Page 96 of Ruthless Possession
"Yes." I'm already stroking him, matching the rhythm Matthew is setting behind me. "Yes, come here."
Matthew's pace increases, his thrusts driving deeper, and I feel the tension building again, different this time, fuller, the kind that comes from being filled and stretched and completely surrounded by these two men who know exactly what they're doing to me.
Trenton's hand covers mine, his fingers wrapping around my knuckles, adjusting the pressure and pace with a certainty that makes my breath catch. Not a correction, a conversation. His hips push forward into my grip and the low sound that escapes him vibrates through my palm and up my arm.
Matthew's thumb presses into the hollow of my hip, anchoring me as his rhythm deepens. Each thrust drives me forward slightly, into Trenton, and the push-and-pull of it, caught between them, moving with both of them, makes my vision blur at the edges.
"Look at me," Trenton says.
I do. His eyes are dark and completely focused, and the intensity in them is almost unbearable.
Matthew's mouth finds the back of my neck. His lips are hot against my skin, and the contrast—the cool air on my front, his warmth at my back, Trenton's hand still guiding mine—layers into something I can't parse into separate sensations anymore. It's all one thing. It's all them.
"You okay?" Matthew's voice is rough against my ear, and the question is genuine even now.
"Don't stop," I manage. "Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. His pace increases, and the new angle sends a sharp spike of pleasure through me that makes my thighs tremble. My grip on Trenton tightens involuntarily and he exhales hard through his nose, his jaw clenching, his free hand coming up to cup the back of my head.
"Morgan." Just my name. Just that.
I feel myself starting to unravel again, sooner than I expected, the second wave building faster on the foundation of the first, and I'm not ready for it, not braced for it, and somehow that makes it worse and better and completely undeniable.
Matthew's thumb continues to dig into my flesh and I stop thinking in words.
There's just the pressure of his hands, the heat of his chest against my back, the rhythm he's set that my body has already learned and is already chasing. Each thrust pushes me forward into Trenton, and Trenton's hand tightens over mine, and the feedback loop of it—push, grip, pull, repeat—has dissolved whatever was left of my ability to track anything outside this bed.
My thighs are shaking. I notice that distantly, the way you notice the weather through glass.
"Look at me."
Trenton's voice. Low and direct, no inflection, just the command itself. I drag my eyes up to his face and the eye contact hits me like a physical thing, his gaze completely fixed, completely present, like the rest of the room has gone dark and I'm the only light source. There's nothing performative about it. That's what undoes me every time. He's not watching me the way a man watches something he wants. He's watching me the way a man watches something he's already decided he will not lose, that belongs to him.
My hand moves over him and his jaw tightens. The small sound he makes travels through my palm and up my arm and lands somewhere in the center of my chest.
His lips are hot, dragging slowly up toward my hairline, and the contrast of that careful tenderness against the relentless drive of his hips makes my brain short-circuit. I can't reconcile the gentleness of his mouth with the grip of his hands. I can't reconcile any of this with the past month of five-minute showers and closed doors and Charlie's small feet on the hardwood at six in the morning.
Four hours.
The thought surfaces and dissolves. I don't need four hours. I need exactly this, the weight of Matthew at my back and Trenton's eyes on my face as he watches.
Matthew's grip tightens. His pace shifts, deeper, slower, each thrust intense in a way that makes my breath come out choppy, and I make a sound I don't recognize.
My hold on Trenton tightens. His exhale is sharp and it tips something inside me past the point of no return.
"I'm—" I start, and don't finish, because Matthew chooses that exact moment to drive forward hard and the word dissolves.
The wave crashes through me, and I shatter. My body convulses between them, every muscle going taut then liquid. Matthew's arms tighten around me as I fall apart, his name tumbling from my lips in a broken litany.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin, his voice breaking. "Always got you."
Trenton surges forward, his release spilling hot over my fingers. His face contorts in pleasure, a sight so raw and unguarded I feel it in my core. The three of us collapse together in a tangle of limbs and labored breathing.
For long moments, we lie still, our hearts hammering in chaotic synchronization. I feel the weight of their bodies pressing me into the mattress, their sweat cooling on my skin. My mind floats untethered from the constant vigilance that has become my default state.
"We should shower," Matthew finally says, his voice rough against my neck.
"In a minute," I whisper, unwilling to break this moment of perfect stillness.
