Chapter 16 #2
He laughs. The sound is rich and genuine. "That kid and that unicorn."
"She's attached."
"We're all attached," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes me pause. It's not sadness, exactly, but realization.
"Listen, I wanted to let you know Caiden's coming by the house tonight. He's got some paperwork for Trent and Matt to sign."
"More club stuff?"
"More club stuff. He's been around a lot lately and Greyson's got him running point on the new security protocols, and he and Trent have been working together pretty closely."
I think about Caiden, quiet, intense, the kind of man who speaks only when he has something worth saying.
He's been a steady presence at the clubhouse over the past month, his technical expertise making him invaluable as the MC expands its digital security operations.
Trenton mentioned that he and Caiden have been spending late nights going over surveillance systems, and Matthew's been joining them more often than not.
"That's fine," I say. "We'll be home by five. Charlie has therapy at four."
"Need me to pick anything up on my way?"
I smile. "We're good, Carter. But thank you."
"Always, Morgan. See you tonight."
I hang up and finish loading the groceries. The sun is higher now, warming the parking lot, and the morning has that crisp, clean quality that November brings; the air sharp, the light golden. I take a breath and let it out slowly.
Home. Therapy. Dinner with Carter and Caiden. A normal Tuesday in our new normal life.
I get in the car and pull out of the parking lot, heading toward the quiet house that's become our sanctuary.
The security system will ping my phone when I open the gate.
Matthew will text to confirm I'm home. Trenton will call around noon to check in, his voice dropping to that private register he uses just for me.
The road unwinds ahead of me, familiar and safe, and for the first time in a long time, I'm not watching the rearview mirror.
The gate opens automatically when I pull into the driveway, and my phone buzzes with the expected notification: Front gate accessed.
Vehicle recognized. I put the SUV in park and sit for a moment, watching the house.
The new cameras catch the morning light on their casings, and the motion sensor by the garage blinks its steady green.
I grab the grocery bags from the back and head for the door, balancing three bags on one arm while I fish for my keys with the other. The lock turns before I get there.
Trenton is standing in the doorway.
"Hey," I say, surprised. "I thought you left for the clubhouse."
He takes two of the bags from me without answering. The look on his face is one I know well, that specific intensity that lives in the space between his eyebrows, the slight parting of his lips, the way his eyes drop to my mouth and then back up.
"Matthew?" I call, stepping inside.
"Kitchen."
I set the remaining bag on the counter and turn to find Matthew leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, watching me with that same expression.
The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of Trenton closing the front door behind us. The deadbolt clicks. The chain follows.
"Okay," I say slowly, looking between them. "What's going on?"
Trenton sets the bags down and turns to face me. "Charlie's at school until two."
"I'm aware."
"Your parents aren't coming by until dinner."
"Also aware."
Matthew pushes off the refrigerator. "Caiden canceled."
"He did?"
"Texted ten minutes ago that something came up at the clubhouse."
I look between them again. They're standing close now with Trenton to my left and Matthew to my right, and the kitchen that felt spacious a second ago has suddenly gotten very small.
"And Carter?" I ask.
"Garage shift. Until eight."
"So." I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms to mirror Matthew's posture. The corner of my mouth wants to turn up, and I let it. "What you're telling me is that we have the house to ourselves for…"
"Four hours," Trenton finishes. He moves closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the soap from his shower mixing with warmer notes underneath. "Minimum."
"Four hours," I repeat.
Matthew's hand finds my back. His thumb presses into the muscle just above my waistband, and the touch sends a wave of heat through me that starts low and spreads fast.
"We haven't had four hours alone since the night at the cabin," he says. His voice has dropped to that register, the one he uses when it's just us, when the walls are up and the world is locked out. "Not without planning it. Not without checking the perimeter first."
He's right. We haven't. The past month has been Charlie and therapy and security systems and adoption paperwork and club meetings and the slow, careful work of building a life together while the ghost of what almost happened still lingers in the corners.
We've had moments, quick and stolen, behind closed doors while Charlie watches cartoons in the living room, or in the shower at five in the morning before anyone else is awake. But not this. Not time.
Trenton's hand cups my jaw. His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath catches.
"You don't have to say yes," he says quietly. "If you're tired, or if you have things to do."
"Shut up," I tell him, and I'm already pulling him down by the front of his shirt.
His mouth meets mine and the kiss is immediate and deep, no preamble, no gentle buildup. His tongue finds mine and his hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and the sound I make against his mouth is not the sound of a woman who's tired or has things to do.
Matthew's hands find my hips from behind, pulling me back against him.
I feel the hard length of him pressing into the curve of my lower back, and the dual sensation—Trenton's mouth on mine, Matthew's body behind me—makes my knees go weak in a way that's embarrassing and perfect and exactly what I need.
"Bedroom," I manage between kisses.
"No." Trenton's mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck, his teeth grazing the tendon where my pulse is hammering. "Here."
"Here?"
"Here," Matthew confirms. His hands are already under my shirt, sliding up my ribs, his palms warm and calloused against my skin. "I've been thinking about this counter since we installed it."
I laugh, breathless, and the sound turns into a gasp as Matthew's thumbs find the underside of my breasts and Trenton's hand slides down to the button of my jeans.
They move with the coordination of men who have done this before, who know each other's rhythms and timing, who understand without speaking how to share the space of my body between them.
Trenton gets the button. Matthew gets the zipper.
My jeans are off my hips and down my legs before I've fully processed that we're doing this in the kitchen, in the morning, with the blinds open—
"The blinds—"
"Already closed," Matthew says against my ear. "Before you pulled in."
Of course they were.
Trenton drops to his knees and the sight of him, this man, this soldier, this protector, on his knees in front of me with his hands on my thighs and his eyes dark with want.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and pulls it down, and the cool air against my skin raises goosebumps everywhere.
"Hold on to the counter," he tells me.
I grip the edge. My knuckles go white.
Matthew stands behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his hands sliding up under my shirt to cup my breasts.
His mouth finds the side of my neck, sucking a mark into the skin there that I know I'll feel for days, and the combination of his hands on my breasts and Trenton's mouth between my legs sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp and sudden that my vision actually whites out for a second.
"Fuck," I breathe.
Trenton's technique is methodical, the same precision he applies to everything but aimed now at the single goal of making me come apart on his tongue.
He knows my body the way he knows a battlefield: every contour, every response, every point of maximum impact.
His tongue is flat and broad and devastatingly effective, and his hands on my thighs keep me from collapsing when my legs start to shake.
Matthew pinches my nipples, not gently, and the sharp sting of it sends another wave of heat crashing through me. His teeth find my earlobe and he sucks, and the sound he makes, low and hungry, almost a growl, vibrates through my skull and down my spine.
I'm close. I can feel it building, the tightening, the heat, the way the world narrows to the single point of contact between Trenton's mouth and my clit. My fingers ache from gripping the counter. My breathing has gone ragged and loud in the quiet kitchen.
"Don't stop," I hear myself say. "Don't—oh God—"
Trenton doesn't stop. He doubles down, his tongue working faster, his fingers spreading me wider, and Matthew's hands tighten on my breasts, and his voice is in my ear saying, "That's it, let go, we've got you," and I shatter.
The orgasm rolls through me in long, rolling waves, not the sharp peak-and-drop of a quick release but something deeper, something that starts in my center and radiates outward until every nerve ending is firing and my whole body is trembling and the sound I'm making is not one I recognize as my own.
Trenton stays with me through every wave, easing the pressure but not stopping, drawing it out until I'm gasping and shaking, and the counter is the only thing keeping me upright.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening and his eyes are wild, and he looks up at me with an expression of such raw satisfaction that it makes me want to do the whole thing again immediately.
Trenton catches me when my legs give out. His mouth finds mine, and I can taste myself on his lips and the thought is filthy and hot and I kiss him harder.