36. Theo #2
“Green. Please don’t stop.”
Sloane doesn't stop. He takes me deeper, tongue working in slow, devoted strokes that make the worst of the spike start to loosen its grip.
Every time the intensity climbs too fast he eases back just enough, reading the way my thighs tremble and the sounds I make.
Idris leans down and kisses the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then the place just below my ear.
“You’re doing so well,” Idris tells me. “Letting us help. Staying present. That’s perfect, Theo.”
The praise sinks into me as deeply as the pleasure.
I reach for him with my free hand and he lets me pull him closer until I can bury my face against his neck.
His scent (black tea and rain) cuts through the heat and keeps me from floating too far away.
Sloane’s mouth stays on me, steady and focused, until the first orgasm builds low in my belly and spills over in long, shaking waves.
I cry out against Idris’s throat. Sloane stays with me through every pulse, gentling only when my hips start to twitch with oversensitivity.
The spike isn't finished.
It rolls again almost immediately, deeper this time, the kind that demands more than a mouth. I make a small, frustrated sound and turn my face toward Sloane.
“More,” I whisper. “Please. Inside.”
Sloane lifts his head. His mouth is wet, his eyes almost black. He looks at Idris first.
Idris nods. “Color, Theo.”
“Green.”
Sloane moves up my body, careful of my hand and my knees.
He settles between my thighs and reaches for the small bottle of lube Idris must have brought to the nest earlier.
The first press of his fingers is slow and thorough.
He works me open with patient strokes, watching my face the entire time, stopping whenever my breath hitches the wrong way.
When three fingers move easily he withdraws and replaces them with the thick head of his cock.
“Ready?” he asks, voice shaking with restraint.
“Yes. Please, Sloane.”
He pushes in with aching care, inch by inch, until he is fully seated and my body has stretched around him. The fullness is exactly what the spike needed. A broken, relieved sound leaves me. Sloane holds still, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.
“I’ve got you,” he says again. “I’m right here.”
He begins to move in deep, steady rolls of his hips.
Every thrust is measured, controlled by the way my body answers and the quiet checks Idris keeps giving.
Idris stays close, one hand stroking my hair, the other resting over my heart so he can feel every change in rhythm.
When the pleasure starts to climb too sharply he murmurs for Sloane to slow, and Sloane obeys without hesitation even though the effort costs him.
“You’re safe,” Idris tells me. “You can let go when you’re ready. We’re not going anywhere.”
I reach for both of them. One hand stays laced with Sloane’s.
The other finds Idris’s wrist and holds on.
The second orgasm builds slower, deeper, rolling through me in waves that make my toes curl and my voice break on their names.
Sloane follows a few thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and spilling inside me while his whole body shakes.
He doesn't pull out right away. He stays deep and close, kissing my face, my throat, the damp hair at my temple, while the last of the spike finally begins to ease.
Idris presses a cool cloth to the back of my neck and another to my forehead.
Their scents wrap around me, warm and steady, until the bright edge under my skin softens into ordinary tiredness.
Sloane eases out only when my breathing has evened.
He and Idris clean me with the same careful hands they used to open me, checking the bandage on my palm, soothing the bruises on my knees with light touches, helping me drink from the water bottle Idris holds to my lips.
They dress me again in the soft shirt, then settle on either side of me in the nest so I'm held between them, warm and loose and no longer fighting my own body.
My hands still move across the blankets, searching.
The room comes back slowly.
At first, there is only Sloane’s chest against my back, Idris’s hand around my ankle, and the cooling cloth tucked behind my neck.
My body is heavy in the nest, the spike burned down to embers beneath my skin.
The hurt in my palm returns in small pulses.
My knees ache. My throat is raw from breathing too hard, and my hair is damp at the temples.
Sloane’s hand moves over my stomach, slow and careful. He has wrapped me in one of his shirts, soft and warm, and the fabric smells like him. His mouth rests near my ear, not kissing now, only breathing there as if he still needs to prove he is close.
Idris kneels beside my legs and checks my bandaged palm again.
He has already checked it twice. I know because I watched his face both times and saw the way his jaw tightened around the urge to be angry.
This time, he unwraps only the edge, looks for bleeding, then smooths the tape back down with two fingers.
“Still green?” Idris asks.
“Yes.” My voice is hoarse, but I manage the full answer because both of them wait for it. “I’m tired. My hand hurts. The spike is quiet now.”
Sloane presses his mouth to my shoulder. “Good. That’s good, sweetheart.”
My body is loose and warm instead of clawing at itself. Sloane’s arm stays around my middle, and Idris’s fingers remain near the bandage on my palm while the last of the spike drains away.
My hand moves before I decide to move it, sliding over the blankets near my hip, then the pillow by my knee, then the rumpled edge of the nest where my fingers find cotton, silk, a cooling pack wrapped in flannel. No wool.
Sloane notices. His whole body stills behind me.
“Callie’s sweater,” I say, embarrassed by how much my voice changes around it. “Where is it?”
Idris reaches across the nest and finds the gray sweater folded near the side table, probably moved there when they cleaned me up. He doesn't make me ask twice. He puts it into my hands, then covers both of them with one of his for a moment before he lets go.
I press the sweater to my mouth. The first breath gives me honeyed pear and vanilla tea under the salt of my own skin. The second breath is weaker. The third makes my eyes sting because the scent is there and not there, a door left open to a room I can't reach.
“Can we call her?” I ask.
Sloane’s answer is immediate. “Yes.”
Idris looks toward the clock, then the phone on the side table. “She may be walking into the interview or already inside it. We’ll keep the message calm.”
“I don’t want to ruin it.” I clutch the sweater tighter because saying that feels like pushing against Garrett’s voice in the car. “I just want her to know I’m home. I want her to know I’m okay.”
“She should know,” Sloane says. He reaches for his phone, his movements too controlled now, all the panic folded into the careful way he unlocks the screen. “And she should hear your voice.”
He presses Callie’s name and puts the phone on speaker, holding it close enough for me to speak without sitting up.
The ringing fills the sunroom. It sounds ordinary.
That makes it worse. I stare at the screen and picture her in a hallway, maybe checking her notes, maybe touching the protein bar Idris put in her bag.
I picture her seeing Sloane’s name and stepping away from the interview room because she promised she would answer.
The call goes to voicemail.
Sloane closes his eyes for one breath. When he opens them, they are wet and furious, but his voice is gentle when the beep comes.
“Hi, Callie,” I say. My throat tightens, and Idris’s hand settles over my ankle beneath the blanket, steady pressure that helps the words stay whole.
“It’s me. I’m home, and I’m okay. I cut my hand a little, but you took care of it, and the nurse said it’s fine.
I wanted you to know I’m not scared of lunch.
I’m not scared of you. Please call when your interview is done. ”
Sloane bends over me, bringing the phone closer to his own mouth. “Hey, baby, it’s me. Theo’s home with us, and he’s okay. We aren’t trying to interrupt anything, and we don’t want you worrying if you’re walking into the interview, but call when you get this. Hurry home when you can. I love you.”
Idris leans in from my other side without taking the phone from Sloane. “Text me when you’re out, Calliope. Eat the protein bar if you haven’t. Drive carefully. We’ve got him until you’re home.”
Sloane ends the call and leaves the phone faceup on the blanket near my knee.
For a minute, none of us moves. The sunroom hums softly around us, warm and prepared and full of all the things we thought we had a few more days to finish.
My phone is tucked against my thigh. Idris’s phone sits on the side table with the ringer turned high.
Sloane’s phone is beside my knee, bright for a few seconds before the screen dims.
“Maybe she’s already in the interview,” I say.
“Probably,” Sloane answers. His hand stays over my stomach, but it has gone too still.
Idris picks up the water bottle and brings it to my mouth. “Drink for me.” He watches me swallow, then wipes a drop from my lower lip with his thumb. “She’ll call when she can.”
I nod because they need me to, and because I want it to be true.
Outside the sunroom, Garrett’s voice moves low through the hall, calm and distant, taking care of the thing that happened at campus.
I catch only pieces: incident, documentation, proximity to heat, yes, I understand the concern.
The words blur beneath the sound of Sloane breathing behind me and Idris shifting closer to the doorway.
The phone stays dark.
I keep Callie’s sweater pressed to my mouth anyway. It smells more like me every minute, but I hold on to what is left and listen for a call that doesn't come.