Chapter 184: Madeline
Kneeling between them, I can feel the bed breathe with every rise of their chests. Candlelight beads along muscle and turns shadow into something molten. They’re stretched out for me—Reid to my right, Jake to my left—two dark shapes cut from the same hunger, eyes gone heavy, waiting.
“Let me explore you,” I say again, just to hear how it sounds in the room.
I start where I want most.
My palms settle over the hard outline of their cocks, fabric dragging faintly under my fingers. They’re hard already—no mystery left there—thick weight straining the cotton. I trace the ridge of one, then the other, slow enough to be cruel, learning the way they give and tense under pressure. Jake’s breath breaks first—low, rough—like something he didn’t mean to let me hear. Reid doesn’t make a sound, but his throat flexes, his lashes dipping and lifting in a losing fight.
The movement is simple and obscene, and it turns them into different men; their heads tip back, Adam’s apples jumping, stomachs tight as bowstrings. The room narrows to the soft rasp of fabric and the way they try—and fail—to keep still for me.
I change the speed. A slow drag that makes Jake’s fingers fist in the comforter. A firmer stroke that steals the air from Reid’s lungs; he inhales like he’s swallowing a growl and it still leaks out, dark and bitten off. I do it again, just to hear it. Their eyes snap back to mine, identical and black instead of brown, and the look there says mine in a way that sets heat low and liquid in my belly.
I circle them with my touch, mapping length, testing pressure, letting the heel of my hand bear down—once, twice—until the muscle in Reid’s jaw jumps and Jake’s mouth shapes a curse he doesn’t finish. I never leave them. Not for a second.
My fingers slide under the waistband, and I wrap them the way I want—one hand on Reid, one on Jake—no fabric left between us now. Heat floods my palms; they’re solid and heavy and so alive it feels like holding pulse itself. Jake’s eyes fall shut. Reid’s stay open, tracking every inch I claim.
I change my grip. Not just up-and-down—my ring finger curls on the return, my thumb drags lazily along the most sensitive place, a slow twist at the top that makes both of them stutter in completely different ways. Reid’s jaw locks; Jake’s breath breaks and doesn’t quite come back before I do it again.
“Harder,” Reid grinds, and then he’s there—his hand closing over mine, swallowing it, driving my fingers tighter around him. His control becomes a lesson: squeeze, don’t rush; milk, don’t skim. The rhythm he sets through my hand feels filthy and precise, and when he lets go, I keep it, because I like the wreck it puts in his eyes.
Jake anchors me with a palm on my thigh, wide and hot, thumb pressing just inside where it makes my breath misbehave. He doesn’t push me open; he just holds me exactly there, possession and balance, while I work him with my other hand—long, ruthless strokes and a slow circle of my thumb that has his head tipping back against the headboard like the room tilted.
I don’t look away from Reid as I bend.
His gaze pins me there—hungry, unblinking—while I wrap my hand around him once more and lower my mouth. He’s hot against my tongue, heavy, the kind of fullness that makes my lips stretch and my jaw ache in a way that feels indecently good. His hands come to me instinctively: one at the back of my hair, not pulling, just holding; the other cupping the side of my neck—possessive, protective, a brake he can slam if he has to.
I take him slow. Half, then a breath, then a little more until the warning burns the back of my throat. I can’t take all of him; not yet. He doesn’t push. He tips his head back, a sound tearing loose, and when he looks down again I’m still looking up, mouth full of him, letting him see exactly what he does to me. My fist works what my mouth can’t—tight, steady—and I drag my tongue along the underside on the way down, circle the crown on the way up, swallow when I have him deepest. His fingers flex in my hair like he’s fighting himself. “Easy,” comes out of him rough, and I answer by going slower, meaner, until his breath breaks.
I let him slip free, lips wet, chin slick, and turn to Jake without wiping my mouth. His eyes were closed; they open fast when I take him in the same hand-to-mouth grip, testing his weight, the different angle, the way he shudders when I flatten my tongue and take him deep on the first pass. He swears—quiet, wrecked—and his hand finds my thigh, anchoring hard as I set the pace: mouth, fist, twist, swallow. He’s wider at the head whereas Reid is the same girth all around; I choke sweetly on it and do it again because of the way it ruins his composure.
I work them both like I own the night—Reid’s taste, Jake’s heat, the night at the windows, their hands on me like vows they’re barely holding. I can feel their control fray under my tongue, can feel the growl building in Reid’s chest and the helpless stutter in Jake’s breath. And I don’t stop until they’re both right there, two big, strong, proud men comong apart on a bed barely wide enough for their bodies and not big enough for everything they’re trying not to do to me.
I think I’ve got them—right up until Reid’s growl cuts the room in half.
“That’s enough.”
It rakes over me. He sits up in one clean, impossible move and his hands are on my waist—hot, sure—lifting me like I weigh nothing. The world tilts. He turns me, effortless, a rough kind of careful, and suddenly I’m facing away from them, knees sinking into the mattress, breath knocked bright from my lungs. I pitch forward to catch myself, palms flat on the comforter, hair falling over my shoulder, on all fours in front of them.