Page 95 of Ruthless Possession
"Already closed," Matthew says against my ear. "Before you pulled in."
Of course they were.
Trenton drops to his knees and the sight of him, this man, this soldier, this protector, on his knees in front of me with his hands on my thighs and his eyes dark with want. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and pulls it down, and the cool air against my skin raises goosebumps everywhere.
"Hold on to the counter," he tells me.
I grip the edge. My knuckles go white.
Matthew stands behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his hands sliding up under my shirt to cup my breasts. His mouth finds the side of my neck, sucking a mark into the skin there that I know I'll feel for days, and the combination of his hands on my breasts and Trenton's mouth between my legs sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp and sudden that my vision actually whites out for a second.
"Fuck," I breathe.
Trenton's technique is methodical, the same precision he applies to everything but aimed now at the single goal of making me come apart on his tongue. He knows my body the way he knows a battlefield: every contour, every response, every point of maximum impact. His tongue is flat and broad and devastatingly effective, and his hands on my thighs keep me from collapsing when my legs start to shake.
Matthew pinches my nipples, not gently, and the sharp sting of it sends another wave of heat crashing through me. His teeth find my earlobe and he sucks, and the sound he makes, low and hungry, almost a growl, vibrates through my skull and down my spine.
I'm close. I can feel it building, the tightening, the heat, the way the world narrows to the single point of contact between Trenton's mouth and my clit. My fingers ache from gripping the counter. My breathing has gone ragged and loud in the quiet kitchen.
"Don't stop," I hear myself say. "Don't—oh God?—"
Trenton doesn't stop. He doubles down, his tongue working faster, his fingers spreading me wider, and Matthew's hands tighten on my breasts, and his voice is in my ear saying, "That's it, let go, we've got you," and I shatter.
The orgasm rolls through me in long, rolling waves, not the sharp peak-and-drop of a quick release but something deeper, something that starts in my center and radiates outward until every nerve ending is firing and my whole body is trembling and the sound I'm making is not one I recognize as my own.
Trenton stays with me through every wave, easing the pressure but not stopping, drawing it out until I'm gasping and shaking, and the counter is the only thing keeping me upright. When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening and his eyes are wild, and he looks up at me with an expression of such raw satisfaction that it makes me want to do the whole thing again immediately.
Trenton catches me when my legs give out. His mouth finds mine, and I can taste myself on his lips and the thought is filthy and hot and I kiss him harder.
"Bedroom," I say again, because my legs are not going to support what I want to do next.
This time, they don't argue.
Trenton scoops me up—actually scoops me up, one arm under my knees and one behind my back, like I weigh nothing—and carries me down the hallway. Matthew follows, and I hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor his shirt—maybe, or Trenton's—and then we're in the bedroom and Trenton is laying me on the bed and Matthew is pulling my shirt over my head.
They're both shirtless now. I take a moment to look at them, really look at the way the morning light coming through the curtains catches on Trenton's shoulders and the scar on Matthew's ribs and the way they're both watching me with the kind of focus that makes my body sing.
"Your turn," I say, sitting up on my elbows. "Both of you. Now."
They exchange a look, the kind of look that contains entire conversations, and then they're moving.
Trenton kicks off his boots and strips his jeans in one motion. Matthew does the same. They stand at the foot of the bed in nothing but boxer briefs, these two men who have killed for me, who have built a life for me, who have rearranged the entire architecture of their existence around the simple fact of my presence.
"Come here," I say.
They come.
What happens next is not gentle. It's not slow. It's been a month of stolen moments and interrupted nights and the constant, low-grade frustration of wanting these two men with every cell in my body and having to be a mother first, a protector first, a planner first. The dam breaks and what pours through is desperate and hungry and absolutely without shame.
Trenton's mouth finds my breast while Matthew's hands grip my hips from behind. I'm on my knees, arched back, one hand fisted in Trenton's hair and the other braced against Matthew's thigh as he enters me from behind in one smooth, deep stroke that punches the air from my lungs.
"God," I gasp. "God, Matthew?—"
His hands tighten on my hips. "I've got you."
Trenton looks up at me from between my breasts, his eyes dark and intent, and the visual of him watching while Matthew moves inside me is almost too much. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his hard length, and his jaw clenches and his hips push forward into my grip.
"Together," he says roughly. "I want us all."
