25. Jade
JADE
Killian comes through the door and I know immediately that Cormac told him everything.
It's in the way he stops and looks at me—not surprise, not hesitation. He takes in the state of the room, the state of me, and something in his face goes very still and then very focused. He knows about my window. He knows what's warm inside me.
He's still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled. The bruise on his jaw catches the lamplight—that yellowing gold, fading but present.
He doesn't say anything for a moment.
Then: "He told me."
"I know," I say. "Come here."
He crosses to the edge of the bed and I sit up and I reach for his jaw—the bruise, the warmth of it under my fingers—and press there gently. He goes still.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Not much." His eyes don't leave mine. "Worth it."
I look at him. The bruise. Nine days of him doing everything right—the barn, the winery, walking her through the '22 row. He didn't have to do any of it.
"You know what tonight is," I say. "My window?—"
"I know." His jaw works. "He told me everything. All three of us bare and your window open and no pill." A beat. "Could be any of ours."
"Yes."
Something shifts in his face. Not quite jealousy. Not quite hunger. Both at once. "He went first."
"He goes first," I say. "That's how it works."
"I know how it works." Low. "Doesn't mean I like it."
"I know."
He kisses me before I finish the word.
Not careful. Not patient. Nine days of watching and holding back, and now Cormac has already been with me and it's sitting in Killian's chest like a coal and he kisses me with the full heat of it—hands in my hair, his body pressing mine back into the mattress. I grab his shirt and pull.
He gets his shirt over his head. Gets me undressed faster than Cormac did, with less ceremony and more urgency. He gets between my thighs and pushes his hand there and stills.
"Christ." His voice drops. "He's still?—"
"Yes."
Two fingers and he feels Cormac's warmth and I'm still sensitive from the orgasm and the sound I make is sharp and immediate. He looks up at me from where his hand is.
"You're full of him," he says.
"Yes."
Something detonates in his face. "Then I'm putting mine on top."
He doesn't warm me up. He lines himself up and pushes into my pussy—bare—and the fullness of it, Cormac's warmth and now Killian's cock, makes me grip the sheets with both hands.
He's thicker than his father in a different way—the urgency of him lands differently, the angle already different from Cormac's deliberate roll.
He goes completely still.
"I can feel him," he says. Low. Stunned. "I can feel him around me."
"I know."
"You're so warm." His hands grip my hips. "He filled you up and you're—" He pulls back and drives in and I gasp. "God. You're so wet with him."
I'm clenching around him. Can't stop. The fullness of both of them—the warmth already there, Killian's cock moving through it—my body is gripping and pulling and he feels every one.
"That," he says. "Keep doing that."
I clench deliberately. His breath breaks.
"Jade." Warning in his voice. "I mean it."
I do it again.
He makes a sound that's halfway between a curse and my name and his hips snap forward and the pace he sets after that is nothing like his father's.
Urgent. Driving. Deep enough that I feel him on every stroke, his cock pushing through the warmth Cormac left, and the friction of it—the slick heat, both of them—is overwhelming.
"Feel how wet you are," he says against my ear. "Feel how full." He drives in and grinds. "He put his cum in you and now I'm fucking you through it and after Ryan you're going to be so full?—"
"Yes—"
"Could be mine." His pace picks up. "Could be his. Could be Ryan's. You don't know. Your body doesn't know." He reaches between us, his thumb on my clit, and the sensation layers on top of everything else. "All it knows is to take what we give it."
I come.
Hard, sudden, clenching around him so fiercely that his rhythm stutters and a raw sound tears out of him. I'm shaking, gripping him, my hips working into his without meaning to. He drives through every pulse—hard, relentless—and when the wave starts to ebb he doesn't stop.
"Again," he says.
"I can't?—"
"You can." He presses his thumb firmer. His cock doesn't slow. "You came twice for him. You'll come twice for me."
The word him does something to me. I clench around him again—I can't stop clenching—and he drives in deep and holds there and his thumb works in tight circles and I feel the next wave building faster than the first.
"Killian—" My voice is breaking. "Please?—"
"Please what." He pulls back and drives in again. "Say it."
"I want your cum," I say. "Please—I want you to breed me, I want?—"
"Yeah." His breath is gone ragged. "Yeah, you do."
He goes.
The pace breaks completely—his whole body into it now, the headboard slamming the wall, his hands gripping my hips so hard I'll have the marks tomorrow.
Not choosing any of it. The urgency taking over.
I feel his cock driving through Cormac's warmth and my own wet heat and the friction of it is extraordinary, and my second orgasm is cresting when his breaks open.
He drives in to the hilt.
The heat of him floods into me—hard, pulsing, each one distinct—on top of Cormac's warmth and now both of them inside my pussy and I feel every throb of his cock as he shudders through it. He doesn't move. His hand comes flat to my lower belly.
He stays for a long time.
"Don't let it out," he says finally. Rough. Wrecked.
I clench around him. He exhales through his teeth.
He pulls out slowly and watches—jaw tight—and then draws the blanket over my hips.
He looks at me. The fading bruise. The lamplight. Something in his face that's past the keeping-count—something that's just him, stripped clean.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I hope it's mine."
He kisses my temple. Gets up. Pauses at the door.
"Ryan's been sitting on the stairs since I came up." He doesn't turn around. "He could hear everything."
He goes out.
I lie in the dark holding both of them—Cormac and Killian, warm and layered, my window open, the night almost done.
I think about Ryan on the stairs. Sitting there and hearing all of it and not leaving.
The footsteps, when they come, are slow. Like he's making himself take them one at a time.
A knock. The softest of the three.
"Come in," I say.