8. Cade
CADE
The storm rolls in during dinner.
I watch the first lightning flash through the sliding glass doors—white light over black water, gone in a second. Thunder follows, low and distant. The kind that shakes the air without shaking the walls.
Nora glances toward the ocean. "That looks dramatic."
"Gets worse before it gets better." Rhett slides a plate of seared scallops across the counter toward her. Butter sauce pooling gold around the edges. "Eat while the power's still on."
She picks up her fork. Takes a bite. Her eyes close for a second, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. Same look she had this morning when she tasted the chocolate croissant. Like she's never eaten good food before this weekend.
Maybe she hasn't.
Jude pours wine—something French, I don't track the label. He fills her glass first, then ours. "Storm's gonna park right over us. Could last hours."
"Great." She sips the wine. Her shoulders drop half an inch. "Trapped on an island during a hurricane."
"Thunderstorm," I correct. "Hurricane, we'd evacuate."
"Would we?"
"No."
She laughs. The sound cuts through the low rumble outside, and Rhett grins into his wine glass.
We eat. Lamb chops with rosemary crust, asparagus drowned in hollandaise, pasta. The dishes are different from lunch—wedding leftovers rotated through like we're working our way down a luxury buffet. Which we are.
Another lightning flash. Closer. The thunder cracks hard enough that Nora jumps.
"Power might go," Rhett says.
"There's a generator."
"I know. I'm just saying."
The lights flicker. Hold. Flicker again.
Nora sets down her fork. "If the power goes out, do we have to sit in the dark?"
"There are candles." Jude leans back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning. "You scared of the dark, love?"
"I'm scared of being stuck on a couch with you three in the dark."
"Smart."
The lights go out.
Nora's inhale is audible. Then Jude laughs, and a moment later, a soft glow fills the kitchen—Rhett, holding up his phone as a flashlight.
"Generator kicks in automatically," I tell her. "Give it thirty seconds."
Twenty seconds later, the lights hum back on. Dimmer than before, but steady.
Nora exhales. "Okay. Fine. I'm only moderately terrified."
"Let's move to the lounge." I stand, carrying my wine. "Better view."
The outdoor lounge is open on three sides—covered, but not enclosed. Rain hammers the terrace in sheets, loud enough to feel like white noise. The pool's invisible behind the downpour. Lightning splits the sky every few seconds, turning the ocean into something out of a painting.
We settle onto the deep couches. Nora curls into the corner of one, bare feet tucked under her, wine glass cradled in both hands. She's wearing the same loose dress from earlier—thin straps, hem that stops mid-thigh. Her hair's damp from the humidity, curling at the ends.
Rhett sits beside her. Close. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough that she'd feel it if she leaned back.
Jude drops onto the opposite couch, facing them. Sprawled out, one ankle on his knee, watching the rain like it's a show.
I take the chair perpendicular to all of them. Best vantage point.
The storm's loud. Thunder shakes the furniture. Lightning turns everything white for half a second, then shadow again. Nora's face flickers in and out of clarity—blue eyes wide, freckles dark against flushed skin, lips parted around the rim of her wine glass.
She glances at me. Holds my gaze for a beat too long. Then looks away, out toward the rain.
I don't look away.
Jude shifts. His gaze flicks between Nora and Rhett, then lands on me. He raises an eyebrow.
I don't react.
But I see it. The shift. The way the air in the room tightens, the way the storm outside becomes background instead of foreground. The way Nora's breathing changes—shallow, quick, like she's aware of all three of us watching her and doesn't know what to do with that awareness.
Rhett's hand moves. Casual. Brushes a strand of hair off her shoulder, tucks it behind her ear. His fingers linger at the base of her neck.
She shivers.
"Cold?" Rhett's voice is low.
"No."
"Then what?"
She doesn't answer. Just looks at him, her lips parted, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat.
Jude leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You're quiet, Nora."
"I'm watching the storm."
"No, you're not."
She swallows. Looks at me again. Her eyes are asking a question she doesn't know how to voice.
I set down my wine glass. Stand. Cross the space between us in three steps and stop in front of her. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
"Stand up."
She does. Immediately. No hesitation. The wine glass wobbles in her hand, and Rhett takes it from her, sets it on the table.
I cup her jaw, my thumb pressing firm against the frantic flutter of her pulse just beneath the delicate line of her bone.
Her skin burns hot under my palm, that soft, freckled warmth that feels like it was made to fit exactly here.
I tilt her face up, forcing those wide blue eyes to lock on mine, and the way her breath catches—shallow, desperate, like she's drowning in the thick, ozone-scented air rolling in from the storm—sends a raw bolt of hunger straight through me.
She wants this. She's terrified of how much.
I kiss her like I've been waiting thirty-three years to do it. Hard. Deep. My tongue sweeps in without warning, tasting the sharp remnants of red wine on her, the faint salt of her skin, claiming every inch while her small hands fist desperately in the front of my shirt.
The fabric twists tight between her fingers, pulling me closer, and I feel the tremor that runs through her entire body. Behind her, Rhett shifts into place, his broad hands settling heavy on her waist, steadying her like he knows exactly how unsteady her legs have become.
His grip anchors her as I devour her mouth, teeth grazing her lower lip until she whimpers into me. Because I own this. We all do.
I pull back just enough to speak against her slick, swollen lips, my voice low and steady even as my cock strains painfully against my zipper. "Lie down."
She blinks up at me, dazed and glassy-eyed, lips parted like she's forgotten how to form words. "Where?"
I nod toward the wide outdoor lounge behind us, its deep cushions piled with white linen that already looks rumpled from the humid breeze. It's more than big enough for what I have in mind—for her, spread open and trembling between the three of us.
The rain lashes against the covered terrace roof, a constant, drumming roar that vibrates through my bones, while lightning flickers across the black ocean beyond.
Rhett guides her backward without a word, his hands never leaving the curve of her hips, fingers splayed possessively over her dress.
She sinks down onto the cushions with a soft exhale, the fabric whispering against her skin, and I follow immediately, dropping to my knees between her parted thighs.
The position puts me eye-level with the apex of her body, and the scent of her—warm, musky, unmistakably aroused—hits me like a drug.
Jude settles to the side, close enough that his tattooed arm brushes her shoulder, his hazel eyes tracking every hitch in her breathing, every unconscious shift of her hips.
He's always watching. Always reading her.
I slide my hands up her thighs, palms rough against that smooth, trembling flesh, pushing the thin hem of her dress higher and higher. The fabric bunches around her waist, and then—nothing. No lace, no barrier. Just slick, bare skin glistening in the low light. My cock twitches hard at the sight.
Jude lets out a rough groan, the sound vibrating through the charged air. "Jesus Christ."
Rhett's hand moves to her hair next, long fingers threading through those wild red waves, tugging with just enough pressure to make her back arch clean off the cushions.
The motion exposes the elegant column of her throat, pulse hammering visibly beneath the freckled skin, and she gasps at the sharp pull, the sound high and needy.
I hook my fingers into the delicate straps of her dress, my voice dropping even lower. "Lift your arms."
She obeys instantly, that instinctive submission making heat coil tighter in my gut. I peel the fabric up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the shadows behind me where it lands with a soft thud against the stone.
She's completely bare now, flushed a deep, mortified pink from the swell of her full breasts all the way to her cheeks.
Her nipples stand tight and rosy in the cool, storm-laced air, begging for attention, while more freckles dance across the tops of her breasts and shoulders like stars I want to trace with my tongue.
Her breathing comes ragged and uneven, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the thunder rolling overhead.
"Look at you," I rasp, the words scraping out rougher than I mean them to. I can't stop staring at the way her thighs quiver, the way her slick folds part just enough to show how soaked she already is. "Spread out for your three stepbrothers."
Her eyes widen, that bright blue flooding with a mix of shock and raw want. A fresh wave of color crawls down her chest, and I watch her nipples tighten even further under my gaze.
Jude leans in close, his breath hot against the shell of her ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin there. "You're dripping, love. We can see it—shining all over your thighs. Smells so fucking sweet I can taste it from here."
She whimpers, the broken sound punching straight through me, her hips twitching involuntarily.
Rhett's thumb brushes slowly over her plump lower lip, parting it. "Nora."
The way he says her name—like a quiet command wrapped in reverence—makes her head turn toward him immediately. He captures her mouth in a kiss that's the exact opposite of mine: slow, deep, and devastatingly thorough.