Chapter 27
REID
The kitchen feels like Christmas morning if Christmas morning wanted to fuck.
I'm at the sink, rinsing the last of the dinner plates, but I'm not thinking about dishes. Not even a little. My hands are going through the motions — soap, scrub, rinse — while my attention is bolted to the two people behind me.
Laine is wiping down the table. Jerky strokes. Fast. She's wound so tight I can feel it from here, five feet away, like standing next to a transformer box humming at a frequency that makes your teeth itch.
And Blake.
Blake is leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, watching her.
Not even trying to hide it. He's got this look on his face — dark, hungry, something I've never seen on him before.
He wound her up on purpose. That "Yes, ma'am" bullshit was calculated, surgical, and now he's just standing there watching her come apart at the seams.
I shut off the faucet.
The silence is loud.
Laine drops the sponge in the sink. Misses the holder completely. "I'm going to... I should go unpack. Properly. I left the wine upstairs."
She's rambling. She looks like she's about to crawl out of her own skin.
Blake pushes off the fridge. Catches my eye.
We don't need words. We spent years communicating with hand signals and head nods in environments where you couldn't hear yourself think. A quiet kitchen in Oregon? Easy. I see the question in his expression, and the offer.
She's ready. You got this?
I give him a small nod.
Blake's mouth quirks. He looks at Laine. "I'm heading to the shop."
Laine freezes, looking between us, eyes wide and dark. "You're... working? Now?"
"Got a deadline."
He starts toward the back door, passing right by her. But he doesn't keep walking.
He stops.
He steps into her space, crowding her back against the counter until her hips hit the granite. Laine gasps, her head tilting back, looking up at him with startled eyes.
"You're shaking," Blake murmurs.
"I'm not," she breathes, but her voice gives her away.
"Liar."
Blake reaches out, and his hand tangles in the hair at the nape of her neck. He doesn't pull—not quite—just holds her there, grip firm. Slow. Deliberate. He tips her head to the side, exposing her throat.
Laine's breath catches. Audible.
Then he lowers his head and sinks his teeth into the sensitive cord of her neck.
My hand finds the edge of the counter and locks on.
It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's a claim.
Laine makes this wrecked, high-pitched sound that goes straight through me—down my spine and into someplace low and hot I wasn't prepared for.
Her hands clutch at his t-shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, knuckles white.
Blake holds the bite for a long second. Long enough that I can see the flush spreading down her neck, hear the ragged edge in her breathing.
Then he soothes the spot with his tongue.
Jesus.
I'm gripping the counter hard enough that the edge bites into my fingers. Mouth dry. Something just shifted—some wall I didn't know was there cracked clean open—and I can't look away. Don't want to look away.
When he pulls back, it's barely an inch. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. But his voice is controlled. Low and rough.
"You look like a mess, Laine. So desperate." He drags his thumb over her bottom lip. "He's gonna take such good care of you."
He releases her and walks out the back door without looking back.
Laine is panting, her hand flying up to cover the spot on her neck. She looks wrecked.
"He did that on purpose," she chokes out.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. Rougher than I intended. I clear my throat and it doesn't help. "He did."
"It's infuriating."
"Is it?"
I dry my hands on a towel. Take my time with it. Mostly because I need a second to get my shit together. Heart's hammering like I just ran a code, fingers not entirely steady, and every time I blink I'm seeing Blake's teeth on her throat.
Didn't expect that. Not the him-doing-it part.
The me-wanting-to-watch part.
I'm going to file that shit away, and deal with it later.
Because right now Laine is standing in my kitchen looking like a lit match, and Blake just handed me the fuse.
Two strides. That's all it takes to cross the kitchen.
She turns to face me. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and wild.
God, she's beautiful.
"Reid—"
I don't let her finish. My hand wraps around the back of her neck — right over where Blake's hand just was, skin still warm — and I kiss her.
It's not gentle. It's a month of taking it slow and being respectful and keeping my hands shoved in my pockets going up in smoke.
Every careful distance I've maintained just — gone.
Torched. And underneath all of it, this roaring relief that she's here.
That she came back. That I get to touch her again.
She makes a desperate noise against my mouth.
Good.
I want her marks on me. Proof she's here. Proof this is real and not another dream where I wake up alone in a cold bed reaching for someone who isn't there.
"Bedroom," I manage against her lips.
"Now," she demands. Voice wrecked. "Right now, Reid. I can't — I need —"
She doesn't finish. Doesn't have to.
I sweep her up, arms hooking under her thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist immediately, like her body knows exactly where it belongs. Her face buries into my neck, and then her teeth graze the skin just below my jaw.
My knees actually buckle.
Fuck.
She's going to kill me. Cause of death: teeth. Tony's gonna have to write that report and I hope he spells my name right.
"You keep doing that," I grit out, "we're not making it to the bedroom."
"Then walk faster." She bites down lightly.
Jesus Christ.
I carry her through the living room and up the stairs. My quads are screaming. Don't care. I've carried guys in full kit up worse stairs than these. She's making these little sounds against my throat — breathy, needy — and I'm pretty sure I'd carry her up a mountain right now if she asked.
I take the stairs two at a time.
My bedroom door is half-open. I kick it the rest of the way and don't bother closing it behind us. Don't bother with lights either. The hallway throws enough glow to see by.
I drop her on the mattress. She bounces, hair fanning out across the pillows. Gray sheets, dark hair, pale skin.
Mine.
The thought hits before I can filter it. This is where she belongs. In this house. In this bed. With us.
I come down over her, bracing my weight on my forearms. Her hands are already at my belt, fumbling, impatient.
"Reid, please."
"I've got you." I catch her hands, pin them to the mattress above her head. Her wrists are small in my grip. Her pulse hammers against my fingers, fast and wild, like a bird throwing itself at a window. "Laine. Look at me."
She blinks her eyes open. Glassy. Unfocused.
"I'm right here," I say. "I'm not going anywhere."
Her face crumbles. Just a little. Something behind her eyes finally giving way.
"I missed you."
There she is. Under all the heat and the urgency — there's the woman who found it in her heart to give me another chance. Give us a chance.
"I know." The words come out rough. I let go of one wrist to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Missed you too. So much, Laine."
I kiss her jaw. Work my way down to her throat. There's a red mark blooming on the side of her neck — Blake's mark. I press my lips to it. Not to erase it. To add to it. To tell her without words that this is okay. That we're okay. All three of us.
She shivers.
Her hands find my belt again and this time I don't stop her. Can't. The slide of her fingers against my waistband, the focused determination on her face—I've thought about this. Lying in this bed alone for a month, I have thought about exactly this.
Not even close.
When I finally sink into her, the sound I make is embarrassing. Don't care. She's warm and tight and here, and for a second my brain just whites out. Nothing exists except the feeling of her around me and the way her back arches and the broken cry she gives that I catch with my mouth.
God. Laine.
It's not slow. We don't have patience for slow.
I drive into her, deep and steady, and every thrust feels like an answer to something.
Every sound she makes rewires something in my chest. I bury my face in her neck and breathe her in—her shampoo, her skin, that faint sweetness that's just her—and months of missing her just empties out of me. All of it. Gone.
"Reid, Reid, Reid—"
She chants my name. Her nails rake down my back. I feel her tightening around me, feel her getting close, and I want to stay in this moment forever. If I could save one sound to replay for the rest of my life, it'd be that.
"Let go," I manage. "I've got you, Laine. Let go."
She does.
I feel it ripple through her—feel her clamp down around me, her whole body shaking, nails biting into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks I'll feel tomorrow. I follow her over seconds later, burying my face in the curve of her neck, and for a few seconds the world goes quiet and warm and still.
The room is dark. Only light is from the hallway.
Laine is asleep on my chest, breathing deep and even. Her hand is flat over my heart like she's keeping count.
I'm wide awake.
I run my hand up and down her bare back, tracing her spine. My body feels heavy. Drained. Good. Better than good.
I listen to the house.
It's quiet, but not empty. Through the open window, I can hear the high-pitched whine of a table saw from the workshop.
Blake.
He's out there. Working. Giving us this.
A month ago, I would've felt guilty. Like I was stealing something, or rubbing it in his face. But tonight, listening to that saw, I just feel... settled. He knows she's with me. He knows she's safe. And he's okay with it.
Or mostly okay. We've dealt with a lot of shit in our own heads over the last couple of months, but we've worked through it. We're all mature and shit.
I pull the duvet up higher, tucking it around Laine's shoulders. She mumbles something and snuggles closer, her leg hooking over mine.
The saw goes quiet.
I hold my breath for a beat, two, three — waiting for it to kick back on.
Nothing. Blake's done for the night, then.
I can picture it exactly: him brushing sawdust off his forearms, clicking the shop lock, crossing the yard without bothering to look up at the stars or anything remotely poetic because he's Blake.
He'll skip the shower. Just drop into bed smelling like cedar and polyurethane, and that'll be that.
I wonder if he's out there thinking about us.
Thinking about the same thing.
Part of me wishes I could be there. When it's his turn with her.
My brain catches on that and won't let go.
Because earlier — the kitchen — Blake's teeth on her neck, my hand in her hair, the way she just melted between us — that wasn't me gritting through it.
That wasn't tolerance. That was something else entirely.
Something with actual heat behind it. And look, I'm still not into guys.
I don't want Blake's hands on me. That needle hasn't moved.
But watching him take our girl apart? That slow, controlled, deliberate thing he does where he just — disassembles her, piece by piece, like he already knows the blueprint?
Yeah. I want to see that.
And I'm not going to apologize for it.
Laine shifts against me, her breath warm on my collarbone. I tighten the arm I've got looped around her and pull her in closer. She makes this sound — not awake, not asleep, somewhere soft in between — and burrows into me like I'm the only solid thing in the room.
"Mmph."
"Shh." I press my lips to the top of her head. "Go back to sleep."
She mumbles something that sounds like "cold" and throws her leg higher over my hip. The movement shifts the duvet, exposing her shoulder. Goosebumps rise on her skin.
I pull the covers back up, tucking them around her. My hand lingers on her bare shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles.
She's quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think she's drifted off.
"Reid?"
"Mm?"
"Is this... is this really going to work?" Her voice is small. Sleep-rough. "The three of us. Is it actually possible, or are we just... pretending?"
Fair question. The question I've been asking myself for weeks, lying awake in this bed, staring at the ceiling.
What if Blake can't handle it? What if I can't? What if jealousy tears us apart, or resentment builds up until something breaks?
I don't have guarantees. I've never done this before. Neither has she. Neither has Blake. We're making it up as we go.
"Honestly?" I let out a breath. "I have no idea."
She tenses against me.
"That's terrifying," she whispers.
"Little bit, yeah." I shift so I can see her face. Her eyes are wide open now, sleep gone, fear right there on the surface. "I can't promise it's going to work. There's going to be hard stuff. Jealousy. Miscommunication. Days when one of us feels left out or says the wrong thing."
"You're really bad at pep talks."
I almost laugh. "I'm not done." I tip her chin up. "Here's what I know. I love you. Blake loves you. And Blake and I—we'd walk through fire for each other. We already have. That's not nothing."
She's watching me. Waiting.
"And I've never seen him like this, Laine. Since you. Since us." I brush hair off her face. "He laughs. He actually laughs now. You know how long it's been since I heard that? Years."
Her eyes go glassy.
"So no, I can't promise it'll work. But going back? Pretending this isn't what it is?" I shake my head. "Can't do it. Don't want to."
"What if I mess it up?" she whispers. "What if I hurt one of you?"
"Then we deal with it. Together. That's the whole point."
She lets out a shaky breath and buries her face in my neck. I feel moisture against my skin.
"I'm scared," she admits.
"Me too." I run my hand up and down her spine. "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."
She laughs, wet. "That's cheesy."
"It's true."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"Go to sleep, Laine."
She snuggles closer, body finally relaxing into mine. Her breathing evens out within minutes.
I stay awake a little longer, listening to the house settle. The creak of old wood. The hum of the refrigerator. The silence from the workshop.
Laine's hand twitches against my chest. Dreaming.
I press my mouth to her hair and close my eyes.
Please let this work. Please let us not screw it up.
It's the closest thing to a prayer I've said in years.