CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“Montgomery,” I breathe, the name slipping from my lips like a confession and a plea all at once.
Shoomaker’s hips snap forward in one possessive thrust, driving his cock even deeper inside me as if to remind me exactly who is buried between my thighs. His voice comes out in a low, dangerous growl against my ear.
“You’re really going to moan his fucking name while my cock is stretching you open?”
The raw jealousy in his tone sends another flood of heat through me. I should feel shame. Instead, it only makes me wetter.
I glare up at him, lips trembling, but the words won’t come easily. Not when I’m still clenching desperately around his thick length, teetering on the edge of orgasm.
Montgomery stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his intense gaze devouring the sight of me naked and impaled on another man. His jaw is tight, but his eyes are dark with something far more dangerous than anger.
“Don’t stutter, my rose,” he says, low and commanding. “It isn’t very becoming of you.”
The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with lust, jealousy, and raw need.
A desperate, shameless wave of desire crashes over me. I want them both. Right now. The realization hits me like lightning.
“Come here,” I choke out, my voice husky and broken with arousal. My eyes lock onto Montgomery’s as I reach one hand toward him, even as my other hand grips Shoomaker’s back, nails digging into his skin, holding him deep inside me. “Please… both of you.”
The words hang in the air, shocking even me with their boldness.
Shoomaker’s cock twitches violently inside me. Montgomery’s eyes flare with dark hunger. For a heartbeat, neither man moves, stunned by my confession.
I’m no longer just caught between them.
“I want to be claimed by both of you.”
Montgomery’s eyes bulge with surprise—then something like hunger.
Without hesitation, he closes the door and the distance between us.
Shoomaker’s hand doesn’t leave my skin, but he pulls out and rolls over beside me, just enough, giving Montgomery space.
Montgomery’s fingers brush along my jawline, then trail down my neck, sending shivers coursing through me.
I lean my head up to look at him as I take his hand in mine.
The kiss he presses to my lips is different—urgent, desperate, filled with the weight of all the time lost and pain endured.
Shoomaker watches us, the heat in his gaze not dimming but shifting—a silent acknowledgment, an unspoken truce.
Montgomery’s hands explore my body, gentle but sure, as if reclaiming what he thought was lost.
I am caught in the center—craving them both, needing them both—a fire burning hotter than ever before.
My body arches between them, a live wire strung tight with tension and want. Shoomaker’s fingers trace idle circles along my thigh, his touch possessive but unhurried, while Montgomery devours me with his mouth—lips parting mine, tongue sweeping deep, tasting me like he is starving.
I whimper against him, my hand sliding up into his hair, gripping tight as if to anchor myself. He groans at the contact, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through me.
“You don’t know what it did to me,” he rasps against my lips, breath hot, “watching you there, in that place. Trapped. Caged. I promise you, I wanted to burn it all down, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“You did,” I whisper, voice trembling. “You both did.”
Montgomery’s forehead rests against mine, his eyes wild, dark with need and something deeper. Regret. Relief. Rage barely held at bay.
Behind me, Shoomaker leans in, his lips grazing my shoulder, then higher—a warm exhale against the shell of my ear. “You’ve never looked more alive.”
I shudder.
They are so different—Montgomery all raw edge and anguish, a man still bleeding from everything he can’t say. Shoomaker, on the other hand, is controlled power, always watching, always waiting…until now.
Now, his hand slides up to my waist, wrapping around me as he pulls my back flush to his chest. I feel every hard inch of him. “Let him have you,” he murmurs low against my skin, “and let me watch you fall apart.”
The command, the permission, wrecks me.
Montgomery’s mouth trails down my throat, then lower, unwavering in his descent.
His hands don’t need to uncover anything—I am already bare, laid out before them, a gift neither takes for granted.
Still, he touches me like I am fragile glass, like each brush of his fingers along my ribs and waist are sacred.
Shoomaker’s arm curves tighter around my torso, his mouth brushing against my temple. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in pride and possession. “Laid out like this…and still in control.”
I swallow hard, caught between their presence, their heat, the bruising tenderness of it all. “I don’t want control right now,” I whisper. “I want to feel.”
Montgomery lets out a soft curse, then dips between my thighs, spreading me wider with hands that tremble just slightly—not from hesitation, but from restraint.
“Then feel us,” he says, and his mouth meets me like he is dying for it.
My back arches hard against Shoomaker’s chest, a cry slipping out of me before I can stop it. Shoomaker catches the sound with his lips, kissing me sideways—filthy, like we have all night and he wants to memorize every shape and sound I make.
Montgomery’s tongue moves in calculated strokes, learning me with fervent hunger. His fingers grip my hips, anchoring me as I writhe between them, helpless under the wave crashing through my body.
“Good girl,” Shoomaker whispers between kisses. “Let go. Let him take you there.”
I do. I can’t not.
Pleasure surges—deep and sharp and overwhelming—until I cry out, trembling, my body locking up as I shatter. Montgomery doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let me come down. He keeps going, coaxing another climax from me until I am gasping, boneless and wrecked, clutching Shoomaker’s wrist like a lifeline.
When Montgomery finally pulls back, his face glistening, his mouth swollen and proud. He crawls up beside me, kissing my thigh on the way, then my stomach, chest, neck—until he meets Shoomaker’s gaze across my body.
There is a silent conversation in their locked stares—some shared history I don’t know, some tension still coiled tight between them.
“Are we doing this?” Montgomery asks, voice husky, half a dare.
Shoomaker doesn’t flinch. “She’s the one who asked for you. I’m not the one in denial.”
I suck in a breath.
Montgomery’s jaw tenses. “I’m not.”
Shoomaker arches a brow. “Aren’t you?”
Their bodies loom on either side of me—two storms colliding, and I am the eye of it all. I reach up, threading a hand into each of theirs.
“Then prove it,” I say, voice raw. “Both of you. Right now.”
That snaps something in them.
Shoomaker moves first, shifting to settle between my legs. His mouth captures mine in a brutal kiss, all heat and intent, while Montgomery kisses along my throat, down my shoulder, his hands roaming with new purpose.
“You sure about this, Starling?” Shoomaker asks low against my lips. “You ready for both of us?”
I meet his eyes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Shoomaker’s lips curl into a dangerous smile.
Montgomery’s breath hitches against my skin.
“Then hold on, my rose,” he murmurs. “We’re going to ruin you.”
And I welcome it—the ruin, the worship, the raw heat of their bodies tangling with mine.
Because for the first time in a long, long time…
I want to be ruined.
By them.
Only them.
Shoomaker’s body presses between my thighs, solid and commanding, while Montgomery comes in close behind me, his hand settling on my hip with a quiet reverence that belies the hunger in his eyes.
I am surrounded—heat, muscle, control and none of it feels threatening.
It feels like surrendering to something I am finally safe inside.
Shoomaker leans over me, capturing my lips in a deep, soul-searing kiss as he positions himself at my aching entrance. The heavy, velvet-smooth crown of his cock glides teasingly along my slick folds, rubbing in slow, sensual circles that make my hips jerk helplessly beneath him.
He refuses to hurry.
Instead, he lingers there, savoring the moment, his breathing ragged as he watches every subtle reaction of my body—the way I tremble, the desperate little gasps that escape me, the way my thighs instinctively part wider for him.
His eyes never leave mine, dark and intense, drinking in my need like it sustains him.
Only when my fingers dig frantically into his shoulders and a soft, pleading whimper rises from my throat does he finally push forward—just enough for the thick head to breach me, stretching me open with exquisite pressure.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and velvet. “I want to see every second of you falling apart.”
I meet his gaze.
And then he presses in.
I gasp, legs tightening around his waist as he fills me with a slow, unforgiving slide. I feel every inch, every beat of restraint in his body. Shoomaker’s forehead drops to mine as he bottoms out, a growl low in his throat as he sinks into the heat of me.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel like sin and salvation.”
My hands tighten around his shoulders, anchoring myself as he begins to move—deep thrusts that steal the breath from my lungs.
Montgomery’s lips brush my neck from behind. “You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, his hand stroking down the curve of my back, soothing and sinful all at once. “Open. Gorgeous. Ours.”
I moan, dizzy and desperate.
Shoomaker thrusts harder, hips snapping with more force now, my body jerking with every drag of him inside me. But then Montgomery’s hand slides lower—and I realize what he is doing.
He is stroking himself behind me, slow and measured, his other hand on my waist, steadying me.
“Montgomery…” I whimper, barely coherent. “Don’t wait…”
“I’m not,” he rasps. “I’m making room.”
And then I feel him—the blunt pressure at my back entrance, coaxing, not pushing. Shoomaker slows, lips at my throat now, murmuring, “Breathe, little survivor. Let him in.”
My whole body tenses—not with fear, but with anticipation, the kind that borders on euphoria. I’ve never felt this before. Never.
Montgomery takes his time, fingers teasing first, slick and gentle. Shoomaker holds me still, whispering filthy encouragement against my skin while rocking into me in slow, deep pulses that keep me trembling on the edge.
“Almost there,” Montgomery says, voice strained. “You’re doing so good for us.”
And then…he pushes inside.
I cry out—not in pain, but shock. Full. So full I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move.
They stay still.
Let me feel it.
Let me have it.
And then they move—perfectly in sync, a rhythm that rocks me between them. Shoomaker thrusts forward while Montgomery pulls back, and the reverse. A rhythm like a heartbeat, like a symphony of sin and pleasure.
It is too much.
It is everything.
Shoomaker’s mouth never leaves mine, Montgomery’s hand never stops stroking my clit in slow, tight circles that make my thighs quake.
I am crying now—from the intensity, from the release I am hurtling toward again, from the sheer gravity of being held this way by two men who aren’t here to break me…
They are here to claim me.
And I let them.
“I can’t—” I gasp, teetering. “I—”
“Yes, you can,” Shoomaker growls, picking up speed. “Give it to us.”
Montgomery grits out, “Let go, my rose. We’ve got you.”
And I do.
Pleasure explodes through me like lightning tearing across the sky — a blinding, cataclysmic wave that obliterates everything I am.
My body seizes violently between them, every muscle locking tight as I shatter into a thousand brilliant pieces.
A raw, broken sob tears from my throat as I cry their names like sacred prayers, like salvation.
“Garrett…Montgomery—”
Shoemaker follows with a guttural, devastating groan, burying himself to the hilt as he erupts inside me. His release is fierce and endless, his powerful body shuddering against mine as he pours every ounce of his passion deep into me, claiming me with trembling, possessive force.
Montgomery is only seconds behind. A sharp gasp, a low, filthy curse against my neck, and then he’s pulsing hard behind me, flooding me with heat as he clutches my body tightly against his chest. His forehead presses into the curve of my neck, breath ragged and hot against my skin, as if he’s pouring his very soul into me.
We stay there—tangled, shaking, gasping for air like we’ve barely survived something.
Because we have.
I am more than wrecked. I am undone.
But in their arms, I don’t feel used.
I feel rebuilt.
Shoomaker’s hand moves to my face, brushing sweat-matted hair from my cheek. “You still breathing, Starling?”
I laugh—hoarse and raw—and nod.
Montgomery kisses my shoulder. “Good. Because that was just the beginning.”
And for the first time in my life, I don’t dread what comes next.
I crave it.