Page 123 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“Green.”

Sloane shifts us deeper into the center of the nest, careful of my bandaged hand and the bruises on my knees, until the pillows and soft throws cradle every part of me. His body stays behind mine, solid and warm, one arm locked around my chest while the other strokes down my side. I turn toward him without thinking, pressing my face into the hollow of his throat where smoked cedar and brown sugar are thickest. The spike rolls through me again, bright and deep, and a broken sound leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

“I’ve got you,” Sloane says against my hair. His voice is rough, almost shaking, but his hands stay steady. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” I manage. “Please. It hurts.”

Idris settles in front of me on his knees. He doesn't rush. He takes my face in both hands first, thumbs brushing the damphair at my temples, and waits until my eyes find his through the heat.

“Still green?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you want us to help you through it with our bodies, or only with touch and scent?”

The question is clear and careful. It gives me room to choose. Sloane goes completely still behind me, every muscle locked with the effort of waiting.

“Bodies,” I say. “Please. Both of you.”

Idris nods once. “Good. Thank you for telling us.”

Sloane’s breath leaves him in a long, shaky rush. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, then another, then lower, while his hands slide under the soft shirt they put on me earlier. The fabric lifts away. Cool air touches my skin for only a second before Sloane’s palms replace it, warm and sure, mapping my chest and stomach like he needs to memorize every inch. Idris stays close, one hand still cupping my jaw, the other settling at my hip.

“Color,” Idris says again when Sloane’s mouth reaches the place just above my collarbone.

“Green.”

Sloane eases me onto my back in the nest. He stays close, one thigh between mine, and kisses me properly for the first time since the driveway. The kiss is deep and hungry but careful of how hard I'm already breathing. I answer as best I can, fingers curling in his shirt, the bandaged hand resting against his chest so I don't forget and use it. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and wet.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs. “Asking for what you need. Letting us take care of you.”

Idris’s hands move to the waistband of my pants. He waits until I nod, then eases them down along with my underwear, slow enough that I can track every inch of fabric leaving myskin. The spike surges harder the moment I'm bare. My hips lift without permission. A soft, needy sound escapes me.

“Easy,” Idris says. His palm settles low on my stomach, grounding. “We’ve got you. Breathe with me.”

I try. The breath comes out shaky, but I match the rise and fall of his chest. Sloane shifts lower, kissing a path down my chest, my stomach, the soft inside of one thigh. When his mouth closes over me, warm and wet and careful, the relief is so sharp my back arches off the blankets.

“Sloane—”

He hums around me, the vibration traveling straight up my spine. One of his hands holds my hip steady. The other finds mine and laces our fingers together, careful of the bandage. Idris stays at my side, stroking my hair, watching my face, ready to stop everything the second the color changes.

“Still with us?” Idris asks.

“Green. Please don’t stop.”

Sloane doesn't stop. He takes me deeper, tongue working in slow, devoted strokes that make the worst of the spike start to loosen its grip. Every time the intensity climbs too fast he eases back just enough, reading the way my thighs tremble and the sounds I make. Idris leans down and kisses the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then the place just below my ear.

“You’re doing so well,” Idris tells me. “Letting us help. Staying present. That’s perfect, Theo.”

The praise sinks into me as deeply as the pleasure. I reach for him with my free hand and he lets me pull him closer until I can bury my face against his neck. His scent (black tea and rain) cuts through the heat and keeps me from floating too far away. Sloane’s mouth stays on me, steady and focused, until the first orgasm builds low in my belly and spills over in long, shaking waves. I cry out against Idris’s throat. Sloane stays with methrough every pulse, gentling only when my hips start to twitch with oversensitivity.

The spike isn't finished.

It rolls again almost immediately, deeper this time, the kind that demands more than a mouth. I make a small, frustrated sound and turn my face toward Sloane.

“More,” I whisper. “Please. Inside.”

Sloane lifts his head. His mouth is wet, his eyes almost black. He looks at Idris first.