Chapter 22 Bellamy
TWENTY-TWO
BELLAMY
It’s the heat that wakes me, creeping in like a reminder of everything I shouldn’t want. Too warm for the blanket twisted around my waist. Too warm for the uneven hum of the AC unit rattling in the corner, pushing out air that smells faintly like dust and something stale baked into the walls.
My skin feels… aware. Hypersensitive. Like I’ve been lying in the same position too long and every point of contact has sharpened.
My eyes adjust to the dark, and Gage is facing me. Close enough that I can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against my mouth. His hair is a little messy, falling into his eyes, his face relaxed in a way I don’t usually get to see when he’s awake.
One arm tucked under his head. The other resting between us, fingers loose against the mattress. My knee is bent toward him, pressed lightly against his thigh.
That’s when I feel it—the slow, unmistakable press of a hard cock against the curve of my ass.
Cruz.
I have no idea when they both came to bed, but I know I went to bed alone, and I don’t hate waking up to both of them.
Fingers twitch along my stomach, absently stroking the skin underneath my belly button, and it sends a soft wave of goosebumps over my skin.
He breathes deeply behind me, the warmth of his exhales stirring the loose hair by my ear, igniting something inside me that I can’t quite ignore.
The touch is feather-light, just enough to make me wonder if I’m imagining it, if the nerves keyed up along my skin are exaggerating everything in the dark.
I breathe slow, feeling his hand pause as if it’s listening.
It moves again—a careful slide beneath the hem of Gage’s hoodie. My body goes alert. Not fight or flight—just a bone-deep electric tension, like the moment before a power line snaps.
“I know you’re awake, baby girl.” His voice is a whisper against the shell of my ear.
My breath hitches, my muscles flexing with surprise. My gaze flies to Gage in front of me, but his chest still moves with deep, even breaths.
“What ar—”
His hand slides out from underneath our pillow, his palm sealing over my mouth. “We don’t want to wake my brother up, do we?”
Lust unfurls inside me, like some toxic night-blooming flower. It feels wrong in a good way, like at any moment we could get caught.
Or even better—watched.
I shake my head slowly, my hands curling around both of his arms.
He breathes a laugh into my ear. “Good girl.”
His casual praise rewires something in my brain, like taking over executive function. My back arches without my permission, pressing my ass into him.
His fingertips momentarily flex into my skin as he makes this little noise in the back of his throat.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Bells.” He trails the tips of his fingers over my ribs, then lower, until his hand finds the edge of my underwear. Each pass drags my breath out a little thinner, a little tighter, until I’m not sure if I’m shivering or pulsing in time with my heart.
He breathes in, like he’s taking me into his lungs. “Fuck, you smell good,” he says, so low it’s almost a vibration instead of a voice.
He drags the blunt end of his nail along the top, his fingertips barely grazing the skin on my lower abdomen.
I melt into his touch, the wave of desire now licking at my thighs.
Anticipation coats my tongue, sweet and heady like warm honey.
My hand glides from his forearm to his wrist, urging him on.
His breath is hot on my neck, lips finding that spot just beneath my ear—the one that makes my breath hitch.
“I’ve pictured this so many times,” he whispers, “I’m sure this must be a dream.”
My mouth opens to reply, but his palm presses gently against my lips, silencing me.
”Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.” He doesn’t move his hand. Just holds it there, palm flat against my stomach, fingers spread wide, waiting.
I know exactly what’s on the other side of this. I know that if I don’t say anything, we cross something we can’t uncross. My pulse is loud in my ears, loud enough that I’m half-convinced he can feel it through my skin.
I shake my head.
His exhale is slow and controlled, but I feel his fingers curl—just slightly—like he’d been holding something back and just let a fraction of it go.
He presses his lips to the curve of my neck, unhurried, and the warmth of it spreads down my throat and into my chest. His tongue traces a slow line just beneath my ear, so light it barely registers, and yet my whole body pulls taut in response.
This has been years of almost. Years of looking away at the wrong moment, of standing too close and stepping back.
His fingertips trace the edge of my thong with a patience that borders on cruel, mapping that crease where my leg meets my hip like he has all the time in the world.
The fabric is almost nothing, and somehow that makes it worse.
My hips tilt toward him before I can stop them—a small, involuntary betrayal.
He notices. His fingers still for just a second, and I feel the curve of a smile against my shoulder.
Gage’s chest rises and falls inches from my face.
My breath is already coming too fast, too shallow, and Cruz hasn’t even—he’s barely touched me. But I can’t make myself care. I press back into him instead, chasing the pressure, and his fingers flex once against my hip like a warning he has no intention of following through on.
I’ve waited years for him to touch me like this—a craving that has grown claws and dug itself deep into my flesh. He hauls me closer, the line of his body fitting against mine like we were made for this moment. Heat radiates between us, and I can feel every contour of him pressing against me.
“Let’s find out how quiet you can be.” His words curl low in my stomach, a delicious thrill that propels me forward. I rock my ass into him again, a quiet whimper escaping my lips as I feel the hard length of him, thick and demanding against my back.
I fucking want it.
“Yeah, baby girl. I know.”
His fingertips slip beneath the side of my thong, and I inhale sharply, holding the air in my lungs as if it could steady me. He doesn’t tease or prolong the anticipation; he knows what he’s doing. His fingers trace the line of my pussy, dipping into the wetness already gathering there.
“Already wet for me?” he groans, his approval rolls over me like a slow wave.
I can’t help it; my hips rock forward, instinctively pressing against his hand, seeking more contact, more pressure. He parts my folds, and I’m already so sensitive that every brush feels amplified, overwhelming.
He drags my own arousal up to my clit, the pad of his middle finger swirling around, driving me to the edge with agonizingly sweet slowness. The pressure builds; my body tightens in response, craving release.
“Cruz,” I murmur, barely a whisper.
“Patience, baby girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “You’ve made me wait for so long, now it’s your turn.”
He knows exactly how to edge me, how to keep me on the precipice without letting me fall over. His fingers dance around my clit, never quite giving me enough to push me over the edge.
He eases one finger inside me, then another, stretching me slowly. His breath hitches as he feels me clench around him.
“Fuck, Bells,” he groans. “Your cunt is gripping my fingers so tight.” He pumps his fingers in and out, curling them to hit that spot deep inside me.
I rock my hips into his hand, desperate for more.
“I’ve dreamt about this,” he admits, his voice raw with need. “About how this cunt will feel stretched around my cock. How you’d taste on my tongue.”
His words are filthy, forbidden, and they only serve to heighten the tension coiling within me.
Every thrust deepens the connection, and I feel the world fade away, leaving only him and this moment.
After the second time he does it, I realize he’s edging me.
So I shove my hand behind me, between us.
He lets me, and I don’t waste time—I slide my hand beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and wrap my fingers around him, thick and hot and already slick at the tip.
He grunts against my hair, his fingers driving into me harder in retaliation.
I grin against his palm as I stroke him, slow and deliberate, giving back exactly what he’s been doing to me. I can’t see him, but I can feel the way his breath changes against my neck. That’s enough.
I work his boxer briefs down until he springs free against my ass, and the heat of him there makes my stomach drop.
“Trust me, baby girl?”
I nod. The admission comes too easy, and I don’t care.
He fits himself against me, cock sliding through my folds without pushing in, just—there. Dragging. The friction is obscene and not enough, and I have to bite down on my own lip to keep from making a sound.
Then his fingers find my clit again, and I forget about being quiet entirely.
The dual sensation—his cock rocking against me, his fingers circling—pulls a noise from somewhere low in my chest that I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.
The effort of containing it only concentrates it, turns it inward, makes every nerve ending feel raw and overexposed.
The mattress dips.
My eyes open.
Gage’s blue-green gaze hits me like a hand around my throat.
My whole body clenches around Cruz’s fingers.
“Baby girl, fuck,” he groans into my neck, his hips stuttering forward.
Gage doesn’t speak. His jaw is tight, his gaze dragging over my shoulder to Cruz, then back to me—slow, deliberate, like he’s deciding something.
Cruz laughs, low and dark. “Looks like you weren’t quiet enough after all.”
Gage reaches over and peels Cruz’s hand from my mouth. His palm cups my jaw, tilts it up, and then he’s kissing me—deep and claiming and a little rough at the edges, like he’s been waiting too long to be careful about it.
My orgasm hits without warning, cresting and breaking all at once, stealing the air straight out of my lungs.
When I come down, my eyes are slow to open.
Cruz’s cock is still rocking against me, slick with everything he pulled out of me, and the drag of it makes my thighs tremble.
But my focus splinters—because Gage is already watching me with something that hasn’t been there before.
Something that sits low and heavy in my stomach.
He takes me from Cruz’s arms before I can think to protest. The loss of contact pulls a small, involuntary sound from my throat.
Gage rolls onto his back and brings me with him, and suddenly I’m straddling his stomach, the fabric of his hoodie bunched warm and soft against the backs of my thighs. His hands find my hips and hold.
“You let him make a mess of you?” He hooks a finger under the side of my thong and pulls until the fabric draws tight—a thin, maddening line of pressure directly against my clit.
My whole body clenches. “Hm?”
“How many, Bell.” His fingers slide over the soaked fabric, unhurried, like he’s reading something written there. When I don’t answer, he presses the question into my skin with his thumb. “How many times did he make you come?”
I glance at Cruz. His fist is wrapped around his cock, jaw tight, watching me with dark and patient eyes. I drag my bottom lip through my teeth. “Once.”
It wasn’t enough.
Gage makes a low sound in his throat. “Two it is.”
My eyes snap to his.
“But first.” He takes the hem of his hoodie and draws it slowly between my thighs, the worn cotton dragging over my oversensitive flesh.
The friction is unbearable and perfect, and I moan before I can stop it, my hips chasing the sensation without permission.
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s doing—wiping away every trace of what Cruz gave me.
Reclaiming the surface of me. Making room to earn it himself.
That realization alone makes me wetter than I already am.
“Now come on up,” he says, voice dropped to something that moves through me like a current. “And ride my face.”
I look at Cruz, but Gage’s hand palms my jaw, redirecting me. “Don’t look at him.” A beat. “He doesn’t mind. Do you, brother?”
Cruz makes a low sound in his throat that tells me nothing and everything.
He helps me shimmy up his torso, the worn cotton of his hoodie dragging warm against my inner thighs until there’s nothing between us, and then his mouth finds me and I stop thinking entirely.
His palms grip my ass and pull—open, deliberate, like he has all night and intends to use it.
His tongue is unhurried and devastating, circling and plunging and flicking in a rhythm that feels less like technique and more like fluency, like he already knows every word.
I reach beneath the hem of the hoodie and palm my breasts, rolling my nipples between my fingers, and the contrast—his mouth hot and relentless below, my own hands light and teasing above—makes my spine bow.
“That’s it, baby girl.” Cruz’s voice comes from somewhere behind me, low and rough. “Ride my brother’s face. Such a good girl.”
I chance a glance back. He’s watching me, jaw tight, fist moving slow around his cock.
That’s all it takes.
The orgasm doesn’t crest so much as detonate—pleasure so acute it whites out the edges of my vision, my thighs shaking against Gage’s jaw, my whole body wrung through and through until there’s nothing left to give.
When I surface, the motel door is clicking shut. Cruz is gone.
I ease off Gage’s face, thighs trembling, and he looks up at me with a carnal grin, lips slick in the low light.
“My turn.”