Page 34 of Shared Obsession

Then, his voice drops—low, rough, and reverent. “What a fucking sight, Ayla. My cum dripping out of you… fuck, you look so perfect like this.”

Zayn stands, moving behind me as I try to shift, but his voice is a sharp, vulgar command: “Don’t you fucking dare. Stay right there. It’s my turn.” He kneels behind me, gripping my hips, his words low and filthy in my ear. “Look at that cum-soaked cunt. Fuck, I’m gonna ruin you.”

Zayn drives into me with relentless force, each thrust rough, hungry, almost desperate, like he’s been holding back for years and finally lets himself go. The way he moves is wild, primal, and it makes my whole body sing—every snap of his hips sends pleasure crashing through me, the heat between us turning blinding. I cry out, unable to hold anything back, loving the way he takes me, the way he claims me with every hard, deep stroke.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Dean step into the room. He stops, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking from where Zayn’s hands are gripping my hips to my flushed, wrecked face. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t have to. There’s a tension in his jaw, something raw and possessive flickering in his gaze, and for a split second, guilt and want twist together inside me. I feel exposed, caught between needing Zayn and craving Dean’s approval, shame and arousal warring as my body arches back, desperate for more.

Zayn notices, too—his thrusts grow even rougher, his voice a low, guttural growl in my ear. “You like being watched, don’t you, Ayla?” he rasps, one hand sliding up to tangle in my hair, yanking my head back so Dean can see every expression on my face. “Let him see how good I fuck you. Let him see who makes you fall apart.”

Dean’s eyes never leave mine, holding me there—pinned, exposed, shameless. My cheeks burn, but the thrill of it only makes the pressure inside me mount higher, tighter, until I’m teetering on the edge. I can’t hold back, not with both of them watching, not with Zayn claiming me so completely. Shame and pleasure blur together, and all I can do is let go, my body breaking apart as I cum again, completely unraveled.

Chapter Eighteen

Alexander

It’s been about a month since that night with Zayn and me on the couch—the first night Ayla ever saw what we really were to each other, and what we could all be together. The days since have blurred into a strange, suspended peace. We’ve weathered storms and been locked in by the flooding, stuck together in this cabin as winter slowly crept in—each morning colder, the trees bare, the ground sometimes dusted with a light layer of snow that melted by noon. The world outside has been gray and cold, but the roads have stayed just clear enough for hope. Today, a thin dusting of snow sparkles on the blacktop outside, the air crisp and bright. For the first time since we arrived, the roads are finally open, the sun streaming through the windows and painting golden stripes across the floor. Everything feels changed—quiet, but full of possibility again.

I stand at the stove, pouring coffee, the scent of bacon and sausage heavy in the air. I try to focus on breakfast—eggs cracking, butter sizzling—but my mind keeps drifting to Ayla. The memory of her on her knees, flushed and gorgeous, the way she looked up at me and let herself go—fuck, it's the kind of sight that haunts a man in the best and worst ways. I still can’t quite believe she trusted me that much, let herself be vulnerable, messy, and real. It’s more than just the sex. There’s something about her that gets under my skin—something that makes me want to do better, be better, just for her. I’m not sure I’ll ever deserve that kind of trust, but I want to try.

By the time the coffee is ready, the kitchen is crowded. Ayla breezes in first, hair wild, cheeks pink, a bounce in her step that’s almost defiant given the anxiety hanging over us. “Morning, trouble, hungry?” I tease, and she flashes me a grin that’s all teeth. “Starved,” she growls playfully, grabbing a mug and pouring herself coffee before hopping up on the counter beside me. The sight of her like this—alive, bold, and just a little bit reckless—makes my chest ache in the best way.

Dean and Zayn appear next, hands laced together, their sleepy smiles a little brighter than usual. “Smells fucking amazing,” Dean says, sinking into a chair. Zayn nods, eyes flicking to Ayla and then to me. “Agreed. I could eat a horse.”

We pile our plates high and settle around the table: Ayla wedged between Zayn and Dean, her knee pressed against mine under the table. For a minute, it almost feels like any other lazy morning—just four people sharing breakfast, swapping stories about who makes the worst coffee or who snores the loudest. The sunlight slants across the table, painting everything in that warm, golden hush that belongs to places where you feel safe. The conversation is easy, quieter than usual, but there’s a new comfort in it—like we’re learning how to breathe again. Every laugh feels earned. Every glance is a quiet reassurance. Even as the memory of Charles’s voicemail lingers in the background, no one rushes or worries aloud. We’re not pretending things are perfect, but for now, we’re together, and that’s enough. I find myself looking at Ayla, thinking: I could get used to mornings like this. Maybe, just maybe, we all could.

I finally break the silence. “So… how long do we just continue to ignore that voicemail?” I ask, glancing around the table. “What if he tracked my cell?”

Dean snorts, actually laughing. “Did you think I was stupid? I put a signal scrambler on all three of our phones for exactly that reason. Nobody’s tracking us, Alex. They would have been here by now.”

I stare at him, half-impressed, half-wary. Sometimes Dean’s skills scare the shit out of me. He grins, cocky. “If anyone tries, the signal bounces off a new tower every call. They’ll be tracing us into circles for weeks.”

I let out a breath, relief flickering through me. “Good work, man.”

Ayla clears her throat. “I really need some clothes,” she says, tugging at the hem of yet another borrowed T-shirt. I don’t mind her walking around in our shirts, but she’s right.

“Alright, the roads are clear for the first time since we got here,” I say. “Why don’t I go grab you something?”

But she fixes me with a look—steady, stubborn, eyes hard in a way that surprises me. “I want to go with you,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Dean frowns, concern etched across his face. I can see him weighing every possible risk, his jaw tight. Zayn isn’t much better—he keeps glancing at the window, drumming his fingers against his knee. Even I feel it—a knot of worry I can’t quite hide. The world isn’t safe for her, not now, not yet. But the last thing any of us wants is for Ayla to feel like she’s our captive, or that she’s traded one cage for another.

Ayla holds Dean’s gaze, her chin up, stubborn as ever. “No, Dean—it’ll be okay. I need to feel normal for a minute. I need to get out.” She looks at Zayn for backup, but he just sighs, resigned but trying to smile for her.

I look between them, weighing the risk and her need. “We’ll be careful,” I promise, squeezing her hand under the table. “We won’t be long.”

Dean finally nods, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Just… stay close. And text if you even think something’s off. We’ll be there, no questions.”

Zayn gives her a crooked grin. “If you’re not back in three hours, I’m sending out a search party and bringing snacks.”

She laughs, the sound lighter than before, and for a second it feels almost normal.

I grab Ayla a pair of my sweats and watch as she pulls them on, cinching the drawstring tight around her waist. Once we’re ready to go, I toss her a baseball cap and give her a little smile. “Keep this on. Don’t take it off, okay?” She nods, tucking her hair up under the brim, and we slip out to Zayn’s Jeep. The choice makes me feel better—tinted windows, less likely for anyone to get a good look at her if the wrong person happens to be in town. The missing-person reports are still out there, but at least they're no longer in the headlines. Still, I can’t shake the tension that crawls up my spine as we pull away from the cabin. It feels like stepping out of a bunker into a war zone after being trapped for weeks.

The drive to town is quiet, the radio playing low, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Every so often, I catch myself glancing over at Ayla—at the set of her jaw, the way she looks out the window with a faraway look that makes me want to pull her closer, just to see her smile. At the boutique, I let her lead, hanging back as she explores the racks. The place smells sharp and sweet, all perfume and new fabric, and it’s the last spot you’d picture a guy like me. But watching her—watching the way she touches everything like she’s not sure she deserves it, her lips curving in the faintest smile when she finds something she likes—I can’t help but admire her. She’s stronger than she knows. All I want is to see her happy, to give her reasons to feel safe, wanted, and free. If it makes her smile, I’d walk through fire for it.

Ayla moves through the store with practiced caution, her fingers lingering on fabric but never grabbing much—just a tank top, a cheap pair of shorts, a faded hoodie. “Okay,” she says quietly, holding up her meager armful.

“Okay?” I repeat, raising my brows. “Ayla, you have hardly anything. Is that really all you want?”