“Not tonight.” Rowe crosses to me. And then he kneels.
He kneels on the floor in front of me, between my feet, and his hands come up and touch me—the lightest contact in the world, fingertips only, at the insides of my knees. His choice. His hands, moving on his terms, and even through my mortification, the miracle of it registers: Rowe Holloway, touching, unprompted, unafraid.
He spreads my legs.
“Rowe—” My voice comes out as air. “Your brother is?—”
“I know exactly where my brother is.” His thumbs stroke once along my inner thighs, feather-light, and he looks up at me from the floor with those sorrowful eyes gone completely dark. “This morning, you called yourself a miracle case. Like wanting you requires divine intervention.” His jaw sets. “I don't argue well. I never learned how. So I'm going to show you instead, and Logan's going to say the parts I can't say with my mouth full.”
From the chair comes a low groan, and my head snaps up, and my mouth falls open.
Logan has his belt open. His jeans. His hand is drawing himself out—already hard, thick, no ink, and it's the strangest vertigo of my life, the almost of him, the nearly-Rowe of him—and he catches me staring and doesn't even blink.
“What,” he says. “He gets a feast, and I get nothing? Eyes forward, gorgeous. Actually—no. Eyes wherever you want. That's the whole point of me.”
“Oh mygod?—”
Rowe buries his face in my pussy.
The word for what he does is notkiss,and it is notlick. The word isfeast. He seals his mouth over me like a starving man over the first meal of his life, and the sound I make is embarrassing, and my hands fly to the blanket andfist there because they know the rules, they have always known the rules—grip the bed, never him—and his tongue drags up through me, broad and greedy, and my elbows nearly buckle.
“There it is,” Logan murmurs from the chair. His fist moves slow. Lazy. A man pacing himself. “Look at you. You know what he looked like this afternoon? Like a man planning a heist. Came and found me at the fuel truck and said, 'She doesn't believe she's beautiful.' Like it was a crime he was reporting.”
“Logan—” I gasp, because Rowe's tongue has found my clit and is circling it with the same terrible patience he uses on knots in Cleopatra's mane.
“So here's my testimony.” His voice drops, rough velvet, filling the trailer while his twin devours me. “Those tits, Wren. Christ. The way they move when you breathe hard. Half the crew walks into tent poles when you cross the lot, and you've never noticed once, and that's the tragedy of you.” His hand tightens on himself. I hear the change in his breath. “That soft belly. Those hips. And those thighs—” He exhales through his teeth. “My brother has your thighs on either side of his head right now, and I have never envied a man more in my life.”
My thighs. They've closed against Rowe's ears without my permission, soft and trembling, and I start to pull them open—sorry, sorry—and Rowe's hands clamp over them and hold them exactly where they are. Against him. His choice. A moan tears out of me at themeaningof it as much as the feel.
“He's got you,” Logan says. “Let go.”
I let go.
I fall back onto my elbows and stop performing composure, and Rowe growls into me—actually growls, the vibrationlighting me up from the inside—and works me over like there's a clock running out. Two fingers slide into me, curl, find the right spot with humiliating speed, and his mouth never leaves my clit, and Logan keeps talking, filth and worship braided together.
“That's it. God, listen to you. You hear that, brother? You did that. Wren—Wren, look at me.” I drag my eyes open. He's flushed, fist working faster now, staring at me like I'm on fire. “You're the hottest thing in this carnival and I eatfire.”
The laugh and the orgasm hit me at the same time.
I come with a broken sound, thighs shaking in Rowe's grip, my back arching off the bed, and it rolls through me long and shuddering while his mouth gentles but never stops, working me down and then?—
Not stopping.
“Rowe—” I'm twitching. Oversensitive. “Rowe, I?—”
He hums against me. A no. Anot done. His fingers start moving again, slow and deep, and thetoo-muchmelts back intomorewithin a dozen heartbeats, because his mouth knows me now, has studied me the way he studies everything he loves, and the second climb is steeper and faster and meaner.
“Again,” Logan rasps. His voice has frayed. His hand is a blur. “He's going to take everything you've got, gorgeous, that's how he does it, all or nothing, no half measures, look at him—lookat him, he'd live down there?—”
I look. Rowe's eyes are open, gray and burning like one of his twin's fires, watching my face over the curve of my own body, and his fingers curl and his tongue flicks and something behind my navel snaps.
I wail. There are tears at the corners of my eyes—pleasure and something bigger than pleasure, something thatfeels like beingseen—leaking hot into my hairline, and through the roar in my ears, I hear Logan come apart in the chair. Loudly. A shout he doesn't muffle, cursing, my name and his brother's name in the wreckage of it, and the sound of him finishing to the sight of me tips my orgasm into something endless. I feel myself soaking Rowe's face, and I'm way too far gone to be embarrassed about it.
The trailer goes quiet except for three people breathing.
“Okay,” Logan pants from the chair, boneless. “Okay. Point proven. Point extremely proven.”
Rowe lifts his mouth from me an inch. His face is glazed. His voice comes out wrecked and muffled against my thigh. “Not yet.”