in on all sides.
They smell of sweat and leather, of smoke and salt, but under it there’s something steadying, a sense that for tonight, nothing could touch me.
Roman’s lips press against my hair again.
Deacon leans over and kisses the corner of my jaw.
I don’t even have the energy to tease them for being soft.
My eyes flutter closed, the aftershocks still rolling faintly through my body.
“Sleep,” Roman murmurs against my ear, voice like gravel soothed in honey.
And I do. I fall under fast, sated, every nerve humming but finally quiet, cradled between their bodies like they mean to keep me safe even from my dreams.
Moments later, the sound of fussing wakes me up.
Roman and Deacon are fast asleep, snoring lightly.
I step down, take my shawl and pad away from the room in soft footsteps, heading to the nursery.
Cruz’s chair is pulled close to the crib, elbows on his knees, big hands holding the bottles he must’ve just warmed.
His head lifts when I step in, eyes tired but still bright, mouth tugging into that lopsided grin of his.
“Caught me,” he murmurs, voice low so it doesn’t startle the babies. “Was about to feed them. Figured you’d need your rest after…”
He trails off, the grin deepening, his eyes flicking away with a quiet laugh that makes heat rise in my cheeks.
I shake my head and cross the room to him. “Put those down. They don’t need bottles tonight. I’ve got them.”
He hesitates, then sets the bottles aside on the dresser.
I lean into the crib, scoop both babies up—soft, warm, wriggling against me—and settle into the rocker.
The shawl slips, and Cruz steps forward immediately, draping it around my shoulders again without a word.
His hand lingers a moment, steady and sure, before he moves back to sit across from me.
The twins nuzzle against me, mouths finding what they want, the tug sharp then soothing as they latch.
My breath softens, my body relaxes, and the ache in me that’s been clawing for peace eases just a little.
Cruz leans back, watching, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“You look…right like that,” he says quietly. “Like you were made for this. For them.”
I stroke a tiny fist, my throat tight. “I don’t know if I was made for anything. But they’re here. They’re mine. That’s enough.”
He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving me or the babies. “More than enough.
Don’t doubt that.
You’ve been through fire, Marisa.
Still, here you are, steady as stone, holding all this in your arms.”
The words wash over me and I find myself whispering before I think. “Do you think I have a chance, Cruz? Really? With…with all of this?”
For a long moment he’s quiet, studying me.
Then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I think you’ve already made your chance. You chose to stay. You chose to fight. You’re the one who decides what this becomes, not the ghosts outside our walls.”
The babies drink steadily, their small breaths warm against my skin.
I meet Cruz’s gaze, and for once I don’t feel like I need to argue, or run, or guard myself.
His words sit inside me like an anchor, grounding.
“You make it sound simple,” I murmur.
His grin softens, almost sad. “It is. Doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. But simple? Yeah. You belong right here.”
I look down at the little faces pressed against me, then back at him.
For the first time in a long while, I let myself believe him.