Page 82 of Heat Unscripted

Bram’s thumb brushed across my lower lip. “Say his name.”

“Tuck,” I gasped, my hips rising to meet a particularly deep thrust.

A low, satisfied rumble vibrated from Tuck’s chest. His hands slid from my calves to my hips, his grip bruising, holding me in place as he found a deeper, more brutal angle. He was all instinct now, the comforting protector replaced by the raw, dominantAlpha he’d suppressed for years. And I met him there. I gave him all of it.

Cillian’s hand slid down my stomach, his fingers threading through the damp curls at the juncture of my thighs. He didn’t touch me, not there. He rested his palm against my hip bone, his touch a steady, calibrating pressure against the frantic rhythm Tuck set. He was monitoring, feeling the feedback loop of my pleasure through his fingertips.

The pressure built. A second orgasm, close and sharp, coiled in my belly. Tuck felt it. He leaned forward, his mouth finding mine, his kiss as rough and possessive as his thrusts. His tongue plundered my mouth as his hips hammered into me.

“Come for me, Iz,” he growled against my lips. “Now.”

I shattered. My body convulsed around him, a series of violent, clenching waves that tore a scream from my throat. Tuck roared, his own release crashing into him, his body going rigid as he poured himself into me.

For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing, the sticky heat between us, and the overwhelming scent of cedar and sex.

Then, Bram moved.

Tuck withdrew slowly, his forehead resting against mine. He didn’t move away. He shifted, his body curling around mine, his arm a heavy, possessive weight across my stomach. Bram took his place without a word.

His entry was different. Not the primal force of Tuck, but a deep, deliberate pressure. He filled me just as completely, but he moved with a slow, measured cadence, as if he was carefully mapping my interior. His eyes locked with mine, and the intensity there was terrifying, devastating. He was learning me.

Cillian shifted. His mouth left my breast and trailed a wet path to my ear. “His turn,” he whispered, and his fingers finally,finallydipped between my legs, finding my clit with an unerring, precise touch that made me gasp.

Bram’s rhythm broke. He groaned, a wrecked, undone sound. “Cillian.”

“I’m amplifying the signal,” Cillian answered, his voice calm, but his fingers circled faster, a merciless, perfect rhythm that sent spirals of new pleasure through my already sensitive flesh.

Tuck’s hand came to rest on my other hip, his thumb stroking the skin there, a steady, grounding presence.

Surrounded. Held. Claimed on all sides.

Bram began to move again, his careful control gone, replaced by a desperate, driving need. He was a man undone, the polished gentleman stripped back to a raw, wanting Alpha. He kissed me, his mouth hungry, his hands gripping my hair, his peppercorn scent sharp and dizzying.

“Tell me this is real,” he rasped against my lips, his hips slamming into me.

“It’s real,” I promised, my voice breaking as Cillian’s fingers drove me towards another peak. “We’re real.”

The words were his undoing. With a raw cry that was half-fury, half-surrender, he came, his body shuddering against mine.

Bram collapsed against the opposite side of me from Tuck, a dead weight of spent adrenaline and surrendered control. The sharp spike of his climax faded, leaving behind the warm, dark scent of peppercorn settling into a new, deeper foundation. Tuck was a solid wall of heat at my other side, his arm heavy and possessive across my stomach. Cedarwood and bourbon, mellowed and content.

The room was a tangle of limbs and scents, the nest now a landscape of bodies instead of just fabric. Bram’s trembling had stopped. Tuck’s restless energy was gone. A profound quietsettled over us, the kind that follows a storm, where the air itself feels washed clean and rearranged.

But one note was still holding.

I turned my head. Cillian knelt beside my head, his form silhouetted against the lamplight. He was still, watching me, his expression unreadable. Observing. The sound architect listening to the final chord resolve, waiting for the last instrument to play. The sandalwood of him was cool and steady, a clean line of frequency in the warm, messy aftermath of the other two. He had engineered my pleasure, amplified it, monitored it. But he hadn’t taken his own.

My body was a pliant, aching hum of satisfaction, but a part of me felt the quiet space he occupied. I shifted, the movement heavy, pulling my arm from under Bram. I held my hand out to him in invitation.

He moved. Not with Tuck’s primal momentum or Bram’s fractured need. He moved like a technician approaching a delicate instrument, his motions economical and sure. He took my hand, his palm cool against my heated skin, and brought it to his lips. He didn’t kiss it. He just held it there, his breath ghosting over my knuckles.

He laid my hand back on the bed and shifted the others with quiet efficiency. He eased Tuck’s heavy arm from my waist, repositioning him without waking him. He drew the duvet higher over Bram’s shoulder. An act of care. A clearing of the board. Then he turned back to me.

“Turn over,” he said. It wasn’t a command. It was a stage direction.

I did, my limbs feeling boneless. I settled onto my stomach, my face turned towards him on the pillow.

He traced a line down my spine with one finger, from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. The touch was feather-light, almost imperceptible.