“You need to get out of your head,” Tate says.
“She’s exhausted,” Carter sighs, but his hand doesn’t stop moving
“So let’s help her sleep.”
I suck in a breath as Tate’s hand creeps further, dragging the blanket with it. His fingers ghost over the waistband of my shorts, teasing, not rushing. His touch isn’t greedy, it’s controlled, focused. He’s doing this for me, not him.
Carter’s breath catches. His hand stills against my scalp. “You good?” he asks, voice a little shaky now.
I nod. “Yeah. I just… don’t stop.”
Tate leans in, his lips brush the side of my knee, his hand slips beneath the fabric, his fingers dragging over sensitive skin with maddening precision.
Carter watches. I feel his thigh tense under my cheek, slowly he moves, his hand tracing the curve of my neck, the slope of my jaw, until his thumb brushes my lower lip. “You’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re ours.”
The tension doesn’t vanish but it starts to change shape.
I close my eyes, let the heat between them build in quiet touches, soft moans swallowed by the blanket and the weight of everything we are.
Not wild or loud, just theirs. Tate’s fingers slip beneath the edge of my shorts, and everything inside me stills.
Ineed this. I need the grounding, the way he touches me like I’m something to worship and wreck all at once.
Carter watches him. His hand is still on my face, his thumb brushing slow, reverent strokes across my bottom lip like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
“Tate …” I breathe.
That’s all it takes, his fingers find where I’m soaked for them, for both of them—and a low groan slips from his throat. “Fuck, you’re soaked, pretty girl. All this for us?”
When I don’t answer, his fingers slide deeper, slow and steady, filling me with a rhythm that makes my breath hitch, my body lift off Carter’s lap in a barely-there arch.
Carter’s jaw flexes. “You’re not gonna last,” he whispers to me, his voice a quiet promise. “And that’s okay.”
Tate’s fingers curl just right, dragging over the spot that makes my toes curl and my thighs tighten around his wrist. He knows every flick of his wrist is designed to push me closer, deeper, higher.
Carter leans down and kisses my lips like I’m glass.
“Tate,” I gasp, barely able to keep my voice from breaking. “I can’t—I can’t think—”
“You don’t need to think,” he groans against my thigh. “You just need to come.”
Carter kisses me harder, his fingers curling around mine, holding on tight as Tate’s fingers speed up.
When I come it’s not loud, it’s just the kind of release that undoes you.
Carter catches my moan with his mouth. Tate doesn’t stop until my body jerks and my breath stutters out and I’m panting in Carter’s lap like I’ve just come back from orbit.
He finally pulls his hand away. I can feel the wetness between my thighs, the warmth of their breath. Carter whispers something against my cheek.
Tate shifts closer, brushing my hair out of my face. “That’s one. I know you’ve got more in you pretty girl.” His body stays close, braced beside me, hand resting heavy on my thigh.
Carter hasn’t let go of my hand, his thumb keeps stroking along the inside of my wrist, grounding me with every small, sweet pass.
My breath is still shaky, I should feel wrung out. Instead I feel open, softened. I know they both feel it.
“You okay?” Carter asks quietly, brushing the hair off my damp forehead.
I nod. “Yeah. Just…” I glance at him, then at Tate. “I don’t want you to stop.”