35. Everly #3
Ren changes his angle. Drags the thick head of him across the place inside me that makes my arms shake, over and over, in and out, the same maddening pace.
Won't speed up. Keeps his thumb steady on my clit.
Atlas's hand stays at my breast, his hips rocking shallow and slow, and I take him as deep as I can on every pass—sucking, tonguing the vein on the underside, my hand twisting slick around the base—until I feel him start to shake with holding back too.
I'm moaning around him with no room left to be quiet about it.
"She's close again." Ren bites it out. "Hold off. I want her there first."
"I'm—trying—" Atlas's hips stutter against the discipline of it. "She keeps doing that thing with her tongue—fuck—"
I swallow around Atlas one more time, and at the same moment Ren grinds against the spot that undoes me and presses down on my clit—
I come with Atlas in my mouth and Ren buried to the hilt. It rolls through me longer than the first, every muscle clenching down around the thick length of him in waves, and I moan around Atlas the whole way through it.
I pull off him, gasping, a thread of spit breaking between my lips and the head of his cock, and I finally say the thing I've been climbing toward all night.
"I want your cum." I say it looking up at Atlas, one hand reaching back to where Ren's still buried deep in me.
"Both of you. One after the other. Ren first—I want you to come inside me, I want to feel you let go.
Then you, Atlas, right after—I want you to fill me too.
I want to be dripping with both of you when we're done. "
Ren makes a sound I've never heard out of him.
"You heard her." Atlas's voice is gravel and grin at once. "Ladies first, Ashford. Wreck her."
That's all it takes.
Ren's control gives—I feel it go like a held breath let out, in his chest and in mine.
He grips my hips and drives in hard and deep, chasing it now, once, twice, three times, and then he buries himself to the root and comes inside me.
The heat of it spills deep. The bond flares white through the middle of me.
His groan lands in my chest a beat before it reaches my ears, every pulse of him singing down the thread, the relief of it, the want of it.
"That's it—" I'm wrecked and grinning. "Don't waste a drop."
He holds there, spent, his forehead dropping to the curve of my spine. Then he eases out slow, and I feel the warmth of him start to slip free, and I clench against it, greedy, not ready to lose a drop of him yet.
"My turn." But Atlas doesn't take me from behind.
He gets a hand under my arm and hauls me up off my knees, turns me to face him, and lifts me clean off the bed like I weigh nothing—my legs going around his waist on instinct, my arms locking around his neck, the whole hot length of his body pinned against the front of mine.
The storm runs everywhere we touch now. Skin to skin from chest to thigh.
A current with nowhere to ground but me.
"I needed to see you." His forehead drops to mine, his voice wrecked. "Couldn't finish staring at the back of your head."
Then he lifts me a little higher and drops me down onto him.
I sink onto his cock in one slow slide—still slick and swollen and full of the other—my own weight driving him deeper than the angle from behind ever could, and I cry out into his mouth as he catches the sound with a kiss.
He holds all of me. One arm banded under me, one hand splayed up my spine.
And then he starts to move, fucking up into me, every drive hitting somewhere new.
Ren is right there. He steps in close at my back, his chest to my spine so I'm held between them again, his mouth at the slope of my shoulder. One hand comes around to cover my breast, thumb working my nipple; the other slides down between us to find my clit where Atlas is splitting me open.
"Look at you," Ren breathes against my neck. "Taking him the way you took me. Greedy girl."
I am. I don't care who knows it. I rock down to meet every thrust of Atlas's hips, chasing it, the charge singing under my skin, both of them holding me up so all I have to do is feel.
"Atlas." I can barely talk. "I want your cum too. Now. Fill me up—make it both of you."
"You're gonna get it." His arms crush me to him, his rhythm going ragged. "Christ, the way you ask for it—"
Ren presses down on my clit. Atlas drives up to the root. I come a third time, clenching down around him with both of them wrapped around me—
—and it drags Atlas over with me. The storm cracks once, bright, ozone-sharp, gone. He buries himself deep and comes inside me too, hot and pulsing, his release laid over Ren's, exactly the way I asked for it.
Both of them. One after the other. Holding me up between them while it drips out of me, the way I said I wanted.
The threads pull taut to singing and flare white-hot for one suspended second where I'm the place all of it meets and nothing about me is separate from either of them.
And the thing that's been living in the corridors for three days—the rivalry, the circling, the way they squared up over which of them got to stand closest to me—it's just gone.
Spent into this. Shared, instead of fought over.
There was never enough room in this bed for it and there never needed to be.
After, Atlas brings the three of us down to the bed—careful even now, even spent—and we collapse into a wreck of tangled limbs and hard breathing, and the bond hums steady behind my ribs for the first time since Wheeler's table—not flaring, not healing, just on, a low warm chord I could fall asleep inside.
Atlas's arm is heavy across my waist. Ren's hand is open over my heart, right over the place where I keep them, like he can feel the chord under my skin. He probably can.
"So," Atlas says, after a while, to the ceiling. "We're good at sharing."
"You were adequate," Ren says.
"Adequate."
"I'm being kind."
I start laughing, helpless with it, and the laugh moves through both of them where they're pressed against me, and the threads pull warm with it. "Stop," I say. "Both of you. You did great. Gold stars. Now shut up."
I find the real thing to say eventually. It comes out rough and certain. "Okay. That. That's the thing I'm never letting anyone take from me again."
Neither of them lets go. Atlas's arm tightens. Ren turns his face into my hair and breathes out slow, and the threads pull warm at the movement, rope and not filament, healed the only way they were ever going to heal. Not by being careful. By being used.
I lie there in the dark of a house that decided to let us stay, and I let myself have it. The warmth. The weight of them. The bond gone whole and loud and mine.
And far below us—below the room, below the floors I know the names of and the floors I don't, below the Reliquary and the Sepulchre and the Hollows, down in the Deep where the gutted Well sits open like a wound that won't close—something shudders in the stone.
I don't feel it. None of us do, wrapped up warm three floors of dark above it.
The Well goes on existing down there anyway. Patient in the dark, a century of taken light packed behind a wounded wall. And for the first time in a hundred years there's no one settled in above it to keep the long watch, no one tending the wound, no one minding the thing that minds us.
We've never been closer. We've never been less guarded.
I don't know yet which of those is the danger.