Chapter 185: Reid
This girl.
With anyone else, I’d have let the rough edge win—let the hunger take the wheel, finish what she started and call it mercy. With any other woman, I'd have fucked her mouth, made her gag and spit and worship, and I would've emptied myself down her throat. Not with her. She’s fire and fine glass, all at once. She wants us, I see it, I feel it—but I won’t scare her, won’t lose the reins. Not yet.
I flip her—easy—until she’s facing away from us, knees sinking into the mattress, palms braced on the comforter. Her breath catches; my name ghosts off her tongue. I drag my hand up the back of her thigh, slow, then along the curve of her hip and the small of her back. With her ass offered up to us like that, she looks nothing short of perfect.
I push the edge of her shorts and panties to the side, revealing perfectly pink, glistening skin, and run my knuckles down the sweet, soft folds waiting for me. Immediately, my fingers become slick, coated with how wet she already is.
“Christ,” I breathe, low and ruined. “You make it really fucking hard to be a gentleman.”
She laughs—quiet, breathless—and it’s a blade in my ribs.
I run my finger slowly, up and down her sex, until I find myself pushing through her core and setting a pace she can feel without thinking—steady, claiming, a cadence she can meet and match. I fist myself the way she had me just moments ago, and I see Jake do the same.
For every pump of my hand down my cock, I push my finger into her. Slow, long strokes. I'm becoming fucking mad, thinking about how tight and warm and wet she is, wanting nothing more than to burry myself to the hilt in her, and drive into her all night.
But for now I take my finger out and go back in adding another. I go slow, letting her adjust to the new addition, before I resume the motion.
I match the pace I set inside her with my own strokes, and Jake is jerking off the exact same way. The low, helpless sounds she gives us feel like confessions and makes me fist myself harder.
Watching her get fingered, soft and needy and whimpering, while we both pump our dicks at the devastatingly beautiful sight, has to be one of the best things I've experience in my life.
“Reid,” she whispers.
“I’ve got you.”
I do. I hold the line I drew for myself even as it burns. I keep her exactly where I want her—safe, claimed, shaking with want—while the three of us move together in a slow, relentless tide: my fingers moving a bit faster now, Jake’s hand sliding higher along her thigh to keep her close, while the other works on getting himself closer to the edge.
The only sounds filling the room are our ragged breaths and the wet pounding of my fingers sliding into her. I can feel her walls tighten, feel her knees start to shake. I move my thumb to her clit and press lightly, slowly, making tiny circles that seem to drive her completely insane.
She looks back at me then, cheeks pink, eyes glazed, lips wet and plump and open, and I feel my own release build against my spine. Her beautiful green eyes on me are all I need to go over the edge, cum spilling over my hand and onto my abs. She follows me soon after, her walls tightening around me, her entire body shaking around my two fingers.
Jake finds his own release too, looking at her with a wide, incredulous look that I recognize as... love. Yeah, my brother is in love with her. For what she does to him, for how beautiful and soft and brave and smart she is. And fuck, so am I. Here, with her being utterly vulnerable in front of us, with nothing but desire in her eyes, I realize that I'm fucking in love Madeline Quinn.
I take my fingers out slowly, and Jake groans at the slick coat on them from her orgasm. He slides her shorts back in place and we make quick work of cleaning ourselves while she turns around to face us once more.
We pull our boxers back on, breath still rough, the room a mess of heat and candleshadow.
“Come here,” Jake says, voice gone soft in a way that still sounds like a claim.
She folds over him without thinking—chest to his, cheek to his collarbone, one knee bracketing his hip. He settles a hand low on her back like he’s keeping her, like he always will.
She reaches sideways for me.
I take her hand. Small, warm, still trembling a little. She looks up, eyes heavy, and smiles—wrecked and sweet and proud of what we are. It hits me like surf.
I bend and kiss the top of her hand, slow. “Sleep,” I tell her.
The night wind prowls at the windows. Jake’s thumb draws lazy lines along her spine. Her lashes sink, open once more on me, that smile still there, and then close for good.
We don’t talk. The room hums with our heartbeats and her breathing.
I reach for the blankets—drag the comforter up, find the heavy wool at the foot of the bed and shake it loose. I tuck it over her shoulders, over Jake’s chest, over my hip. She sighs in her sleep and curls closer. I find her hand again where she left it for me and lace our fingers.
The candles burn down to a coal. The house settles.
After a while Jake says, barely above the sound of our own breathing, “I love her.”
I nod. “I know.”
Another beat. The truth has been living in my throat for months; it finally steps out and looks like a vow. “I love her, too,” I say. “I think I always have.”
Her fingers twitch in mine like she heard it. I hold on tighter.