Chapter 167: Reid
She's in my bed.
Madeline. Curled beneath the comforter, swallowed in my clothes, the scent of rain and saltwater still faint on her skin. She’d looked seconds from sleep when Jake and I brought her upstairs — drowsy, pliant, barely able to keep her eyes open as we helped her into dry clothes.
But the second we climb into the bed — one on either side of her — everything about her shifts.
Suddenly she’s sitting up between us. Awake. Alert. Blushing.
The storm’s still raging outside, the wind howling like it’s hunting for a way in. We can hear it beating at the windows, the movie downstairs still playing in the background, and someone — probably Finn — snoring like a chainsaw. It’s well past midnight now, and the rest of the house is either passed out or pretending not to listen.
But she’s not tired anymore.
Not with the way she looks at us — cheeks flushed, lips parted, lashes low. The kind of quiet nervous that screams want.
Jake’s hand fists the sheet beside him, his knuckles going white.
I know what that means.
He’s holding back.
So am I.
Because everything in me is screaming to take her. Pull her into my lap, tilt her face up, make her beg for our mouths, our hands. Everything.
But that’s not how we do this.
Not with her.
We’ve waited too long, wanted too much. We’ll give her time — even if it kills us.
She shifts onto her knees between us, and fuck — my joggers dip lower on her hips, slung loose around her waist. Too big on her, and yet somehow designed to ruin me.
That tiny strip of dark blue lace peeks out from the waistband, just enough to flash the swell of her hips, the dip of her lower stomach.
My cock twitches under the covers. Hard. Demanding. And I force the blanket higher, adjusting subtly so she doesn’t see how wrecked I already am.
She glances between us, breath catching. “I have a question.”
Jake and I answer at the same time, voices low. “Yeah?”
She plays with the sleeve of my shirt like she doesn’t quite know how to start.
“I just… I’ve been trying to figure this out. What this is.”
A pause.
“Do you want me? Like… just for now? Or—” her voice wavers “—do you want something real?”
Jake’s brows pinch. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” she trails off, cheeks going red again. “Do you want me as your girlfriend? Or is this just a summer thing?”
There it is.
The question neither of us realized we were waiting for.
Jake and I lean forward at the same time, perfectly in sync.
No discussion needed. We’ve been aligned on this from the beginning.
I tilt her chin up with two fingers, and Jake brushes his hand along her thigh.
“Madeline,” I murmur, “we want all of you.”
“Not just now,” Jake adds, voice husky. “Not just while you’re convenient. Ours. That's what we want.”
I lean closer, nearly mouth to mouth with her. “We want your mornings. Your nights. Your texts. Your mood swings. Your bad days. Your fucking socks on our floor.”
Jake grins slightly. “And your thighs in our hands.”
Her breath hitches.
“You’re not some fling,” I continue, voice lower now, darker. “You’re not a fantasy. You’re real. And we want you in every possible way. After the summer. After the season. After all of it.”
She stares at us — stunned and wide-eyed — and for a second I wonder if it was too much. If we went too far. But then—
She bites her lip.
Soft. Deliberate. Like she knows exactly what that does to us.
“I want that too,” she whispers.
Jake doesn’t hesitate. He leans in and captures her mouth, slow and warm, his hand slipping to her jaw. She melts into it — all soft sighs and parted lips — and rises up on her knees so she can deepen the kiss, her fingers threading through his hair.
And the fucking joggers slide even lower on her hips. The waistband sags, revealing the full top of her lace panties and the tiniest peek of bare skin above them. I groan — guttural, helpless — because she is every sin I’ve ever wanted.
Jake pulls back slightly and looks at me. His eyes are wild. Dark.
“Reid,” she breathes, turning toward me. “Kiss me.”
God help me.
I slide closer, hand cradling the back of her neck, my forehead brushing hers.
“You don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it,” she whispers.
I kiss her.
Harder than Jake did. Deeper. Her mouth opens for me like it’s instinct. Her hands fist my shirt, clinging. I taste her breath, her desire, the hunger she’s been trying to hide since the day she got here.
And when I pull away, she’s shaking.
From the kiss. From the storm. From the pressure building like lightning behind her eyes.
Jake pulls her back between us, wrapping an arm around her waist. She slumps into him, dazed and flushed. I press a kiss to her shoulder, her neck, and let my lips linger just under her ear.
She shifts slightly when I touch her hip, just a small move—but it’s enough.
“Let me,” I murmur against her ear.
She nods, and I don’t waste a second. I hook my fingers in the waistband of the joggers she’s drowning in—my joggers—and drag them down slowly, watching the way the fabric slides along her soft skin. She lifts her hips just enough to help me, and I bite back a curse.
Underneath, those dark blue lace panties are exactly where I left them. Exactly where I want them. They’re delicate and snug, and they frame her body like a fucking sin. The contrast between them and the bruises on her ribs makes something dark curl inside me.
She’s so soft. So breakable. And still, she’s here, between us.
Once the joggers are gone, I pull her hips back, flush against me—deliberately. I want her to feel it, what she does to me. The hard line of me pressing into her through the lace.
Her gasp cuts the air like a spark. She glances over her shoulder, her eyes half-lidded, glassy with want. Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything—just leans back farther until we’re molded together.
Fuck.
Jake’s watching all of it, eyes dark, jaw tense. But when she turns back to him, it’s like a switch flips. His hand rises, slow, reverent, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Then his lips find her neck. Her collarbone. Soft, open-mouthed kisses that make her exhale this little sound that nearly undoes me.
But the shirt. The shirt’s in the way. He curses under his breath.
“This fucking thing,” he growls.
“It’s not mine,” she says, breathless.
He laughs, low and sharp. “Doesn’t mean I like it keeping me from what is mine.”
She shivers. Not from the storm—nothing to do with the cold.
I press a kiss behind her ear and murmur, “Take it off for us, Trouble.”
And she does.