Nine
The room is louder now, even in silence.
The quiet aftershock of Brielle’s orgasm hums beneath her skin, every nerve ending slow and liquid, and for the first time in her life, she doesn’t want the feeling to fade.
Leo is still there above her on the couch, breathing hard but holding steady. His eyes—fuck, those eyes—track every twitch, every ragged inhale, like he’s memorizing the exact shape of her unraveling.
Jason sits at her side, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers absently twisting the ends of her hair. He hasn’t touched her anywhere else since, but the presence is enough to anchor her.
She expects regret.
Expects guilt to rear up sharp and ugly, the way it always does after she gets what she wants.
Instead, what she feels is more.
Not satisfied.
Sharpened.
Like she’s finally met her own body in person.
Leo’s hand moves in slow circles against her thigh where her leggings are still bunched. Careful. Measured. He looks at her before he moves any higher, waiting for the smallest signal.
The realization nearly undoes her again.
He’s letting her decide.
Every step.
She smiles—real this time, unguarded—and guides his hand higher.
Not a challenge.
An answer.
His thumb skims the seam of her leggings, stopping just shy of the waistband. He flicks a glance toward Jason, brief but instinctive.
Jason’s response is nothing more than a slight tilt of his head.
“Don’t wait for me,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “She knows what she wants.”
Heat floods through her so fast she almost laughs.
Leo’s hand slips beneath the waistband, slow enough to make her ache for it. His palm settles against her and she exhales sharply, her entire body reigniting at once.
She wants to say:
This is insane. Are you really okay with this?
But the thought dissolves the second Jason’s hand slides from her hair to her jaw.
“Let him, Bri,” he murmurs, thumb brushing beneath her chin. “Let yourself.”
Her hips tilt up instinctively, needy before she can hide it. Leo’s hand moves over the thin cotton of her underwear, patient and deliberate, every touch adjusted to the way her body reacts beneath him.
He watches her face the entire time.
Listening with his hands.
Jason leans close enough that his mouth brushes her ear.
“You’re gorgeous when you let go.”
The words hit almost as hard as Leo’s touch.
She gasps, sharp and disbelieving, the sound dragged out of her before she can soften it.
“Good?” Leo asks quietly, thumb circling now, steady and insistent.
She nods once, then shakes her head immediately after.
“More.”
Something in him snaps at that.
Not control.
Restraint.
He presses harder, slips beneath the cotton, dragging his thumb over her clit with devastating precision. Her entire body arches off the couch.
Jason catches her instantly, one strong hand bracing the small of her back, holding her steady as she trembles.
Leo’s mouth finds her neck, breath hot against her skin, stubble scraping sparks through her body.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he mutters.
She should answer.
Instead, she fists his shirt and drags him into another kiss hard enough to bruise.
Jason watches from inches away, hand still firm against her spine, and his expression is unlike anything she’s ever seen before.
Not possessiveness.
Not pride.
Something deeper.
Hunger tangled with reverence.
“Don’t be gentle with her,” Jason says quietly. “She doesn’t like gentle.”
Leo understands immediately.
His hand tightens, fingers curling until one slips inside her, thick and perfect, crooking just enough to pull a cry straight from her chest.
The sound rings through the living room.
She feels both of them everywhere at once—Leo’s touch wrecking her from the inside out, Jason’s steady presence keeping her from flying apart completely.
It feels like standing at the center of a storm and realizing she doesn’t want shelter.
Leo pulls back just enough to study her face, watching the way her body moves under his hand.
“That good?” he asks softly.
But he already knows.
He’s already working a second finger inside her, already finding the rhythm that makes her vision blur at the edges.
“Fuck—yes,” she gasps. “Don’t stop.”
Jason laughs under his breath, delighted by the sound of her.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful right now.”
His hand slips beneath her shirt, fingertips stroking the bare skin above her bra, and for one dizzy heartbeat she sees herself through his eyes:
Wild.
Greedy.
Undone.
Leo’s hand between her legs. Jason’s hand against her ribs.
Not shameful.
Not divided.
Chosen.
The realization hits harder than the pleasure.
She tries to say something—thank you, maybe, or I love you, or holy shit—but the words dissolve into another broken sound when Leo’s fingers curl again, hitting somewhere so deep she nearly folds in half.
“Look at me,” Jason says.
She forces her eyes open through the haze and finds him watching her with absolute focus.
“You can take it,” he says.
And she does.
The orgasm crashes through her without warning, violent and sharp. Her body arches hard off the couch, legs trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave tears through her.
Leo holds her through it.
Jason steadies her through it.
She feels herself clench, release, shatter, then slowly come back together piece by piece while her lungs struggle to catch up.
Leo finally slows, gentling his touch before withdrawing completely. He wipes his hand on his shirt without looking away from her, eyes softer now, almost awed.
Jason pulls her against him and kisses her temple.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
This time, it doesn’t sound performative.
It sounds wrecked.
Brielle laughs—a little manic, a little breathless—as she collapses against both of them.
“Holy shit,” she says.