She nods, an agonized furl creasing into her brow. “Yes.”
“I know you can.” Tristian kisses her, running his hand up and down her back, until Rath’s hips abruptly stop, his spine going rigid. I hold on to her, readying her for that final slam into her ass. It comes with Rath curling over her back, mouth pressed to her shoulder as he comes. I must feel him the same way he felt me, the pulsation of his cock against mine as he shoots deep into her ass. It isn’t until the muscles in his neck tighten that I realize Rath’s not mouthing her shoulder.
He’s sinking his teeth into the flesh.
It’s punctuated with Story’s sharp gasp, her head snapping up, eyes slammed closed. But it’s all so quiet compared to the hard, feral sound Rath makes around the chunk on shoulder he’s got in his mouth. They both look like they’re drowning in rapture.
When he finally pulls back, breathless and sweating, his teeth are tinged pink.
Tristian leans down to press a kiss to the wound. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
She nods, wordlessly shuddering as the two of us carefully pull out. For a second, I worry she’s not. That we went too far. That the weary curve of her shoulders means she’s realizing this is something she never wants to do again, even though I already know the three of us will want it.
But then she collapses against my chest, nestling her nose into the side of my neck, and the sound she releases can only be described as a purr.
Tonight, Story not just claimed the crown, she claimed all three of us at once.
Proving once and for all that she’s our Lady.
Our Queen.
22
Story
The dream is warm and weightless.
I can feel a throb somewhere between my legs, but it’s distant, thrumming in the background of my awareness. Beyond it is the frozen sense of time. I don’t know where I am, but I know I’m safe here. Comfortable. Protected. Something inside me has been wound tight, and I know it has, because now it’s gone. I’m free of the worry, the razor-sharp thoughts, the hyper-aware tick of my brain wiped away by the whooshing rhythm in my ears.
Dimitri’s breaths.
I’m resting on his chest, I realize, groggy eyes blinking open. The first thing I see is the ‘S’ carved in the center of it, and then hands. So many of them. Tristian’s, reaching over Dimitri to touch me. Killian’s resting on my arm as he curls around me from behind.
I spend a long moment soaking it in, knowing they’re still sleeping. Killian’s skin is hot against my back, and I feel his hardness slotted up against the source of my ache. One shift of my thighs makes it clear I’m going to be feeling that for a couple of days.
Dimitri’s head is turned, puffing shallow, even breaths into the crown of my head as he sleeps, and there’s no blanket to cover him. Every inch of his body is on full display.
As is Tristian’s.
He’s almost too much to look at, in sleep. Tristian’s hair is messy, but in just the right way. His eyes shift behind his lids, as if he’s dreaming, too, and I spend a long time wondering what of. My knee is wedged between Dimitri’s, slotting his thigh right up against my center.
I catalogue all these things—the skin and the infinitesimal movements that make up their sleep—before even remembering where we are.
That awareness comes rudely.
And loudly.
“Lucifer’s hairy scrotum.” There’s a sharp crack that makes me flinch, and then Ms. Crane’s shrill voice. “Get the hell out of the den, you goddamn sickos!”
I feel Killian startle awake, and then watch Tristian bolt upright, but I’m too busy trying to futilely cover myself to catch their expressions. I remember now, last night, Killian unfolding the mattress from the sleeper sofa near the fireplace. It’d been so warm and cozy and—
Well, truthfully, I could barely get my legs to work enough to carry me to the bathroom, let alone up a flight of stairs.
So we’d finished the bottle of champagne and curled up here, in front of the fire.
Ms. Crane’s irate glare passes over the four of us. “A dozen fucking bedrooms in this place, and here you are with your ball sacks hanging out! Twenty-dollar tricks have more couth than this. Get up, get up!”
Dimitri, who’s slept through the whole ruckus, barely stirs when the pair of jeans she lobs smacks him right in the chin.
I snatch them up to cover my breasts, mortified. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Crane! We didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Killian flops back down onto the flimsy mattress, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “Oh, I absolutely meant to fall asleep.”