Chapter 193: Madeline
The room heat kisses my face the second we step in—dry and clean, the kind that sinks into fingers gone cold from the walk. I peel my jacket off first, then toe out of my shoes on the little entry mat. Reid’s boots thud beside mine; Jake’s land neatly next to them like he does everything on purpose.
“You go shower first,” Jake says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “I need a second to be still after all that driving and… poutine.”
I glance at Reid. He tips me a small nod that feels like permission and something softer. “Go.”
My duffel’s already on the bed closest to me—the black one with the frayed strap and the little tag in Reid’s handwriting, because he just had to make sure it was labeled in case we misplaced it, or something like that he said. I sling it over my shoulder and step inside.
The mirror gives me back a road version of myself: copper waves a little wild from the wind, new freckles dusting my cheekbones courtesy of a busy summer. I pull my hair up into a high, messy bun and twist the tap to hot. The shower roars alive; steam ghosts the glass, thick and sweet in a breath. I unzip the toiletry bag I’ve carried through rental rooms and borrowed sinks, line up the tiny travel bottles like a ritual, and step under.
Vanilla blooms first—the little body wash I love, the one that makes strangers lean in on trains and ask what I’m wearing. Then sugar—the scrub bar I rub slow along my shoulders, my thighs, the curve of my calves, until my skin hums. I let the water knead heat back into me, then make myself be quick because I know the guys will want what’s left of the hot water.
I wrap a crisp, white towel around myself. I feel new. Clean and warm and exactly the right amount of loose. I pull on cotton shorts and a tight blue T-shirt that fits like I meant it, then brush my hair out so the damp ends look deliberate. Toothbrush. Mint. A last pass of the towel at the fogged glass until my face resolves: a girl who looks like she knows what she’s doing even when she’s scared. The words Reid spoke to me a few days ago rush back to my mind wihtout permission.
“Only when we’re alone,” his voice echoes in my head, low and certain. “When we take you, it will be long, and it will be loud.”
Heat licks low, a sharp little flash that tightens my breath. I flatten my palm to the counter and wait for my pulse to stop doing the most.
You’re alone with them tonight, I think. Just the three of you.
I wipe the last fog from the mirror and hold my own gaze long enough to catch the flicker of insecurity that tries to creep in—two men who look cut from stone, tall and impossible, and me with my nose I like and my freckles and my heartbeat everywhere. I breathe once. I choose what’s true: I believe I’m pretty. I’m me. They chose me back. Stop stressing.
When I open the door, steam curls around my bare legs and follows me out. The room smells like citrus and rain and vanilla now, like we’ve made our own weather. The guys are mid-sentence at the little table by the window—murmurs, a serious look on their faces—and they both stop talking at the exact same time and look up.
They smile. Perfect mirror images: small, slow, involuntary.
“Feel good?” Jake asks.
I nod, suddenly shy and not moving from the threshold. “Mm-hmm.”
Reid’s eyebrow lifts the tiniest fraction, amused and dark. He pushes back his chair and stands. “I’ll go,” he says to Jake, a look passing between them that says everything and exactly nothing. “Then you.”
Jake nods, then tips two fingers against his thigh and looks at me. “Come.”
My feet move before my brain does. The room’s warm, the lamp throws a halo over the navy runner on the bed, the red motel key fob glows from the table. I cross to him, and the chair slides a breath closer to the table as he opens his knees just enough to make space. The steam I brought out of the bathroom settles over us like a promise.
I settle carefully—one knee bracketing his thigh, one hand on his shoulder for balance. His hands find me like they’ve been waiting: one warm at my waist, the other gentle behind my knee to ease me fully onto him. Not greedy. Not yet. Just claiming the shape of me.
Reid passes us on his way to the bathroom—close enough that his fingers brush my hip. A touch like a seal pressed into wax. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to. The door clicks behind him and the shower starts up again, hot and steady.
“Hi,” Jake says, voice smoked smooth.
“Hi,” I echo, aware of every place we’re touching: my knees against denim, his palm steady at my waist, the steady lift and fall of his chest under my hand. My scrub’s vanilla and his skin’s clean and salt and something I’ve started thinking of as him.
He studies me for a long second, and the reverence in it makes my throat tight. “You’re nervous,” he says softly, not unkind, not asking.
“A little,” I admit. “And the opposite of that.”
His mouth tilts. “Good.”
We sit like that while the shower hums—quiet, charged, patient. His thumb draws lazy half-circles at my side, just above the hem of my shirt, like he’s sketching constellations he already knows by heart. I tip my forehead to his for a beat, and his inhale is sharp enough to make my whole body answer.
From the bathroom, the water rushes louder for a moment and steadies. Jake presses a kiss to my temple like a vow held between teeth.
“Just us,” he says, low enough to be a secret. “All night.”