24. Elle #4
Stan catches my wrist and pulls it low under my body. I understand immediately. My fingers find my swollen, throbbing bud. He guides the pressure of my fingers. I come quickly right after, clenching around them both. Stan between my cheeks, Sterling inside my core.
Sterling inhales a sharp hiss. His breath hits my skin in bursts. So does his hot seed inside me. “Fuck,” Sterling curses, sounding so ruined that I clench again.
Stan kisses the back of my shoulder, his voice smug. “See? You’re killing him, Elle.”
He slides his hands back up, cupping my breasts.
I arch between them, caught in the heat, undone all over again.
They don’t stop. They hold me like I’m everything they’ve ever needed.
They pleasure me like they’ve both been starving for it.
Like I’m the only thing that can quiet the ache inside them. Like they do with me.
Sterling pulls me into his lap, his lips by my ear. “Again.”
One word from him, and I shatter. My moan slips out. That’s all it takes with him. I’ll give Sterling anything he wants from me.
Stan meets his rhythm. His mouth blazes a path down my spine. His hands steady me at the hips, his thrusts deeper, harder, each one landing in a place I didn’t know could take more.
Sterling kisses me again, bruising and desperate. His hand tangles in my hair. Stan slips his fingers between my folds, drawing another cry out of me.
They move in rhythm. They move like they were made to undo me together. They build me higher. Bring me down. But catch me before I fall. And then they do it all over again.
Time disappears. The room fades. My body is only sensation now. The fire they feed. The ache they soothe. The need they stoke. And the way they keep me here, cherished and ravaged. In this moment I never want to end, I’m all theirs.
***
It’s sometime past noon, I think. I can’t really tell. The open window is flooded with the sunlight, golden and approving. My body feels both scorched and soothed, as if I was kissed by their fire and then cooled by the outside wind.
We’re a mess of limbs. Sheets kicked half off the bed. Heat lingering in the air, thick and heavy. Less dizzy. More satisfied. And loud.
“I mean, technically,” Stan says from where he’s stretching his limbs wide, taking up more than half the bed. “I caught a boar all by myself. With my bare hands. Well, and a rifle. Either way, we’ve made some proper meals out of my hunt.”
Sterling stares at the ceiling like he’s praying for divine intervention. “You’re not even on the bed properly.”
“I’m creatively positioned,” Stan says, tossing an arm over his face. “Like a masterpiece in repose.”
“Masterpiece is an overstatement.”
“You wound me, Silver.” Stan kicks at Sterling’s shin, which earns him a murderous look from his older brother.
I muffle my laugh against a pillow. It smells like both of them. I’m sore, half-asleep, floating on warmth and afterglow, but their voices keep me tethered to this moment.
Stan lifts his head, eyes barely open. “Seriously though. I deserve a medal. Or a sandwich. Or a medal made of sandwich.”
Then he yawns, long and loud, and flops his arm off the side of the bed with dramatic flair.
Sterling narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t fall asleep here.”
Stan wriggles like that’s physically impossible to comply with.
“Can’t help it,” he mumbles. “Hero’s gotta rest. But Silver, really, about that sandwich—” He’s asleep before he finishes the sentence.
His snores start a second later. They’re not gentle.
They’re not evenly paced. They are, in fact, quite offensively loud.
Sterling stares at him, jaw clenched like he’s calculating exactly how to dispose of his brother’s body. “I swear to god,” he mutters.
I stifle a laugh and press my smile into Sterling’s firm chest.
Stan has taken over the bed. Arms flung wide. One leg dangling off the mattress. He looks like a passed-out octopus in boxer briefs. I’m wedged in between his long limbs and Sterling.
“There’s nowhere for you to lie comfortably,” Sterling says quietly, sounding quite concerned.
“Sure there is.” I shift without waiting, sliding over him. “Right here.”
Sterling grunts at the movement, caught off guard.
But his arms move on instinct, gathering me in.
I lay my head against him, right over his heart.
His chest rises beneath me, and that rhythm…
His heartbeat… That sound alone could calm my mind.
I listen to it for a little while and find that it does.
I tilt my head and look up at him. “Perfect fit,” I whisper.
His piercing gaze softens when he meets my eyes. His hand lifts, brushing my hair back from my face, his fingers lingering along my temple.
I startle a bit when Stan snorts in his sleep. Sterling closes his eyes briefly, looking like he’s begging the heavens for patience.
“Want me to elbow him?” I offer, laughing lightly.
“That would require touching him even more.” His voice is deadpan. “I’d rather burn the bed.”
I giggle and curl in closer, ignoring the awkward angle of Stan’s foot jutting under the blanket by my ankle.
A moment later, the room is quiet in the coziest way. I smile, feeling fulfilled. Sterling’s heartbeat stays steady beneath me, rhythmic and present. He’s still holding me. Still letting me lie on top of him, even though I know he’d rather sit on the chair and watch over me.
I tilt my head, just to look at him. Just because I can. And for a second, I almost see the mask again. But I blink it away, because his mask has been gone. He’s been showing his real face to me since the night I asked. Since I wanted to see all of him.
And now he smiles. It’s small at first, but it spreads across his face. My cheeks flush from the sight, and I let him notice it. I want him to see me. All of me too.
“You’re staying awake?” I ask.
“I’ll rest,” he says. “Later.”
I nod, not needing anything else. Not right now. So we lie here for a while, wrapped in sunlight. I don’t know how long we stay like this. A stretch of minutes. Maybe longer. Either way, this moment melts away at time and makes the world feel as if it fits inside the span of his heartbeat.
Sterling barely moves, only enough to keep his arm secured around me.
His fingers drift to my hair again, trailing gently through the strands.
I keep my head on his chest, listening. I trace the hollow of his throat with my eyes, follow the shape of his jaw, and notice how his silver hair strands shine.
He’s watching me too. But he says nothing, yet his gaze says everything. You’re safe. I’m here. You’re here. I’m not going anywhere.
Stan groans suddenly as he twists and turns. I giggle again. Even Sterling’s mouth twitches, another smile tugging at the corner. “Sounds like he swallowed a chainsaw,” he whispers.
I smile brightly at him. His hand cups the back of my head for a moment, then smooths along my spine in a slow stroke.
Then, in the softest voice I’ve ever heard from him, Sterling whispers, “Are you comfortable?”
My heart thuds, warm and full. “Mm-hmm.”
He adjusts slightly under me, testing the weight I’ve put on his chest, as if checking for strain. His hand pauses at my hip. “You sure? Nothing hurts?” The question is simple. The care in his voice isn’t.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. But it comes out too quiet, too tender, because he catches me off guard. How gentle he is with me. How rare it feels to be asked and truly heard. How only Sterling ever does this. Worries like this. Over me and the smallest things.
His fingers brush my hair back, thumb tracing the side of my cheek. “Need anything?”
I shake my head. Still, his brow furrows. A mere crease. But it’s enough to show he’s still reading my expressions closely.
“You warm enough? Blanket’s alright?”
I nod, unable to stop my giggle. “You’re a little much when you get like this,” I whisper, honeyed with affection.
He exhales through his nose. Barely a huff.
I bury my smile against his chest. “But I like it when you fuss, Sterling.”
He doesn’t answer with words, but his hand keeps stroking down my back, leisure and steady.
Outside, the sun continues its climb, soft light stretching across the floorboards. Inside, the fire is low, Stan is practically dead to the world, and I’m lying on the chest of a man who makes silence feel like a love language. One I never want to stop speaking.
We stay this way. Fingers drifting over skin. Breath syncing slow. Eyes holding each other like the rest of the world has nothing left to offer. And maybe, in this quaint cabin, surrounded by the quiet woods, we have everything we need.
Sterling’s fingers continue tracing my back, barely a whisper of contact. My fingers reach for his strands. His hand stills for a moment when I part my lips, voice barely above a whisper. “You dyed your hair black?”
Sterling hums low in his throat. “Helps me blend in.”
Between my fingers, a few silver strands catch the sun’s glow. “I like your natural hair color.”
“But it stands out.”
“Yeah, in a good way. It suits you, Sterling.”
His gaze feels like gravity. A pull I never want to resist. I don’t think I could, even if I tried. His thumb lingers at my temple, a gentle stroke that makes me melt.
Before he can answer, Stan mutters unintelligibly in his sleep, along the lines of “give me the axe, bro.” It’s so absurd, I can’t help it.
A chuckle escapes. Sterling’s chest moves under me as he tries to hold in his own laugh.
It doesn’t work. I tuck my face against him again.
Everything about this moment in time is a bit ridiculous but absolutely perfect.
Sterling runs his hand down my back again, so wonderfully warm. “Sleep, Elle.”
“I want to stay awake.” I settle my chin over his heart. “I want to stay here with you.”
His eyes close, lashes grazing his cheeks. When he speaks, it’s less guarded and a little fragile. “Then stay with me.”