Chapter 59
LAINE
Blake's mouth is on my neck before the bathroom door finishes closing.
Three weeks without proper sex.
I'm not saying I've been counting. But I've been counting. Reid and I were together this morning, but it’s like until I get both of them, I can’t be satisfied. I’ve turned into some lust-crazed woman, and I’m so okay with that.
"Waited all day." His voice is rough against my skin, teeth grazing my pulse point. "All fucking day."
His hands are everywhere—pulling my shirt over my head, unhooking my bra with practiced efficiency, shoving my jeans down my hips with barely contained impatience.
Not gentle. Not patient. Between his day job and building the cottage, I haven't had enough time with him.
With either of them. Three weeks of sick kids and exhaustion and falling asleep before anyone could start anything.
Now he's done waiting. Done pretending he's not desperate.
I reach for his shirt but he bats my hands away.
"No." He spins me toward the shower, reaches past me to turn the water on. "Just you. I want to see you."
The water's not even warm yet when he pushes me under the spray.
I gasp at the cold shock against my heated skin and he swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me hard enough that I stop caring about the temperature.
His tongue slides against mine, demanding, and I grip his shoulders just to stay upright.
Seven years. Seven years and he still kisses me like he's starving.
Then he steps back. Strips off his own clothes—shirt pulled over his head in one motion, jeans shoved down, boxer briefs following.
I watch every movement, every reveal of scarred skin and hard muscle.
Forty-four years old and he still makes my mouth water.
Broad shoulders, rough hands, and right now, hard enough that I can see him twitch under my gaze.
The water's warming now, steam rising around us.
"Turn around."
I turn. Press my palms flat against the slick tile.
This is it. This is how I die. Death by Blake Moore in a steam shower on Christmas Eve.
Worse ways to go.
He's behind me immediately, the heat of his body a contrast to the water sluicing down my spine. One hand grips my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The other slides between my thighs, checking. Finding me already wet—and not from the shower.
"Good girl." He groans the words against my ear. "So ready for me."
"Been ready for you for three weeks."
"Three weeks." His fingers slide through my folds, teasing, circling where I need him but never quite giving me enough pressure. "That's too long. Way too fucking long."
"Then stop talking and—"
He thrusts into me.
I cry out, hands slipping on the wet tile as my body stretches to accommodate him. He catches me—one arm banded across my stomach, holding me up, holding me still while he sinks all the way in.
"Fuck." His forehead drops to my shoulder, his chest heaving against my back. "Fuck, Laine."
He doesn't move. Just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard. I can feel him pulse inside me, feel the tremor running through his thighs where they press against mine.
"Blake—"
"Give me a second." His voice is strained, almost pained. "Just... give me a second."
I wait. Not patiently—patience stopped being an option three weeks ago—but I wait.
Then he pulls out slowly. Slams back in hard.
I moan, the sound echoing off the tile walls.
"That," he growls against my ear. "That sound. Needed to hear that sound."
He sets a brutal pace after that. Hard and fast, no buildup, no finesse—just raw need driving every thrust. The arm across my stomach keeps me pinned against him, keeps me exactly where he wants me while he takes what he needs.
What I need too. God, what I need.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "Want to feel you come."
I slide my hand down, find my clit. Circle it in time with his thrusts.
"That's it." His teeth graze my shoulder. "That's my girl. So good for me."
The pressure builds fast. Too fast. I'm wound too tight, it's been too long, and Blake knows exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spot that makes my vision blur.
"Come." He bites down on my shoulder. "Now."
I shatter.
My whole body seizes, clenching around him, and he groans like I'm killing him. His hips stutter, rhythm breaking, and then he's coming too—pulsing inside me, his arm crushing me against his chest.
We stay like that for a long moment. Water streaming over us, both of us shaking.
Then Blake laughs. Low and breathless against my neck.
"Twelve minutes," he says. "Guess we showed him."
"That was not twelve minutes."
"No." He kisses my shoulder, right where he bit me. Gentle now. "That was about four. I'll do better next round."
Next round.
Right. Because Blake's still half-hard inside me, and the night is young, and Reid is waiting in the bedroom.
I remember the morning after our first time together.
All three of us on the couch, tangled and terrified and pretending we weren't. I'd slipped into this same bathroom at dawn and had a mild panic attack against the door.
Everything felt too big. The idea of both of them—wanting both of them, being wanted by both of them—it was overwhelming.
Too much. I'd splashed water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror and thought: You can still run.
You can still get out before this gets complicated.
But I'd opened the door. And they were both awake, watching me with careful eyes, and Reid had said, "Breakfast?" like it was the most normal thing in the world.
So I'd stayed for breakfast. And then I'd stayed for seven years.
Blake pulls out slowly. Turns me around to face him.
His eyes are softer now. Still dark with want, but there's tenderness there too. The Blake who builds things with his hands and holds all three kids at once and still sometimes looks at me like he can't believe I'm real.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Hey yourself."
He cups my face. Kisses me slow and deep, completely different from the desperate thing against the tile. This is savoring. This is gratitude.
"Love you," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Love you too."
He reaches past me and turns off the water. Grabs a towel from the rack.
"Come here."
He dries me off like I'm something precious. Careful with my hair, gentle over my breasts, thorough between my thighs. I shiver under his hands.
"Cold?"
"No."
His mouth curves. He knows exactly what he's doing.
When he's finished, he wraps the towel around me and lifts me into his arms. Just like that—one arm under my knees, one around my back, carrying me like I weigh nothing.
"I can walk."
"Don't want you to."
He carries me out of the bathroom, down the short hallway, into our bedroom.
Reid's already there.
He's stretched out on the bed, shirtless, watching us with dark eyes. His jeans are undone but still on, like he started to strip and then decided to wait. To watch.
"Have fun?" His voice is low. Amused.
"Adequate," I say.
Blake snorts. "Adequate. She screamed."
"Heard that."
"Then you know it was better than adequate."
Reid's gaze travels down my body—the towel, my bare shoulders, my wet hair. His jaw tightens.
"Bring her here."
Blake crosses to the bed and sets me down in the middle. The towel falls open, and Reid's eyes go darker.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at you."
Two men staring at me like I'm something to devour.
Forty years old. Three kids. My left boob is definitely lower than it used to be. I found a gray hair down there last week and had a minor existential crisis in the bathroom.
And these two are looking at me like I'm a goddamn meal.
So either they're both delusional, or I need to stop being so hard on myself.
Probably both.
Last week, these same two men were covered in kid vomit at 3 AM.
We'd been passing sick children back and forth for hours—Caleb to Reid, June to Blake, Iris to whoever had a free arm.
Everyone exhausted. Everyone disgusting.
Reid had puke on his shirt and hadn't even noticed.
Blake had Iris crying into his neck, snot smeared across his collarbone.
And I remember looking at them and thinking: God, I love them. God, they're still so sexy. What is wrong with me?
Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. This is just what seven years of loving someone looks like. You see them at their worst and you still want them. You see them covered in your children's bodily fluids and you still think about what you want to do to them when the kids are finally asleep.
Blake climbs onto the bed behind me. Still naked, still half-hard. He pulls me back against his chest, spreads my thighs with his knees.
"She's all yours," he says to Reid. "For now."
Reid moves fast. He's between my legs before I can blink, hands sliding up my thighs, mouth following.
"Reid—"
"Shh." He presses a kiss to my inner thigh. "My turn."
His mouth finds my center and I arch into him. Blake's hands come up to cup my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers while Reid licks into me with devastating precision.
Two mouths. Four hands. Seven years of learning exactly what I need.
"She's close," Blake says against my ear. "See how she's shaking?"
Reid hums against me in response, and I gasp.
"That's it, sweetheart." Blake's mouth is hot against my ear. "Let him make you feel good."
Reid slides two fingers inside me and crooks them just right. His tongue circles my clit in tight, relentless patterns.
I break apart.
This orgasm is different from the one in the shower—slower, deeper, rolling through me in waves while Reid works me through it. I'm still shaking when he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Better than adequate?" he asks.
I can't form words. Just nod.
He grins. Predatory. "Good. Because I'm not done."
He strips off his jeans. His boxers. He's fully hard now, thick and flushed, and when he settles between my thighs I can feel him pressing against my entrance.
"Yes," I manage. "Please."
He pushes in slow. Inch by inch, letting me feel every bit of him while Blake holds me open. When he's fully seated, all three of us groan.
"Missed this," Reid breathes. "Missed you. Both of you."
He starts to move. Long, slow strokes that make me feel every inch. Blake's still behind me, hands on my breasts, mouth on my neck. The two of them working in tandem, like they always do. Like they've always done, from the very beginning.
"Harder," I gasp.
Reid obliges. His pace picks up, hips snapping against mine, and Blake's fingers slide down to circle my clit.
"One more," Blake says. "Give us one more."
"I can't—"
"You can." Reid's voice is strained. "You always can."
I hate them. I love them. I hate that they're right.
Why are they always right about this? It's infuriating. It's—
Oh. God. Nevermind. It’s not infuriating. They can be as right as they want, as often as they want as long as I keep feeling like this.
They're relentless. Reid thrusting into me, Blake's fingers on my clit, both of them murmuring praise and encouragement. I'm oversensitized, overwhelmed, right on the edge of too much—
And then I'm coming again.
Reid follows a second later, burying himself deep and groaning my name. I feel him pulse inside me, feel Blake's hand slow on my clit, feel everything go soft and warm and perfect.
We collapse in a tangle of limbs. Reid on one side, Blake on the other, me in the middle where I belong.
For a long moment, no one speaks. We just breathe.
Then Reid props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me.
"So," he says. "About that fourth baby."
I laugh. Can't help it. These two. These two. I just gave them multiple orgasms and they're already negotiating for more children. No shame. No subtlety. Just—hey, great sex, want to do pregnancy again?
Who does that?
My husbands. My husbands do that.
We've been having this conversation for months—them pushing, me deflecting. Not because I don't want another baby, but because three already feels like tempting fate. Three is chaos. Three is zone defense. Four would be... insanity.
Beautiful insanity. But still.
"You're relentless," I say.
"We're persuasive," Blake corrects. His hand slides down to rest on my stomach. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Relentless implies we're annoying. Persuasive implies we're charming."
"You're both."
Reid grins. "But you love us."
"Unfortunately."
I remember the pregnancy test with Caleb.
All three of us crammed into this bathroom, hovering over a peed-on stick like it held the secrets of the universe.
It was an accident—we hadn't planned, weren't ready, had barely figured out how to be three people in a relationship let alone three people raising a child.
But Reid's hand had been shaking. And Blake hadn't blinked in forty-five seconds. And when those two pink lines appeared, they'd both exhaled like they'd been holding their breath for years.
It was too soon. Wrong timing. Not the plan.
But I looked at their faces—the hope, the terror, the desperate wanting—and I knew. Even if we weren't ready, this was right. This was always going to be right.
"Okay," I say.
Reid blinks. "Okay?"
"Okay let's have another baby."
Silence.
Blake sits up. "Wait. Really?"
"Really."
"You're not just saying that because we—"
"Blake." I reach up and touch his face. "I'm saying it because I want to. Because every time I watch you two with the kids, I think about how much love we have in this house. And how there's room for more."
Reid's staring at me like I've just handed him the sun. "Laine..."
"Don't make it weird. I'm already regretting this decision. Do you know what pregnancy does to my body? Do you remember what I was like with Iris? I cried because a commercial had a puppy in it. A puppy, Reid."
"I remember." He's grinning now. "I also remember other things pregnancy does to your body."
"Pervert."
"You love it."
I do. I really do.
Blake pulls me against his chest, arms wrapped tight around me. His heart is pounding—I can feel it against my back.
"Thank you," he says quietly. Just for me.
"For what?"
"For staying. For all of it. For giving me a family I never thought I'd have."
My throat tightens. Blake doesn't say things like this often. He shows love through actions—through cottages and breakfasts and the way he holds our children like they're the most precious things in the world. Words are harder for him.
Which makes the ones he does say matter more.
"Thank you for building me a place to stay," I whisper back.
Reid's hand finds mine. Squeezes.
We lie there in the quiet, the three of us tangled together. Tomorrow will be chaos—kids at dawn, presents everywhere, my parents wanting to help with breakfast. Real life will come crashing back in.
But right now, in this bed, with these two men who somehow became my whole world—
Right now is perfect.
"So," Reid says eventually. "Should we start trying tonight, or...?"
I shove a pillow in his face.