Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
LUCA
Bastion walked off the field mid–warm-up. Didn’t speak. Didn’t glance back. Just dropped his helmet and walked.
So I did the same.
No one stopped us. No one ever did.
We were still in our warm-up shirts when we unlocked the dorm. The halls were dead quiet. Everyone was either at the game or prepping for the afterparty.
But the second I stepped inside—I froze.
She was there.
Headphones in.
Music blasting.
Face down, ass up... on a yoga mat.
I didn’t breathe. Neither did Bastion.
His arm shot out, flat against my chest like he’d slammed into something solid.
And I knew why.
She wasn’t in workout shorts.
She wasn’t in leggings.
She was in underwear.
Tiny. Black. So fucking small the curve of her ass was completely bare. Just the triangle of fabric between her thighs, and that perfect stretch of skin that made my mouth go dry.
Her back arched as she moved deeper into the pose, legs strong and steady, eyes closed like the entire world had vanished.
She didn’t hear the door.
Didn’t hear us.
She thought she was alone.
And fuck ... she looked like she belonged like that.
Alone in our space. Comfortable . Careless. Ours.
My heart was punching through my chest.
She lifted one leg behind her, slow and deliberate, holding the line of her body like she was balancing gravity itself. Every muscle glowed—taut and smooth and fluid.
It wasn’t a workout.
It was art.
Bastion didn’t move beside me. Didn’t speak. But I could feel him vibrating with restraint. Every breath shallow. Every nerve strung tight. I didn’t need to ask what he was thinking.
It was the same thing I was.
She’s going to break us.
And the worst part?
She didn’t even know.
She dropped into another pose, shifting her hips, that goddamn sliver of fabric riding higher, dragging every last ounce of sanity out of me.
I stepped back first.
Swallowed hard.
Shoved a hand through my hair and cursed under my breath.
We had to leave. Or speak. Or do something.
Because standing here, watching her like this—like some fever dream we weren’t allowed to touch—was going to kill us.
But neither of us moved.
Because she was still stretching. Still unaware.
She shifted again—slow, unhurried—like she was home. Like she didn’t feel the air change the second we walked in.
She dropped down to her stomach, arms folding under her chest before she arched?—
A long, lazy stretch that had her back curving and her ribs lifting. Her eyes still shut. Lips parted in some kind of blissed-out calm that made my throat tighten.
It was fucking obscene.
She looked soft. Untouched. Blissfully unaware that two of the most dangerous boys in the academy were standing right behind her—frozen—like statues carved from heat and want.
Bastion hadn’t moved.
Not an inch.
His jaw was locked. His hand still braced across my chest like he needed to hold me back—like if he didn’t, we’d both do something we’d never come back from.
I felt it too. The pull.
It wasn’t just lust.
It was rage-inducing desire.
It was how dare you look that beautiful when you’re not ours yet.
She bent one leg, toe grazing the inside of her thigh, the movement so fluid it could’ve been choreographed by God himself. Her fingers curled into the mat, her back rising with a slow inhale, then relaxing into the exhale.
As if she hadn’t just torn two men apart by breathing.
I didn’t realize my hands had curled into fists until my nails dug into my palm.
“She thinks we’re still at the game,” Bastion muttered finally, voice low, wrecked. “She thought she had the room to herself.”
She did.
Until now.
My voice was stuck in my throat, a single word pushing to be said but never forming: Ours.
That was the word.
Ours.
Ours.
Ours.
But we’d never said it.
Never touched her.
Never given her permission to look like that in front of us.
And she’d never given us permission to feel this wrecked over her.
She rolled onto her back, completely unaware, arms above her head again. The curve of her stomach was soft, perfect, flushed from the heat of the stretch. That same crop top rode higher, exposing the undercurve of her breasts—just barely. Just enough.
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Then she opened her eyes.
And looked.
At us.
Directly.
The relaxation drained from those beautiful doe eyes in an instant. Gone. Like someone had snapped a spell. Her pupils sharpened, her mouth parted in a soft gasp, and she scrambled upright with this panic-flushed urgency that only made things worse.
Because I couldn’t stop staring at her lips.
That soft pink mouth I’d memorized a thousand different ways—parted, bitten, painted in gloss, wrapped around a straw, wrapped around her own goddamn pen when she was nervous in class.
But now?
Now all I could picture was her on her knees, those wide eyes looking up at me, while I dragged my thumb across her bottom lip and said, “Open for me, baby.”
The thought of her mouth around me—full of me—while her cheeks flushed and her lashes fluttered?
Fucking lethal.
I imagined guiding her head slowly. Teaching her how I liked it. How I’d ruin her. Sweet praise spilling from my lips between filthy orders. Gentle fingers fisting in her hair. That look she’d give me when her body finally surrendered to mine—when she realized she liked it. Craved it.
And the way she’d beg.
Beg.
For me to finish in her mouth. For me to tell her she was a good girl. For me to tell her she was mine.
I wanted to own that look.
Wanted her on her knees just like she’d been—face down, ass up—but looking at us.
Begging.
We would teach her how to take care of our needs.
Me and Bastion.
Together.
We’d show her how to open her mouth wide enough.
Slow enough.
With her eyes locked on mine while my hand stayed firm in her hair, guiding her.
Teaching her how to make me groan without even touching the rest of me.
We would ease her throat open, teach her to love to cry from the stretch of it. She would look at us with tears and show us how proud she was to choke for us.
We’d make her thank us for every drop.
And when she was good enough—obedient enough—we’d reward her.
With fingers.
With tongue.
With anything she wanted.
Because once we started, she wouldn’t know how to want anything else.
She wouldn’t even know who she belonged to. Bastion. Me.
Both.
Fucking both.
And she’d love the confusion.
We’d turn her into our favorite sin—our sweetest fucking secret.
And I’d be the one holding her hand through it. Whispering, “You’re doing so good, baby. Look at you… taking us so well.”
God, I’d ruin her.
We’d ruin her.
But right now, she was still untouched.
Still soft and untrained and sacred in a way that made me ache.
She’d hate herself for how fast she’d obey.
How quick her mouth would part.
How wet she’d be, just from being told she was pretty like this.
Ours like this.
We’d hold her between us.
Control her breath.
Tell her when to swallow.
When to cry.
And those eyes.. .
Those doe eyes would look up at us like we were her entire world.
I nearly groaned out loud at the image.
At the unbearable ache of not having her yet.
She sat up fast, panicked.
Not to cover herself.
Not to scream.
But to apologize.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, voice soft and shaking. “I didn’t know you were back. I thought—I thought I was alone. I’ll get dressed—just give me a second. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t?—”
The rest came out in a rush, like she was the one who had done something wrong.
Like her bare skin was a sin.
Like she should be ashamed.
Not us.
My stomach twisted.
She didn’t cover her chest.
Didn’t hide her thighs.
Didn’t even meet my eyes again.
She just kept apologizing.
To us.
The ones who’d been standing there like fucking predators.
The image I’d just built in my head—of us teaching her how to serve, how to kneel, how to beg—cracked wide open. Shame cutting through me like glass.
And that made it worse.
Because even then...
Even when I should’ve stepped back, looked away, said something decent?—
All I wanted was to step forward.
Take her face in my hands .
And say, “Let Daddy in, baby. Show me how deep your sweet mouth can take me.”
“Why aren’t you two at the game?” she asked.
Considering I had Bastion to thank for that beautiful sight of her on that mat, I figured I could take the fall for how we got here.
I nearly missed him walking off. I’d been too busy forcing her ex-boyfriend to the ground during warmups.
Made damn sure I was paired with him. Every hit felt better than the last. Nothing like slamming that smug fucker onto the turf over and over again for stress relief. If he wanted to talk about her like she was just some cheerleader he used to fuck—I’d put him on the ground for it.
“Felt dizzy,” I shrugged.
“Wait,” Emilia said again, softer now. “When’s the last time you ate actual food?”
That’s when she bit her bottom lip—like she was thinking too hard—and fuck me if that didn’t knock something loose inside my chest. She could’ve cursed us out, screamed, or thrown something at our heads. But no. That wasn’t her.
She worried.
Even after everything.
I caught myself before I smiled. Before I let it show how deeply that hit.
She couldn’t help it. She was just like that.
Our perfect , good fucking girl.
The kind you corrupt slowly .
The kind you ruin with reverence .
I shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“I’m gonna order pizza,” she said quickly, like it was decided. “If…you want any.”
Bastion stood behind me and cut in first. “I’ll order it.”
Her eyes flicked to him. She nodded once. No argument .
And then she stood. That slow, fluid kind of grace you couldn’t teach.
Her hair spilled down her back. The crop top had ridden even higher. And her panties? They’d vanished between her ass cheeks — and fuck, what a sight it was.
She walked toward the dresser like nothing was wrong.
Like two men weren’t frozen on the spot, staring .
We both watched her ass sway.
Every goddamn step.
She reached up to the top drawer.
I wanted to press her into it. Bend her forward. Slide her panties to the side. Reward her. Tell her what a good fucking girl she is for taking care of us.