Chapter 16 #3
"Bedroom," I say again, because my legs are not going to support what I want to do next.
This time, they don't argue.
Trenton scoops me up—actually scoops me up, one arm under my knees and one behind my back, like I weigh nothing—and carries me down the hallway.
Matthew follows, and I hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor his shirt—maybe, or Trenton's—and then we're in the bedroom and Trenton is laying me on the bed and Matthew is pulling my shirt over my head.
They're both shirtless now. I take a moment to look at them, really look at the way the morning light coming through the curtains catches on Trenton's shoulders and the scar on Matthew's ribs and the way they're both watching me with the kind of focus that makes my body sing.
"Your turn," I say, sitting up on my elbows. "Both of you. Now."
They exchange a look, the kind of look that contains entire conversations, and then they're moving.
Trenton kicks off his boots and strips his jeans in one motion.
Matthew does the same. They stand at the foot of the bed in nothing but boxer briefs, these two men who have killed for me, who have built a life for me, who have rearranged the entire architecture of their existence around the simple fact of my presence.
"Come here," I say.
They come.
What happens next is not gentle. It's not slow.
It's been a month of stolen moments and interrupted nights and the constant, low-grade frustration of wanting these two men with every cell in my body and having to be a mother first, a protector first, a planner first. The dam breaks and what pours through is desperate and hungry and absolutely without shame.
Trenton's mouth finds my breast while Matthew's hands grip my hips from behind. I'm on my knees, arched back, one hand fisted in Trenton's hair and the other braced against Matthew's thigh as he enters me from behind in one smooth, deep stroke that punches the air from my lungs.
"God," I gasp. "God, Matthew—"
His hands tighten on my hips. "I've got you."
Trenton looks up at me from between my breasts, his eyes dark and intent, and the visual of him watching while Matthew moves inside me is almost too much. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his hard length, and his jaw clenches and his hips push forward into my grip.
"Together," he says roughly. "I want us all."
"Yes." I'm already stroking him, matching the rhythm Matthew is setting behind me. "Yes, come here."
Matthew's pace increases, his thrusts driving deeper, and I feel the tension building again, different this time, fuller, the kind that comes from being filled and stretched and completely surrounded by these two men who know exactly what they're doing to me.
Trenton's hand covers mine, his fingers wrapping around my knuckles, adjusting the pressure and pace with a certainty that makes my breath catch. Not a correction, a conversation. His hips push forward into my grip and the low sound that escapes him vibrates through my palm and up my arm.
Matthew's thumb presses into the hollow of my hip, anchoring me as his rhythm deepens. Each thrust drives me forward slightly, into Trenton, and the push-and-pull of it, caught between them, moving with both of them, makes my vision blur at the edges.
"Look at me," Trenton says.
I do. His eyes are dark and completely focused, and the intensity in them is almost unbearable.
Matthew's mouth finds the back of my neck. His lips are hot against my skin, and the contrast—the cool air on my front, his warmth at my back, Trenton's hand still guiding mine—layers into something I can't parse into separate sensations anymore. It's all one thing. It's all them.
"You okay?" Matthew's voice is rough against my ear, and the question is genuine even now.
"Don't stop," I manage. "Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. His pace increases, and the new angle sends a sharp spike of pleasure through me that makes my thighs tremble. My grip on Trenton tightens involuntarily and he exhales hard through his nose, his jaw clenching, his free hand coming up to cup the back of my head.
"Morgan." Just my name. Just that.
I feel myself starting to unravel again, sooner than I expected, the second wave building faster on the foundation of the first, and I'm not ready for it, not braced for it, and somehow that makes it worse and better and completely undeniable.
Matthew's thumb continues to dig into my flesh and I stop thinking in words.
There's just the pressure of his hands, the heat of his chest against my back, the rhythm he's set that my body has already learned and is already chasing.
Each thrust pushes me forward into Trenton, and Trenton's hand tightens over mine, and the feedback loop of it—push, grip, pull, repeat—has dissolved whatever was left of my ability to track anything outside this bed.
My thighs are shaking. I notice that distantly, the way you notice the weather through glass.
"Look at me."
Trenton's voice. Low and direct, no inflection, just the command itself.
I drag my eyes up to his face and the eye contact hits me like a physical thing, his gaze completely fixed, completely present, like the rest of the room has gone dark and I'm the only light source.
There's nothing performative about it. That's what undoes me every time.
He's not watching me the way a man watches something he wants.
He's watching me the way a man watches something he's already decided he will not lose, that belongs to him.
My hand moves over him and his jaw tightens. The small sound he makes travels through my palm and up my arm and lands somewhere in the center of my chest.
His lips are hot, dragging slowly up toward my hairline, and the contrast of that careful tenderness against the relentless drive of his hips makes my brain short-circuit.
I can't reconcile the gentleness of his mouth with the grip of his hands.
I can't reconcile any of this with the past month of five-minute showers and closed doors and Charlie's small feet on the hardwood at six in the morning.
Four hours.
The thought surfaces and dissolves. I don't need four hours. I need exactly this, the weight of Matthew at my back and Trenton's eyes on my face as he watches.
Matthew's grip tightens. His pace shifts, deeper, slower, each thrust intense in a way that makes my breath come out choppy, and I make a sound I don't recognize.
My hold on Trenton tightens. His exhale is sharp and it tips something inside me past the point of no return.
"I'm—" I start, and don't finish, because Matthew chooses that exact moment to drive forward hard and the word dissolves.
The wave crashes through me, and I shatter. My body convulses between them, every muscle going taut then liquid. Matthew's arms tighten around me as I fall apart, his name tumbling from my lips in a broken litany.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin, his voice breaking. "Always got you."
Trenton surges forward, his release spilling hot over my fingers. His face contorts in pleasure, a sight so raw and unguarded I feel it in my core. The three of us collapse together in a tangle of limbs and labored breathing.
For long moments, we lie still, our hearts hammering in chaotic synchronization. I feel the weight of their bodies pressing me into the mattress, their sweat cooling on my skin. My mind floats untethered from the constant vigilance that has become my default state.
"We should shower," Matthew finally says, his voice rough against my neck.
"In a minute," I whisper, unwilling to break this moment of perfect stillness.
Trenton's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. "Charlie's at school until two."
I smile, remembering the conversation from what feels like hours ago. "Four hours."
"Three and a half now," Matthew corrects, but makes no move to get up.
The sunlight shifts across the ceiling, painting patterns through the curtains. In the quiet, I can hear birds outside, a distant lawn mower, the normal sounds of a normal Tuesday. My body feels deliciously wrecked, completely satisfied in a way I'd almost forgotten was possible.
"Morgan," Trenton says softly.
I turn my head to find him watching me with that intense focus that always makes my breath catch. "What?"
"We're happy."
The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything we've survived. I feel tears pricking at my eyes and blink them away.
"Yeah," I say. "We are."
Matthew presses a kiss to my shoulder. "Even when it's hard."
I smile, thinking of Charlie's words that morning. "Especially when it's hard."
We lie there a while longer, tangled together in our bed, in our home. The adoption hearing is next week. Charlie's therapy continues. The security cameras still guard our perimeter. But in this moment, none of that matters.
Just this. Just us. Just the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
My phone buzzes from the nightstand. The screen lights up with a message from the preschool: Charlie had a wonderful morning! She's eating lunch now. Just wanted to check in!
I show it to Trenton and Matthew, who both smile.
"Little warrior," Matthew says, echoing Carter's nickname for her.
"She's doing so well," Trenton adds, pride evident in his voice.
I set the phone back down and snuggle deeper between them. "We all are."
The afternoon stretches before us, full of possibility.
Between my two men. In our home. In our life.
Safe.