Chapter 29 #2
Tuck knelt between my legs. He didn’t ask. He took my ankles, his calloused hands a familiar, grounding weight, and lifted my legs over his broad shoulders. The position was absolute. A total, physical surrender I gave freely. His hazel eyes burned into mine, and the hunger there was years deep.
“Look at me, Iz. Tell me you want this.”
"I want you. All of you." And I did. I watched him as he settled, the thick, heavy weight of him pressing against me, hot and ready. He entered me with a single, smooth thrust that filled me completely.
A guttural groan tore from his throat, and the sound resonated through the point of contact, vibrating deep inside me. He was home. We were home.
Bram was beside my head, his body a line of heat against mine. He didn’t kiss me. He took my face in his hands, his grip firm, the Game Master demanding his audience.
“Watch him,” he commanded, his voice a raw rasp. “Feel him. I want to see it on your face.”
His peppercorn scent was intoxicating, sharp with a possessiveness that had finally broken its leash. He was directing, even now, but he was also a participant, his own control fracturing with every thrust of Tuck’s hips.
Cillian’s mouth found my breast. Not a hungry kiss like Tuck’s had been, but a precise, knowing one. His tongue traced the circle of my areola with an engineer’s focus, and then his teeth grazed my nipple, sending a fresh shockwave of pleasure through me. I cried out.
“That’s it,” Cillian murmured against my skin, his tenor a low counterpoint to Tuck’s guttural rhythm. “Pure signal. No distortion.”
Tuck’s pace was relentless. He moved with the power and stamina of a man who had spent a decade conditioning his body. Each drive of his hips was a claim. Mine. Mine. Mine. The cedar scent of him was everywhere, soaking into the blankets, into my skin, marking me.
Bram’s thumb brushed across my lower lip. “Say his name.”
“Tuck,” I gasped, my hips rising to meet a particularly deep thrust.
A low, satisfied rumble vibrated from Tuck’s chest. His hands slid from my calves to my hips, his grip bruising, holding me in place as he found a deeper, more brutal angle.
He was all instinct now, the comforting protector replaced by the raw, dominant Alpha he’d suppressed for years.
And I met him there. I gave him all of it.
Cillian’s hand slid down my stomach, his fingers threading through the damp curls at the juncture of my thighs.
He didn’t touch me, not there. He rested his palm against my hip bone, his touch a steady, calibrating pressure against the frantic rhythm Tuck set.
He was monitoring, feeling the feedback loop of my pleasure through his fingertips.
The pressure built. A second orgasm, close and sharp, coiled in my belly. Tuck felt it. He leaned forward, his mouth finding mine, his kiss as rough and possessive as his thrusts. His tongue plundered my mouth as his hips hammered into me.
“Come for me, Iz,” he growled against my lips. “Now.”
I shattered. My body convulsed around him, a series of violent, clenching waves that tore a scream from my throat. Tuck roared, his own release crashing into him, his body going rigid as he poured himself into me.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing, the sticky heat between us, and the overwhelming scent of cedar and sex.
Then, Bram moved.
Tuck withdrew slowly, his forehead resting against mine. He didn’t move away. He shifted, his body curling around mine, his arm a heavy, possessive weight across my stomach. Bram took his place without a word.
His entry was different. Not the primal force of Tuck, but a deep, deliberate pressure.
He filled me just as completely, but he moved with a slow, measured cadence, as if he was carefully mapping my interior.
His eyes locked with mine, and the intensity there was terrifying, devastating. He was learning me.
Cillian shifted. His mouth left my breast and trailed a wet path to my ear. “His turn,” he whispered, and his fingers finally, finally dipped between my legs, finding my clit with an unerring, precise touch that made me gasp.
Bram’s rhythm broke. He groaned, a wrecked, undone sound. “Cillian.”
“I’m amplifying the signal,” Cillian answered, his voice calm, but his fingers circled faster, a merciless, perfect rhythm that sent spirals of new pleasure through my already sensitive flesh.
Tuck’s hand came to rest on my other hip, his thumb stroking the skin there, a steady, grounding presence.
Surrounded. Held. Claimed on all sides.
Bram began to move again, his careful control gone, replaced by a desperate, driving need. He was a man undone, the polished gentleman stripped back to a raw, wanting Alpha. He kissed me, his mouth hungry, his hands gripping my hair, his peppercorn scent sharp and dizzying.
“Tell me this is real,” he rasped against my lips, his hips slamming into me.
“It’s real,” I promised, my voice breaking as Cillian’s fingers drove me towards another peak. “We’re real.”
The words were his undoing. With a raw cry that was half-fury, half-surrender, he came, his body shuddering against mine.
Bram collapsed against the opposite side of me from Tuck, a dead weight of spent adrenaline and surrendered control.
The sharp spike of his climax faded, leaving behind the warm, dark scent of peppercorn settling into a new, deeper foundation.
Tuck was a solid wall of heat at my other side, his arm heavy and possessive across my stomach.
Cedarwood and bourbon, mellowed and content.
The room was a tangle of limbs and scents, the nest now a landscape of bodies instead of just fabric. Bram’s trembling had stopped. Tuck’s restless energy was gone. A profound quiet settled over us, the kind that follows a storm, where the air itself feels washed clean and rearranged.
But one note was still holding.