Page 326 of What We Brave
Reid raises an eyebrow.
"She's mine first," Blake says. Low. Rough. "I've been waiting all day."
Reid's mouth curves. He leans against the wall, crosses his arms. "By all means."
Blake doesn't wait. He turns me toward the bathroom, walking me backward, hands already sliding under my shirt.
"Shower," he says. "Now."
I'm laughing as he kicks the door shut behind us.
59
LAINE
Blake's mouth is on my neck before the bathroom door finishes closing.
Three weeks without proper sex.
I'm not saying I've been counting. But I've been counting. Reid and I were together this morning, but it’s like until I get both of them, I can’t be satisfied. I’ve turned into some lust-crazed woman, and I’m so okay with that.
"Waited all day." His voice is rough against my skin, teeth grazing my pulse point. "All fucking day."
His hands are everywhere—pulling my shirt over my head, unhooking my bra with practiced efficiency, shoving my jeans down my hips with barely contained impatience. Not gentle. Not patient. Between his day job and building the cottage, I haven't had enough time with him. With either of them. Three weeks of sick kids and exhaustion and falling asleep before anyone could start anything.
Now he's done waiting. Done pretending he's not desperate.
I reach for his shirt but he bats my hands away.
"No." He spins me toward the shower, reaches past me to turn the water on. "Just you. I want to see you."
The water's not even warm yet when he pushes me under thespray. I gasp at the cold shock against my heated skin and he swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me hard enough that I stop caring about the temperature. His tongue slides against mine, demanding, and I grip his shoulders just to stay upright.
Seven years. Seven years and he still kisses me like he's starving.
Then he steps back. Strips off his own clothes—shirt pulled over his head in one motion, jeans shoved down, boxer briefs following. I watch every movement, every reveal of scarred skin and hard muscle. Forty-four years old and he still makes my mouth water. Broad shoulders, rough hands, and right now, hard enough that I can see him twitch under my gaze.
The water's warming now, steam rising around us.
"Turn around."
I turn. Press my palms flat against the slick tile.
This is it. This is how I die. Death by Blake Moore in a steam shower on Christmas Eve.
Worse ways to go.
He's behind me immediately, the heat of his body a contrast to the water sluicing down my spine. One hand grips my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The other slides between my thighs, checking. Finding me already wet—and not from the shower.
"Good girl." He groans the words against my ear. "So ready for me."
"Been ready for you for three weeks."
"Three weeks." His fingers slide through my folds, teasing, circling where I need him but never quite giving me enough pressure. "That's too long. Way too fucking long."
"Then stop talking and?—"
He thrusts into me.
