Chapter 19
Gray
The sanctuary usually swallows sound.
Tonight it handed me hers.
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours, replaying every sound that shouldn’t have made it through these walls. Her voice, soft and desperate. The way she called his name—Wes—like it was torn out of her.
This place keeps secrets. Thick stone, older than anything I understand.
Most nights, I can’t even hear footsteps in the hallway.
But tonight felt different. Like the house wanted me to lie here with my jaw clenched and my hands fisted in the sheets, knowing exactly what was happening down the hall.
My teeth ache. Every muscle feels coiled too tight, like I’m ready to spring or fight or run. Something’s been crawling under my skin for weeks, and tonight it’s clawing to get out.
I should feel guilty about the way my pulse jumped every time she made those sounds. Should be ashamed of how much I wanted to be the one pulling them from her lips.
But guilt isn’t what’s eating at me.
It’s hunger. Raw and getting worse every time I replay her voice in my head. And underneath that—something I won’t look at too closely—is the way I keep thinking about him.
Wes.
About the sound of his voice responding to her, too quiet for words but satisfied. About what he probably looks like right now, loose and glowing and carrying her scent.
About how much I want to see that up close.
The knock is soft. Hesitant.
My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. This is it—the moment I’ve been circling around for hours, maybe weeks. The chance to stop wanting and start taking.
I know who it is.
When I open the door, Wes slips inside like he was waiting for permission.
The sight of him stops me cold—hair messed up like his fingers kept running through it, his mouth swollen, even his shirt is buttoned wrong.
Not because he was rushing. Because he dressed while still half-gone from whatever happened with her.
And he still is. Half-gone. There’s something dreamy in his expression, like part of him is still back in her room, still feeling her hands on his skin.
His eyes have that soft, unfocused look that comes after really good sex, when your body remembers every touch even as you’re trying to function normally.
But there’s something else. Something that makes me look twice.
His face looks different. Sharper. The line of his jaw, his cheekbones—everything that was already good-looking about him has been turned up. It’s subtle, but I’ve known him long enough to notice.
Then the scent hits me. My nose catalogs it before I can stop it: sex, satisfaction, Bree’s vanilla sweetness all over his skin. Arousal and sweat and something floral that’s probably her soap. It’s obvious and intimate and makes something possessive snarl in my chest.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says with that crooked grin, but he’s practically glowing with satisfaction. There’s something different in the way he holds himself—looser, more confident.
The room feels smaller with him in it. Charged, like the air before a storm.
“Good night?” I ask, because the evidence is written all over him and I need to hear it.
His cheeks flush deeper, and that grin turns almost shy. “Yeah. Really good.”
I close the door behind him, turn the lock. The sound seems too loud in the quiet room.
“She wear you out?” He blinks, that dreamy look sharpening as he realizes what I just asked.
“I—how did you…?” A pause, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Gray, did you—?”
“Lucky guess,” I say, watching him process. But then that grin returns, wider now, almost giddy.
“God, Gray. It was… I can’t even…” He runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I mean, it’s Bree. And she wanted—” He stops, shakes his head like he still can’t believe it happened. “Just can’t settle after… that, her, you know?”
I do know. But this feels different from his usual restless energy. More charged, like he came here specifically, not just because he was wandering.
He moves toward the window, then changes direction toward the bed, then stops in the middle of the room like he can’t decide where he belongs. That restless energy is back, but it feels different now—less desperate, more like he’s waiting for something. For me to make a move.
The jealousy I’ve been choking on crystallizes into something sharper, more focused. Something that demands action.
I close the distance between us in two steps, crowding him back against the wall. My hands brace against the surface on either side of his head. He goes still but doesn’t try to move. If anything, he leans into it.
“I heard her,” I say, voice rougher than I meant. “Every sound.”
His breath catches. “Gray—”
“I want to know what Bree tastes like.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Raw and desperate and loaded with months of buried want. It’s my excuse, my permission slip to finally touch him - but it’s not a lie. I do want her. I want them both. This is just the only way I can let myself reach for one through the other.
Heat flickers in his expression. He knows what I’m asking.
“Take her from me,” he breathes.
I don’t hesitate. Kiss him hard, desperate. Because I am. He responds immediately, melting against me with a sound that makes something fierce flare in my chest. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.
He tastes like salt and heat and Wes. But underneath, I can taste her. Vanilla lip balm, and something sweet. Proof he was with her first.
It should bother me. Instead, it makes me hungrier. I deepen the kiss like I’m claiming him and the echo of her.
“More,” I growl, and he nods.
“Whatever you want.”
I search his face for hesitation. There’s none. Just want and trust and something that looks like relief.
“Strip.”
He doesn’t hesitate, pulling his shirt off in one motion. The sight of him—chest flushed, faint scratches that weren’t there this morning—makes my mouth go dry.
But as I’m looking at him, something shifts. The excuse I used to get here starts feeling thin. Because yes, I can taste her on his lips, smell her sweetness on his skin. But what’s making my heart race isn’t the echo of her.
It’s him. The way he’s breathing hard. The way he’s looking at me like he’s been waiting for this. The way he’s standing there trusting me completely.
Something wakes up in my chest. Something that’s been sleeping under careful control for months. The excuse crumbles, leaving nothing but raw want and an instinct I don’t recognize but can’t ignore.
Mine.
Not I want him. He’s mine. Mine to claim, mine to take apart. The possessiveness hits like a punch, so intense I can barely breathe.
“Bed.” Not a request.
He moves without question. I follow, watching every line of his body like I’m memorizing it. When he settles on the mattress, looking up at me with dark eyes and swollen lips, something inside me snaps.
I settle over him without touching. Close enough to feel his heat, count his breathing. The careful control I’ve kept around him dissolves.
“You’re mine now,” I tell him. Not a question.
His pupils blow wide. His breathing stutters. “Gray…”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” Breathless, eager. “And hers.”
The surrender unlocks something primitive. Something that recognizes submission and responds with certainty. I kiss him again, deeper, claiming his mouth like I own it.
Maybe I do.
I work my way down his body slowly, deliberately, mapping every response and cataloging every place that makes him gasp or arch beneath me.
His skin is warm and salt-sweet under my tongue, and I take my time learning the taste of him - the hollow of his throat where his pulse races, the sensitive spot just below his collarbone that makes him shiver.
When I finally take him in my mouth, he makes a sound that goes straight through me—raw and grateful and completely undone. His hands thread through my hair, not pulling or pushing, just holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.
I lose myself in the weight of him on my tongue, the way his breathing goes ragged when I do something he likes.
And then I taste it—really taste it. Not just the faint vanilla from his lips, but something deeper, more intimate.
The sweet-salt taste of her, still there from where she touched him, where her mouth was on him.
It’s unmistakable and it hits me like a punch to the gut.
I want her too. The thought crashes over me with startling clarity.
This isn’t just about claiming Wes or tasting an echo of her.
I want Bree—want to know what she tastes like directly, want to feel her come apart under my tongue the way Wes is doing now.
The realization should probably terrify me, but it doesn’t.
It just makes everything sharper, hungrier.
I work him with renewed intensity, chasing both tastes—his and hers—like I can somehow have them both through this. Every response feeds something desperate in my chest, something that’s been starving for both of them without me even realizing it.
“Gray,” he gasps, voice breaking on my name, hands tightening in my hair. “I’m not gonna last.”
“Don’t want you to,” I tell him, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Let go for me.”
When he comes, it’s with my name torn from his throat and his hands still fisted in my hair. I work him through it carefully, savoring every tremor, every broken sound, until he’s boneless and panting beneath me.
I wonder if she can hear it. If the sanctuary is handing her my voice the way it gave me hers.
I’m nowhere near done.
The thing that’s awakened—this need to claim and possess—is hungrier now.
“My turn,” I say when he reaches for my clothes.
His eyes sharpen when he sees my expression. “What do you want?”
“Everything.” I reach for the drawer, grab what I need. “All of you.”
Heat flickers in his face. “Yes.”
“You sure? This changes things.”
“Good. I want it to change.”
I settle between his thighs, wanting to see his face this. I prepare him carefully, starting with one finger, watching his face for every reaction, every flutter of his eyelashes. He’s responsive from the first touch, breath catching as I work him open slowly, methodically.
“More,” he asks after a few moments, voice already going rough around the edges.
I add a second finger, scissoring gently, and his back arches off the bed. The trust in his eyes is almost overwhelming - the way he’s completely open to me, letting me set the pace even when I can see he wants more, wants it faster.
“You sure you’re ready?” I ask when he starts rocking down against my hand.
“Gray, please,” he breathes, and I can feel how he’s trembling with want.
I add a third finger, taking my time to stretch him properly, and he makes a sound that goes straight through me. His thigh trembles under my free hand as I work him open, watching the way his pupils dilate, the way his breathing goes shallow and quick.
“That’s it,” I murmur, feeling the way his body yields to me. “Just let me take care of you.”
When I finally press into him, we both go very still.
He takes me inch by inch, breathing carefully through the stretch, his hands gripping my shoulders like he’s anchoring himself to me.
The connection is intense, intimate in a way that goes beyond just physical.
Finally I’m fully seated and we’re both holding our breath like we’re afraid to break the moment.
“Okay?” I ask, voice strained with the effort of holding still when every instinct wants me to move.
“More than okay,” he breathes, eyes dark and trusting. Then he rocks his hips up to meet me and whatever control I had left evaporates completely.
I set a rhythm that’s careful but insistent, deep enough that he feels every stroke, slow enough that we both feel every point of connection.
He meets me thrust for thrust, his body opening for me like this is what he was made for, like we’ve been building toward this moment for years.
The sounds he makes are different now—deeper, more vulnerable, like I’m touching places in him that no one else has ever reached.
This isn’t about Bree anymore. Hasn’t been since the moment I backed him against the wall.
This is about the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
About the way he gives me his complete surrender without question or hesitation.
About the way something deep in me recognizes something deep in him and claims it without apology.
“Show me,” I murmur against his neck, not even sure what I’m asking for.
But he knows. He gives me everything—his body arching beneath mine, his submission takes my breath away. When he comes again, it’s with my name torn from his throat and his nails digging into my shoulders.
I follow him over a few thrusts later, burying my face in his neck as everything goes white-hot and perfect, like coming home to something I didn’t know I’d been missing.
After, I make myself move even though every instinct wants to stay buried in him.
I wipe us both down with careful hands, press a glass of water into his palm because it’s the only way I can touch him gently right now without starting this all over again.
My protective instincts are sharper now, more focused, like they’ve been honed to a fine edge.
When I try to give him space to process what just happened, he pulls me back down beside him.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he says, voice soft but certain.
I settle against him, let him arrange us how he wants. The possessive thing in my chest has gone quiet, satisfied for now. It’s patient, certain this is just the beginning.
“Definitely need a new headboard,” he says after a while, flexing his fingers where he gripped the wood.
I laugh, surprised by how easy it feels. “We’ll make Rhett do it. Add it to his list.”
“Think he’ll ask questions?”
“Probably. Won’t get any answers, though.”
He hums in agreement, already half-asleep against my chest. I hold him as his breathing evens out, as the sanctuary settles around us with what feels like contentment. As if it approves of what it started.
I should be thinking about what this means, how it changes everything.
Instead, all I can think about is how right this feels. How the thing under my skin has finally gone quiet.
I thought tonight was about Bree—about chasing the echo of her through him.
But what I found was Wes. And in claiming him, I uncovered a part of myself I didn’t know I’d been waiting for—the part that doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t apologize.
He’s mine now. Not because I took him, but because he gave himself to me.
And that should probably terrify me. Instead, it settles into my bones like it’s always been there, like it was inevitable.
I hold him tighter, already knowing this won’t be the last time.