Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Alberto
Everything is sweetness and love until you realize that the woman you love—who is in your lap—is wearing no underwear or a bra.
My hand stays on her stomach, palm curved gently over the place where our daughter moved for the first time. I feel her heartbeat under my skin. Not just one—I feel three.
She looks at me with wet lashes and a half-smile like she’s embarrassed by her own softness.
She doesn’t need to be.
That softness is why we’ll spend the rest of our lives building a world she can breathe in.
I lean in and kiss her—slow, just her mouth and mine, a press that says stay, stay, stay. Then lower. Her chin. Her neck.
Her breath catches when I graze the place just beneath her ear. She tilts her head automatically, giving me more room like she knows what I want, what I’ll take, what I’ll give back.
I trail down farther, mouth warm against her throat. She tastes like orange juice and need.
My hand slides beneath her shirt—just enough to find skin. She’s not wearing a bra. My fingers brush the curve of her breast and I swear I lose my goddamn mind a little.
She gasps—tiny. Reacts before she can stop herself. Her hips shift in my lap.
Callaway watches us with that open hunger he never bothers to hide anymore. His gaze flicks between my hand and her mouth. “You good, baby?”
She nods, but her voice breaks when she speaks. “I want—” She stops, swallows. “Take me to bed, I need you two.”
My cock throbs at the way she says it.
I glance at Callaway. His nod is slow, his hand already sliding under the hem of her shirt from the other side.
“We’ll take care of you,” he says. “Come on, sweetheart.”
I gather her into my arms. She makes a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—and presses her mouth to my jaw as I stand.
Her bare legs wrap around my hips like she was meant to be carried.
Callaway walks ahead of us, pulling the bedroom door open without taking his eyes off her. Off us.
I walk to the bed and lay her down, and for one suspended moment, Cally and I both hover—just watching her breathe.
Her shirt rides up, exposing the soft curve of her stomach. My palm moves there again like it belongs. Like I need to say hello to both of them.
She shivers under my touch.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, voice husky, cheeks pink.
“I will,” I murmur. “Forever.”
Callaway moves to lay beside her, mouth brushing her shoulder as his hand joins mine over her skin.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
I don’t rush her.
I never will.
She’s stretched out on the bed, shirt pushed up just enough to show skin, her breathing already uneven like her body knows what’s coming and has decided to meet it halfway.
Her eyes track me when I move, dark and open, no fear there—just want and that bright, stubborn softness she pretends isn’t dangerous.
I lean over her and kiss her first. Slow. Mouth to mouth. Not taking anything yet. Just reminding her I’m here.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I murmur against her lips. “Just let us.”
Her hands curl into my shirt like she needs proof. “I am.”
That’s all the permission I need.
I slide my palms under the hem of her shirt and draw it up inch by inch, giving her time to feel every second of it. She arches when cool air meets warm skin, a soft sound leaving her throat like she forgot to hold it in.
I kiss the center of her chest, then lower, slow and unhurried.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I tell her. “Exactly like this. Exactly as you are.”
Her stomach rises and falls under my mouth. I take my time there—kissing the curve, the softness stretched taut over our future. My hands frame her sides like I’m learning her again. Like this version of her—pregnant, glowing, undone—is something I want burned into my bones.
Behind me, I hear Callaway move.
He doesn’t interrupt. He never does.
There’s the familiar hush of the drawer sliding open, the soft clink of glass and foil inside. Then the bed shifts—just slightly—under his weight as he climbs back in beside her, settling near her hips. His hand grazes the curve of her thigh.
“Hey,” he murmurs to her, voice all warmth and care. “I’m going to touch you. Tell me if you want anything different.”
She nods, eyes flicking to him, then back to me—like she needs us both in view. Like she’s never felt safer than she does pinned between our attention.
“Okay.”
I kiss her belly one more time, then slide down the bed, kissing along the swell of her side as I go. I reach for her knees, gently guiding one outward to open her up to both of us.
“Let me see you, baby,” I whisper. “Let me see all of you.”
She lets out a shaky breath and obeys, hips shifting, thighs spreading wider.
The angle tilts her pelvis just enough—just enough for her center to be visible, glistening and swollen and so fucking ready. But also enough that the gentle roundness of her ass curves upward, beautiful and bare.
“Fuck,” Callaway breathes.
He shifts behind her, sliding one knee between hers, then the other, easing her up onto her side so she’s half-turned—open and vulnerable and entirely ours. Her belly rests against the pillows. Her breasts spill toward the sheets, flushed and heavy, nipples tight.
And her ass—
Fuck.
Her ass is lifted just enough to show off everything.
The soft rise. The tender skin. The wetness already catching the light where her thighs meet.
Callaway strokes her gently, his fingers slow along the top of her thigh, teasing just behind her knee.
“You always let us see you like this,” he says. “Like you’re meant to be watched. Like you want to be used.”
She gasps softly.
And I know that sound. I know that breathless, wrecked little intake—because I’ve made it too.
“You want both of us tonight?” I murmur, settling in between her thighs, my mouth just shy of the heat of her. “You want to feel everything at once?”
She nods, pupils blown wide. “I want all of it. I want you in me. I want him behind me.”
Callaway groans—low and feral, like he’s barely holding on.
I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, and higher again, until my breath ghosts over her pussy.
“You’re dripping,” I whisper. “And we haven’t even started yet.”
Callaway leans in from behind, one palm sliding up over the soft curve of her ass, spreading her just enough for both of us to see. For him to rub his fingers through the slick folds and watch her hips twitch at the contact.
“You’re going to take us both,” he says, voice like gravel now. “One in your cunt. One in your ass. We’ll fuck you full, baby. Make you feel bred and filthy and so fucking good.”
Her eyes flutter shut. Her hips roll.
I look up at her face, then glance back at him.
I slide my tongue up her slit.
She gasps—body jerking, thighs twitching—and we’re off.
She’s already so wet it coats my chin on the first pass. I groan into her, opening her with my hands as I lick again, slower this time, flattening my tongue and dragging it up through every slick inch of her until I reach her clit.
She moans—high and wrecked—and I don’t stop.
I suck her softly at first. Then with a little more pressure. A little more rhythm. I know what she likes. I know how to make her fall apart. And with Callaway’s fingers sliding between her cheeks behind me, the heat building in her body is molten.
“Shit,” Callaway murmurs behind her. “Look at you. Your pussy’s grabbing his tongue and you’re already dripping down your thighs.”
She lets out a whimper, her hips rolling between us.
He strokes her back—down, then lower, to the curve of her ass. His thumbs spread her gently, reverently, his voice dipping low. “You always take us so well, baby. So greedy. So fucking sweet.”
I moan against her, flicking my tongue over her clit again, then flattening it and grinding, slow and firm, the way she loves. Her thighs start to tremble. Her moans hitch—ragged and uneven—her opening contracting against my mouth.
“Monty,” she gasps. “Oh, fuck—don’t stop—don’t—”
I don’t.
I push two fingers inside her and curl them, my mouth never leaving her clit, my lips sealing around her. She pulses around me—tight and soaked—and I know that sound when she makes it: the little cry, the one that means she’s right there.
Callaway presses a slick finger against her ass, teasing, not pushing—just circling.
“Come for us,” he whispers. “Let it go, baby. Let Monty taste it.”
She breaks.
The orgasm rolls through her like a wave, her whole body jerking between us, pussy clenching around my fingers, her moans guttural and raw.
She presses her hips down into my face, and I take it—tongue working her through it, not stopping until her legs are shaking and her cries melt into soft, broken whimpers.
When I finally pull back, she’s glowing. Wild and flushed and ruined.
Callaway strokes her hip and leans down to kiss her shoulder.
“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs. “So fucking good.”
She blinks up at me, dazed and beautiful. “Monty . . .”
I kiss the inside of her thigh, then the curve of her belly. “I’ve got you.”
Then Callaway’s voice cuts in—low, commanding, tender, and filthy all at once.
“Up,” he says. “Let’s put that pussy to good use.”
He helps her shift, moving slowly, like unwrapping something precious. I climb up the bed, back against the headboard, my cock flushed and aching, already slick with precum.
“Come here,” I tell her. “Climb on.”
She crawls over to me, eyes wide and still glassy with orgasm. She swings a leg over and sinks into my lap, her hand wrapping around me to guide me in.
And when she lowers herself onto my cock—slow, hot, deep—we both moan.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “You feel like heaven.”
She rocks forward, her hands bracing on my chest, her body slowly opening again, her walls dragging over me like silk. Like fire.
Callaway settles behind her, kneeling, watching. His hand strokes over her back, then lower, cupping the soft curve of her ass. He leans in, breath ghosting over her neck.