Page 88 of Donovan's Men

“Only with the three of us,” he finished for me.

I nodded fervently—glad he’d understood.

“Yeah, okay.” Donovan sighed. “Damn it, I want to hold you both so badly. Maybe you can do a video chat and—”

“Have a good day, Donovan. Enjoy your work. Rest your arm. We’ll see you tonight—whenever you get here.” Tyson winked.

“I’ll text you my address,” I added. “In case—”

“Perfect. I’m going to want to go jerk off while imagining the two of you.” Donovan huffed again. Then after a moment, he continued, “It’s way too early to say that I love you. That’s like, you know, deep shit.”

“We get it.” I held Tyson’s gaze. “We really get it. Just come here soon.”

“I will.” He disconnected the call.

While still gripping my arm, Tyson used his other hand to lay my phone on the front hall table. “You want to continue here or…”

I licked my lips. “Bedroom, please.”

“My pleasure.”

And off we went.

I’d just taken in a crap-ton of information and was still processing most of it as I led Tyson to my bedroom.

As expected, the gray eiderdown comforter lay flat on the bed with two decorating plum-colored accent pillows and two regular pillows below in a soft-gray that matched the sheets.

Tyson stopped short.

He eyed me, looked back to the painting above my bed, and then pivoted his gaze to me. He cleared his throat. “Uh…okay.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m exhausted.”

I began to speak.

He waved me off. “Not that tired. But…that’s the most stunning painting I think I’ve ever seen either in or out of a museum. Why exactly isn’t it in your living room?”

“Oh, that.” I moved toward said painting. “It’s a Tessa Carlyle. She’s a painter who lives out in Cedar Valley.” I tilted my head. “Somehow I can’t quite picture my mother scrutinizing the painting while we’re eating dinner.”

“Your mother comes over frequently?”

“Well, given she lives in Winnipeg, the answer to that would beno, she doesn’t come frequently. But she has visited. Twice. When she came to Vancouver for conferences. And yes, she’s had dinner here. As progressive as my mother is—I don’t see her blithely accepting a painting of a nude man in her son’s living room. Now, my sister thinks the painting’s a hoot and keeps threatening to move it. Or better yet, stealing it. Something about the, uh, guy’s anatomy being more impressive than her husband’s.” Heat raced into my cheeks. “I don’t like to think about my brother-in-law’s junk, frankly.”

“No, I could see how that might prove awkward.” Tyson advanced on the other side of the bed.

Away from me.

Goddamn it.

I pointed to the bed. “How does this work?”

He halted, paused, and met my gaze. “We don’t have to do anything right now.”

“You’re worried about Donovan feeling left out?”

“No. Donovan spoke clearly the other night—he trusts us. I mean, he made the comment about fucking…” He shrugged.

I shifted.

Tyson made his way over to me. He grasped my left hand and brought it to his heart. “I was too blunt. Making love can be the most liberating and joyous feeling in the world. It feels good because otherwise we might not do it—”