He hops up from the bed, just as naked as I am, but looking a lot less shivery about it. “Please, you know every man in this house lives and breathes for the possibility you’ll come to his bed.” Bending down, he snatches his dress shirt up from where I’d dropped it hours ago and holds it open for me. “Up you go.”
Groaning, I climb out of bed, but even when he helps me thread my arms through his crisp, white shirt, it does little to ease my chattering teeth. He doesn’t make me stand around waiting, though. Without even bothering to pull on some boxers, he threads our fingers together and drags me right out of his room and into the much colder hallway. The wood floor is like ice on my feet, so I tiptoe behind him, not even bothering to pay much attention to where he’s taking me.
Tristian pushes open the door opposite of his and leads me into Dimitri’s room. This room is just as dark as Tristian’s, but there’s music playing through the speakers—something fast and punky. It’s still tidy, with a clear pathway to the piano and bed. Tristian pulls a face at it, but tugs me toward the bed and the dark lump in the middle of it.
“Rath.” Tristian waits, but when he doesn’t get a response, he cups a hand over his junk and lifts his leg to push the lump with his foot. “Wake up, you degenerate.”
There’s a flinch from beneath the blankets, and then a flurry of motion that ends in Dimitri bolting upright, large knife clutched in his fist.
Tristian flings out an arm to push me back. “Easy, dude, chill. It’s just us.”
“What?” Dimitri asks, blinking an alarmed, but sleep-heavy gaze over the room. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Tristian assures, keeping his voice low and calm. “Just need a warm body to park our Lady beside, brother. That’s all.”
Dimitri’s eyes finally fall on me. The tension drops from his body like a bag of bricks, and he flops back down, stuffing the knife back under his pillow. “Fuck, about gave me a goddamn heart attack.” He disappears beneath the blanket once again.
Only this time, a hand emerges.
He curls his palm in a ‘gimme’ gesture, and Tristian pushes me forward, watching as I grab the outstretched hand. Dimitri yanks me into the bed hard enough that I basically tumble into it, but just as quickly as I hit the mattress, he’s swallowing me up in his nest of blankets, dragging me into his warm, bare chest.
He makes a soft, pleased sound after arranging me to his liking. “Fuck yeah.”
It’s so incredibly warm, the blankets blocking out anything but his heat and steady breaths. Every muscle in my body melts as I nestle into him, dragging in a lungful of his spicy scent.
I hum, my eyes growing heavier. “Merry Christmas to me.”
From outside the blankets, Tristian’s distant, muffled voice says, “I can buy you three hours. After that, I make no promises.” And then a click of the door closing.
Promises about what? I mean to ask, but I’m dragged so quickly under the warmth of Dimitri’s embrace, impossibly intoxicating, that all I can do is give in to it.
It’s odd how sleeping is so different with each of them.
Sleeping beside Killian means the constant promise of danger and thrill. The entire time is spent with this morsel of anticipation growing inside my mind, impatient for that first soft touch. It’s not a surface thing, either. It’s subconscious, as if he’s burrowed into my brain and planted his seeds there. If I know he’s coming—hell, sometimes even when I don’t—it’s all I dream about. The wait. The hope. The exhilaration.
When I sleep beside Tristian, I dream of being weightless, gliding across an expanse of zero gravity. I never have to worry when I’m sleeping with him. My brain just shuts itself off, as if it knows I’m being cared for, looked after, in the presence of a danger to anyone but myself. When I’m with him, everything feels okay.
But Dimitri?
Sleeping with him is like a drug. It’s the very first temptation I ever gave into in this house. The warmth and comfort, the sleepy pull of our bodies as we curl up like soft animals, the gentle way I wake when I’m with him…it’s addictive. There are mornings where I wake up alone and ache with how much I’d rather be here, in Dimitri’s bed, burrowed into the cradle of his body. There’s nothing sharp or painful here. No barbs or thorns. No hurts worth paying mind to. Just the two of us, gradually emerging from slumber.
I know he’s awake when I feel his cock twitching against the thigh I have thrown over his hips. I’ve nestled my cheek into the crook of his neck, and I’m laying on his arm—which must be numb—but he’s using it to clutch me to his side, so maybe not.