Chapter 31 Ash #3
“I want to try the lube again,” I murmur as Teague saddles up against my back and Cass gently places his head on my thigh.
“Not tonight. But one day. Soon. Less of it? I don’t know.
I liked it but…” Knowing they all stopped when I used my word was everything I could hope for.
I want to try all of it again. The ropes, the lube. Maybe even something else or more.
Teague hums as he kisses my shoulder. “I think we can handle that.”
Cass chuckles as he snuggles against my thigh. “We’ll try the vibrating butt plug tomorrow.” Ledger kicks him and Cass groans. “Fine. We’ll try in two days. Dad says we have to let you rest sometimes.”
I snort at that. Boone would absolutely have to tell these men to take their time with me.
And god, I need it. Even with the salve and hot baths and naps, I need more rest than I ever thought I would need.
That’s not a bad thing, though. I love feeling and seeing the evidence of how much I’m loved in this house.
32 - Ash
I wake up in pieces. My left arm first, pinned beneath Cass' shoulder, the circulation gone fuzzy somewhere around my elbow.
Then my legs, tangled with someone else's, Teague's based on the length and the fact that his foot is hooked around my ankle like he's afraid I'll roll away in the night.
Ledger is behind me, his chest against my back, one arm draped over my ribs with the weight of a man who doesn't move in his sleep.
Every muscle I own files a formal complaint when I try to shift.
My hips ache deep in the joint, the kind of soreness that lives in the bone rather than the tissue.
My wrists carry faint rope marks that I trace with my thumb in the dark, the braided pattern still pressed into my skin like a signature.
Between my legs is a tenderness that pulses when I move, not pain, more like a receipt for everything my body agreed to last night.
I ease out from between them slowly. Cass' shoulder lifts enough for me to slide my arm free.
Teague's foot unhooks when I flex my ankle.
Ledger's arm I have to lift with both hands, settling it against the pillow I leave behind, and he makes a low sound but doesn't wake.
I stand beside the bed for a moment, looking at the three of them sprawled across the mattress in a tangle of limbs and sheets, taking up every inch now that I've vacated the center.
They're beautiful like this. I don't use that word about men easily, it always felt too generous for the men I've been with.
But Cass with his mouth open, his blonde hair shoved sideways.
Teague with one arm flung over the edge like he's reaching for something even in sleep.
Ledger on his back with his jaw slack, his face softer than I've ever seen it while he's conscious.
All three of them, separately and together, the mess of them.
I slip on someone’s shirt from the floor before padding down the hallway in the dark, my bare feet finding the cool hardwood without hesitation. The kitchen light is off but the stove clock throws a blue glow across the counter, enough to show me that someone is already at the table.
Boone is sitting there with a cup of coffee in front of him, my blue mug, the one that sat behind Marcus' matching set for two years and now lives on the second shelf where it belongs.
He's in just a pair of jeans, his reading glasses folded beside his phone.
He looks up when I appear and the warmth that moves across his face is the only light I need.
"Morning, Dove."
"Morning." My voice is rough with sleep and overuse, the kind of hoarse that comes from a night of sounds I couldn't control.
I cross the kitchen and he pushes his chair back, making room.
I settle into his lap sideways, my head finding the spot beneath his jaw.
His arm wraps around my back, his hand on my hip, his thumb pressing into the muscle there with a gentleness that acknowledges the soreness without asking.
"Kiss me," I say.
He tilts my chin up and presses his mouth to mine as I sigh against his lips, his hand tightening on my hip just enough to remind me it's there. When he pulls back, something flickers behind the amber of his eyes.
"I thought you might like to hear something," he says. He picks up his phone and swipes the screen. "This came in around three this morning."
He presses play and holds the phone between us.
Marcus' voice fills the kitchen. It sounds wrong, thinner than I remember, the polish stripped away. He's slurring, not the charming kind he performed at parties but the real kind, consonants dissolving into gibberish.
“Get the lawyer on the phone. I called him. His number is blocked? Did you cut me off? He’s the family lawyer, Dad and I’m not spending another night in jail.
” There’s a long pause, sirens in the background and then beeping like he’s at the hospital or something.
“Fuck, I just… they fucking handcuffed me to the goddamn bed! Get me out of these.” Another pause.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?
All of you. Fucking animals. When I get out of here I'm going to make sure everyone knows what kind of sick shit happens in that house, Dad.
Everyone. I'll go to the fucking papers if I have to.
You think you can just take him and—" A clatter, like the phone hit something metal.
A breath. "Fuck you." The line goes dead.
Boone stops the playback, confusion warring through my expression. Marcus being drunk is nothing new but he sounds like he was detained and I have no idea what to do with that. Boone turns off his phone, his arms coming back around me and pulling me tighter against his chest.
"There was another call," Boone mentions, letting out a heavy sigh.
"About an hour before that one. Officer from county said Marcus gave my name as his emergency contact, which tells you everything about who he calls when he's actually scared.
" He picks up his coffee and takes a sip.
"Hit and run on Route 9. He was driving drunk, headed this direction from what they could tell.
He clipped a parked car hard enough to deploy his airbag and kept going.
Someone got the plate. The car he hit had a family's belongings inside, a car seat in the back. "
My stomach tightens.
"Nobody was in it," Boone says, reading my face.
"The family was inside their house. But the damages are significant and Marcus can't pay them.
He was taken to the hospital for his injuries but that plus the DUI plus leaving the scene, the officer said he's looking at charges that aren't going away with a phone call to a lawyer this time. "
"Good."
The word surprises me with the ease of which it leaves my mouth.
Six months ago I would have been on the phone already, apologizing to Marcus for whatever I'd done to drive him to this, calculating how to fix it, how to make it smaller, how to absorb the blame so the silence wouldn't come.
Now I'm sitting in his father's lap in a dark kitchen and the only thing I feel is the steady beat of Boone's heart against my shoulder.
"Good," I say again, quieter.
Boone's mouth finds mine. The kiss is deeper this time, his hand sliding into my hair, the kind that says we have time. Nowhere to be. I kiss him back with the unhurried attention of a man whose morning belongs to him for the first time in longer than I can calculate.
Because this is the first real morning where I belong, where I’m not leaving, where this house is every bit mine as it is theirs.
Cass appears in the doorway, shirtless, his hair a disaster, his eyes barely open. He blinks at us in the blue light, me curled in his father's lap, Boone's hand in my hair.
"Where's my kisses?" Cass mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
I laugh. The sound comes out raspy and wrecked, filling the kitchen, and Cass' face breaks into a slow grin he's too sleepy to fully assemble. He shuffles over and leans down as I tilt my head up from Boone's shoulder and press my mouth to his, tasting sleep and toothpaste.
"You taste like Dad's coffee," Cass says, pulling back.
"And you taste like someone who barely brushed."
"I brushed."
"Barely."
"Enough." He squeezes my shoulder, his thumb finding the rope mark on my wrist and tracing it once. He drops into the chair across from us.
Teague comes next, already louder than any person should be before seven. He goes straight for the coffee pot, pours a cup, adds his sugar, takes a sip, and turns to lean against the counter. His eyes land on me in Boone's lap.
"Good morning, Sunshine. You sound like you swallowed gravel."
"Your fault."
"Proudly." He salutes me with the mug.
Ledger is last. He appears fully dressed, which means he’s the most awake out of any of us. He pours his own cup and leans beside Teague. His eyes find the rope marks on my wrists from across the kitchen, satisfaction moving through his expression.
"What's that look?" Teague asks from the counter, studying me over his mug.
"Nothing." I press my face into Boone's neck and smile against his skin. "Just thinking about how I need to unpack those boxes."