Page 124 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Idris nods. “Color, Theo.”

“Green.”

Sloane moves up my body, careful of my hand and my knees. He settles between my thighs and reaches for the small bottle of lube Idris must have brought to the nest earlier. The first press of his fingers is slow and thorough. He works me open with patient strokes, watching my face the entire time, stopping whenever my breath hitches the wrong way. When three fingers move easily he withdraws and replaces them with the thick head of his cock.

“Ready?” he asks, voice shaking with restraint.

“Yes. Please, Sloane.”

He pushes in with aching care, inch by inch, until he is fully seated and my body has stretched around him. The fullness is exactly what the spike needed. A broken, relieved sound leaves me. Sloane holds still, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.

“I’ve got you,” he says again. “I’m right here.”

He begins to move in deep, steady rolls of his hips. Every thrust is measured, controlled by the way my body answers and the quiet checks Idris keeps giving. Idris stays close, one hand stroking my hair, the other resting over my heart so he can feel every change in rhythm. When the pleasure starts to climb too sharply he murmurs for Sloane to slow, and Sloane obeys without hesitation even though the effort costs him.

“You’re safe,” Idris tells me. “You can let go when you’re ready. We’re not going anywhere.”

I reach for both of them. One hand stays laced with Sloane’s. The other finds Idris’s wrist and holds on. The second orgasm builds slower, deeper, rolling through me in waves that make my toes curl and my voice break on their names. Sloane follows a few thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and spilling inside me while his whole body shakes.

He doesn't pull out right away. He stays deep and close, kissing my face, my throat, the damp hair at my temple, while the last of the spike finally begins to ease. Idris presses a cool cloth to the back of my neck and another to my forehead. Their scents wrap around me, warm and steady, until the bright edge under my skin softens into ordinary tiredness.

Sloane eases out only when my breathing has evened. He and Idris clean me with the same careful hands they used to open me, checking the bandage on my palm, soothing the bruises on my knees with light touches, helping me drink from the water bottle Idris holds to my lips. They dress me again in the soft shirt, then settle on either side of me in the nest so I'm held between them, warm and loose and no longer fighting my own body.

My hands still move across the blankets, searching.

The room comes back slowly.

At first, there is only Sloane’s chest against my back, Idris’s hand around my ankle, and the cooling cloth tucked behind my neck. My body is heavy in the nest, the spike burned down to embers beneath my skin. The hurt in my palm returns in small pulses. My knees ache. My throat is raw from breathing too hard, and my hair is damp at the temples.

Sloane’s hand moves over my stomach, slow and careful. He has wrapped me in one of his shirts, soft and warm, and thefabric smells like him. His mouth rests near my ear, not kissing now, only breathing there as if he still needs to prove he is close.

Idris kneels beside my legs and checks my bandaged palm again. He has already checked it twice. I know because I watched his face both times and saw the way his jaw tightened around the urge to be angry. This time, he unwraps only the edge, looks for bleeding, then smooths the tape back down with two fingers.

“Still green?” Idris asks.

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse, but I manage the full answer because both of them wait for it. “I’m tired. My hand hurts. The spike is quiet now.”

Sloane presses his mouth to my shoulder. “Good. That’s good, sweetheart.”

My body is loose and warm instead of clawing at itself. Sloane’s arm stays around my middle, and Idris’s fingers remain near the bandage on my palm while the last of the spike drains away.

My hand moves before I decide to move it, sliding over the blankets near my hip, then the pillow by my knee, then the rumpled edge of the nest where my fingers find cotton, silk, a cooling pack wrapped in flannel. No wool.

Sloane notices. His whole body stills behind me.

“Callie’s sweater,” I say, embarrassed by how much my voice changes around it. “Where is it?”

Idris reaches across the nest and finds the gray sweater folded near the side table, probably moved there when they cleaned me up. He doesn't make me ask twice. He puts it into my hands, then covers both of them with one of his for a moment before he lets go.

I press the sweater to my mouth. The first breath gives me honeyed pear and vanilla tea under the salt of my own skin. The second breath is weaker. The third makes my eyes sting becausethe scent is there and not there, a door left open to a room I can't reach.

“Can we call her?” I ask.

Sloane’s answer is immediate. “Yes.”

Idris looks toward the clock, then the phone on the side table. “She may be walking into the interview or already inside it. We’ll keep the message calm.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.” I clutch the sweater tighter because saying that feels like pushing against Garrett’s voice in the car. “I just want her to know I’m home. I want her to know I’m okay.”