Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cleo
The second time Barret and I make love, it’s slower. Sweeter. Hungrier. Like we both know we’ll feel it for days.
And when he falls asleep wrapped around me, his breath warm at the curve of my neck, I lie there a moment longer. Listening to the rhythm of him. Letting my body remember the shape of him inside me.
Eventually, I slip away, get dressed and head outside the bedroom.
The door clicks shut behind me, quieter than it should be, yet somehow it sounds too loud—like I’ve just disrupted something sacred.
The bedroom fades into stillness. My legs ache, tender and ruined in the most delicious way.
Every step reminds me how thoroughly he took me. How completely I gave in.
My thighs sting, used in ways that make my knees untrustworthy. Between them, I’m still damp. Still parted. Still his.
The cotton shirt I threw on clings to my skin, each brush of fabric against my nipples sending a fresh jolt through my nerves.
Barret’s scent clings to me—his skin, his sweat, the heat of our bodies still lingering in the fibers.
I smell like sex. Like him. And I don't try to hide it. I don’t even want to.
Bare feet whisper over the floor as I pad through the hallway, down the stairs, the silence wrapping around me like a blanket I’m not ready to shed.
I expect hush. Stillness. That quiet, sacred aftermath of sex that should stretch on forever.
I expect the world outside our bed to be holding its breath.
To be waiting—still swaying in the same haze of intimacy we left behind in the sheets.
But the moment I step into the living room, the spell shatters.
It’s alive.
Alec’s the first one I see, lounging on the couch like he owns the place.
Combat boots propped on the coffee table, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, even though he knows damn well there’s no smoking allowed in here.
His stare lands on me and lingers, expression unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. Just watches.
Dexter’s in the armchair, slouched deep, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows.
There’s a bottle cradled between his thighs—something dark that looks suspiciously like soda, though the way he holds it makes it feel illicit.
Probably Dr. Pepper, because there’s no alcohol in this house, and I doubt Eddie would be thrilled to find one of his protégés reconnecting with alcohol.
Dex is mid-sip when he spots me. That grin curves across his face like he’s been waiting all day to see this exact scene.
“Well, well,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Look what the cat dragged out of the sex den. They said you weren’t dead, but I needed visual confirmation.”
Alec’s mouth twitches. Still no words. Just that same, unsettling calm.
I stop halfway into the room, arms crossing on instinct. Not quite covering myself, not really hiding—just trying to get a grip on whatever this is. My heart pounds like I’ve been caught. Like I’ve done something forbidden.
Even though I haven’t.
Unless sleeping with one of my boyfriends is still considered a sin for Dead Moth Parade.
I glance around the room. “No one told me the rest of the band was here.”
Dexter raises the bottle in salute, completely unbothered. “Eddie flew us in. Said we needed to be with you guys.” He takes another long sip. “Surprise.”
Alec rolls his eyes, slow and purposeful, like he’s saying, They dragged me here, against my will. His boot taps once on the table, he’s judging something or mad at the world, who the fuck knows?
Footsteps approach behind me. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
Eddie enters the room with a scowl like thunderclouds.
He sniffs the air and stops just short of me. His gaze narrows, lips curling faintly in distaste—or curiosity, it’s hard to tell with him when others are around.
“Where is he?”
I shrug, playing coy. “Asleep.”
He steps in close. Closer than polite. His voice drops, just for me. “I can smell him on you.”
Heat floods my face.
Eddie’s eyes narrow further, voice lowering to something dark and knowing. “Did he . . .” A beat. “Are you dripping with him?”
My breath catches.
My thighs tighten with instinctive need.
I wish.
But there’s the whole condom thing. And the fact that I haven’t been on the pill since I moved into this house—which has been a little over six weeks now. Not exactly something I planned to fall back into so completely.
I lean in, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear. Close enough to taste him again. Close enough to feel his pulse tick against my breath.
“You wish,” I murmur, letting the words graze his skin. “But maybe . . . after a visit to the doctor, we can be a little careless.”
His inhale stutters just slightly—just enough for me to feel smug.
Then he turns his head, mouth grazing my jaw, voice low and reverent.
“I’ll have a doctor here tomorrow.”
The way he says it—like he’s ready to rearrange the world if it means being buried inside me without latex between us—makes me sway.
A kiss lands just beneath my ear. Soft. Dangerous.
And then—
“What are you two whispering about?” Dexter’s voice cuts in, a smirk audible in every syllable. His narrowed gaze flicks between us like he knows exactly what’s going on and wants to make it everyone’s business.
I pull back slightly, fighting a smile I have no chance of suppressing.
Before I can answer, another voice slices through the tension.
“Get off my little sister.”
I groan. Roderick. Because of course it’s Roderick.
He appears from whatever dimension he likes to haunt when he’s being annoyingly brotherly. Arms crossed, brows raised, exuding protective big-brother energy like he didn’t once write songs about fucking girls on pool tables.
“Really?” I arch a brow. “You’re pulling the big brother card now?”
Dexter snorts. “I’ve got popcorn in my bag if anyone wants to watch this family reunion explode.”
“Just don’t tell him what she was doing upstairs with Hetfield,” Alec who barely smiles grins like a Cheshire cat. “He wants them off her little sister.”
Barret appears.
Descending the stairs like he owns the goddamn house. Showered. Clean. Wearing dark jeans and a plain black shirt that clings to his skin. His hair’s still wet, strands curling at his temples. His eyes find mine immediately, and that smile—God, that smile—softens just for me.
He meets Roderick’s glare head-on, not even flinching. That smile curves across his lips—lazy, unapologetic, infuriating.
“Too late, Roderick, you should’ve told me earlier,” Barret says, and doesn’t fucking blink.
Roderick’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to me, then back to Barret, like he’s trying to do the math and coming up short on reasons not to punch someone.
“Barret, I swear,” I hiss, trying not to laugh, smacking his chest with the back of my hand.
“Love you,” he murmurs, kissing the side of my head like this is just a normal day.
Dexter’s doubled over in laughter now. “Oh, this is so much better than rehearsal.”
“Speaking of rehearsal . . .” Barret lifts a brow at the room, his gaze sweeping over them with bored ease. He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Studio’s open. The other Wilders are already in there, fucking around with sound loops.”
Dexter groans like it personally offends him. He drags himself up from the couch with exaggerated effort. “If they so much as play that fucking crow loop again, I’m quitting. For real this time.”
“We quit five fucks ago,” Alec mutters, pushing to his feet and stretching until something in his back cracks.
Roderick doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes narrowing like he’s still debating whether to stab Barret or just redirect the threat toward Eddie.
Barret doesn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
He stops in front of Eddie—close enough that it might read as confrontation, but it’s not. Not quite. There’s tension, sure, but also history. Trust. A silent agreement that doesn’t need to be said aloud.
There’s respect in the tilt of Barret’s head. In the way he drops his voice so only we hear.
“Take care of our girl,” he murmurs.
Then, without hesitation—without asking—he leans in and kisses Eddie.
Mouth to mouth.
No hesitation. No nerves.
Just a firm, claiming press of lips that turns open. Real. Deep. Barret kisses him like he means it—like he’s done it before and missed it every time since. Like he knows exactly how Eddie tastes and wants to memorize it again.
Eddie stiffens for half a breath, then sinks into it.
There’s a sound. Barely there. A groan swallowed between them, and I don’t know who made it, but I feel it in my spine.
The kiss isn’t quick.
Barret savors it.
Drags it out until Eddie’s fingers twitch at his sides, until my own breath turns ragged, until I wish I were between them instead of just watching. It’s possessive and tender and so fucking hot I have to press my thighs together, useless as it is.
When Barret finally pulls away, Eddie’s lips are parted. His eyes still half-lidded.
Barret doesn’t say a word.
He just turns to me.
And the kiss he gives me after that?
It steals everything.
He devours my mouth like he just lit the fuse and wants to watch me burn from the inside out. Tongue deep, hands on my waist, his body flush against mine like he hasn’t already had me twice today. Like he won’t rest until I forget how to stand without him.
And I kiss him back like I’m starving. Like I’ll never get enough. His mouth tastes like Eddie now. I want more of both. When he finally breaks the kiss, his lips curve against mine.
Then—without a glance at Roderick, without looking back—Barret walks off. His thumb grazes the hinge of my jaw. And when he pulls away, my lips feel branded.
Like he didn’t just wreck the fucking air.
Like none of us are going to be the same after that.
Without another word, he brushes past Roderick—doesn’t even look at him. Just smacks him on the shoulder like he’s swatting away a fly and heads for the studio.
The others trail behind, falling into step with him as if drawn there by muscle memory. Their voices drop into something loose and familiar—old rhythms, low laughter, long history stitched between sarcasm and subtle affection.
The hallway fills with sound. The studio door shuts behind them with a soft click and everything quiets. I don’t move.
Eddie hasn’t either.
He stands across the room, arms folded across his chest, watching me.
His face unreadable. His silence thick. I can’t tell if he’s calculating or deciding whether this—me and Barret, this new ache in my skin, the truth still clinging to the cotton shirt he fucked me in—is something he’s ready to accept.
“You want to go upstairs,” he asks, voice low and rough, “or do you prefer the office?”
That look in his eyes—raw and hungry, all restraint stretched thin. He watches me like he’s trying to see past my skin. It makes something curl deep inside me.
With that face and that heat simmering just beneath the surface, the bedroom is definitely the safer bet.
“The bedroom,” I whisper, pulse tripping over itself. “Definitely.”
He shrugs like he’s casual about it, but his throat bobs with the effort of keeping himself in check. “Only if you want to. You know—”
I cut him off.
One step. Then another.
I press up on my toes, fingers grazing his jaw, and kiss him—fast, but not soft. My lips are insistent, almost clumsy with need. It's not polite. It's not shy. It's a promise.
“I don’t want to,” I murmur against his mouth, breath catching. “I need to.”
And that’s all it takes for him to take charge.