Chapter 13 #2
"You can touch," Luca says. "You just don't have to lead."
Maceo's throat works. His thumb moves once over Luca's cheekbone, careful enough that it hurts to watch. Then his gaze comes back to mine.
"Blake."
This time my name's not an objection.
I lean in and kiss him. The first touch is controlled because I know him.
Because I know if I push too fast, he'll give us everything and call it receiving.
Because tonight's not about taking advantage of his willingness to be used.
It's about making him understand that being wanted isn't the same thing as being needed.
His mouth opens under mine, and the sound he makes is low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
Luca's hands slide down his chest as I push the shirt open, and Maceo's body tightens between us, caught in the attention he usually deflects before it can settle.
I break the kiss only long enough to look at him, at the flush working up his throat, at the restraint still holding in his jaw.
"There you are," I murmur.
Luca presses another kiss beneath his ear. "Stay with us."
Maceo's hand tightens at my hip, and then, finally, his body shifts toward us instead of toward the door.
“Let’s get these off,” I say softly, reaching for his belt. “I want you in this bed. I want you with us.”
Maceo doesn’t fight it. He lets me unbuckle him, lets Luca help slide his slacks down his legs.
His hands stay on me the whole time—one resting on my hip, the other loosely curled around my wrist like he needs the contact to stay present.
When we finally get him down to skin, Luca and I take our time.
We don’t rush. I run my hands over his chest, his shoulders, the thick muscle of his arms, and Maceo watches me with those steady silver eyes, something raw and uncertain flickering behind them.
Luca presses a kiss to the center of his chest, then another, slower one just above his heart. “You’ve been carrying us all day,” he murmurs against Maceo’s skin. “Let us carry you for a little while.”
I push Maceo back against the pillows and crawl over him, settling my weight on his hips. I don’t pin his wrists this time. Instead, I lean down and kiss him, slow and deliberate, until I feel some of the tension leave his body. When I pull back, I keep my face close to his.
“You’re not on watch right now,” I tell him, quiet but firm. “You’re here. With us. That’s all you have to do.”
Maceo’s hands slide up my thighs, his grip warm and solid. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to believe it—makes something in my chest pull tight.
Luca moves lower, his curls brushing over Maceo’s stomach as he takes Maceo’s cock in hand. He strokes him slowly, almost reverently, and Maceo’s breath catches. I watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers flex against my skin. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, even now.
I shift forward until I’m hovering over his face, one hand braced on the headboard. “Look at me,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I expect. “I want your mouth.”
Maceo doesn’t hesitate. He opens for me, and I sink into the wet heat of it with a quiet groan. His hands come up to hold my hips, steady and grounding, and for a few long moments there’s nothing but the slow drag of his tongue and the low sounds he makes when Luca takes him deeper.
It’s not frantic. It’s not about breaking him open. It’s about keeping him here, with us, until he stops waiting for the next threat.
When I can’t stand the distance anymore, I pull back and move down his body.
Luca shifts to the side without being asked, one hand still stroking slow lines over Maceo’s chest. I reach for the lube on the nightstand and slick my fingers, then reach between Maceo’s legs.
He’s already relaxed under our hands, but I still take my time, working him open with careful, patient strokes while Luca kisses the corner of his mouth and murmurs quiet things I can’t quite hear.
Maceo’s eyes stay on mine the whole time. That alone feels like more surrender than anything else he could give.
When I finally push into him, it’s slow. I watch his face as I sink deeper, watch the way his breath stutters and his hands tighten on the sheets. Luca stays close, one hand resting over Maceo’s heart, the other stroking his hair back from his forehead.
“You’re safe,” Luca whispers. “We’ve got you.”
I start to move, deep and steady, not chasing anything except the way Maceo’s body keeps opening for me. Every time he starts to tense, like he’s remembering he’s supposed to be the one watching the door, Luca kisses him or I lean down and bite gently at his shoulder until he lets go again.
It builds slowly. Not loud. Not frantic.
Just the three of us, the sound of skin and breath, and the way Maceo finally stops holding himself so tightly wound.
When he comes, it’s with a low, broken sound against Luca’s mouth, his body clenching around me in long, shaking waves.
I follow right after, burying my face in his neck as I spill inside him.
Luca's draped across Maceo's chest when I can think clearly again, his cheek pressed over Maceo's heart and one hand resting low on his ribs.
The blanket's been pulled over us at some point, though I don't remember which of us managed it.
I'm tucked against Maceo's side with my face against his shoulder, one arm across his stomach, my own pulse still too quick but slowing under the steady weight of him.
For a while, none of us speaks. The room doesn't need it.
Maceo's breathing is deep, almost uneven at the end of each exhale, and his hand moves through Luca's curls with a slow, absent tenderness that tells me he's still coming back to himself.
His other arm's around me, heavy and warm, holding without bracing.
That's the difference I feel first. He's not positioned to rise.
He's not listening with his whole body. He's here because we put him here, and because he chose to stay.
Luca lifts his head enough to press a kiss to Maceo's temple. "We've got you," he whispers, and the words are soft enough that they don't ask anything from him.
Maceo's eyes open. He looks at Luca, then at me, and the expression on his face is stripped down in a way I don't see often.
Not unguarded completely. I'm not foolish enough to think one night undoes years of instinct.
But quiet. Held. His fingers slide into my hair and rest there, not directing, not checking, only touching because he wants to.
"You're still in the bed," I say against his shoulder, because my mouth's never learned how to leave tenderness entirely unarmed.
His gaze shifts to me. "You sound surprised."
"I'm relieved."
That keeps him quiet. Luca's hand moves over his chest, slow circles over the place where his heartbeat's finally stopped trying to stay useful.
Maceo looks at the ceiling for a moment, and when the hallway creaks outside the door, his body tightens by habit.
I feel it. Luca feels it. Maceo feels us feel it, and for one second I think he'll apologize.
Instead, he exhales and stays where he is.
Luca smiles against his skin. "Good."
Maceo's arm tightens around him, then around me, drawing us closer without turning the hold into a shield.
I let him. My body's worn out, my heart still muttering complaints under my ribs, but the weight of Maceo beneath my hand feels like the first steady thing all day that hasn't asked me to solve it.
Down the hall, the house settles again. No one calls for us.
No alarm sounds. No footsteps stop outside the door.
I close my eyes and listen to him breathe.
The security logs'll still be there tomorrow.
Dorian'll still have careful hands and cleaner words than he deserves.
The fear won't be gone just because we've made one room warm enough to survive it.
But Luca's asleep or close to it on Maceo's chest, and Maceo's under us instead of at the edge of the room, and for the first time all night, he doesn't move when the hallway makes another small sound.
He only holds us closer.