Page 80 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

I touch his face. “I know. Thank you for waiting.”

He kisses me hard for that.

When I tell Idris I am ready he settles between my thighs only after another clear yes. He enters me slowly, watching every shift in my expression, stopping the moment my breath catches the wrong way and waiting until I pull him deeper myself. The stretch is perfect. Theo stays curled against my side, one leg over mine, hand stroking my hair. Sloane remains close enough that I can touch him, kiss him, keep him inside the same moment.

Idris moves with steady, controlled rolls of his hips. Every few thrusts he checks.

“Still with me?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

Idris keeps exactly the same rhythm, one hand firm on my hip while the other settles at the back of my neck. The pressure there is familiar enough that my body answers before I think about it, my shoulders loosening as he guides my face back toward his.

Sloane stays against my other side, Theo warm and needy beneath my hand, but Idris becomes the point everything else gathers around. His voice. His hand. The deep, measured drag of him inside me. Every time my mind tries to reach outward and count who needs what, he brings me back with another quiet instruction to breathe, look at him, and to let them hold me.

The room starts going soft around the edges. I can still hear Sloane and feel Theo moving against me, but I stop trying to anticipate the next touch. My thoughts stretch farther apart until there’s room between them, warm and quiet and blessedly empty of decisions.

I missed this,I tell myself. I used to fall into subspace beneath Idris’ hands and trust that he would watch the things I no longer needed to watch for myself. I have missed it so badly that recognizing it hurts for half a second before even that slides away.

Idris’s rhythm slows rather than stopping, his thumb stroking once beneath my ear while he waits for my eyes to find his. “There you are, princess.” His voice reaches me more easily than anything else. “You’re falling, aren’t you, sweetheart? Stay with my voice.”

I nod, because speaking already feels farther away than it did a minute ago.

“If you want me to stop, squeeze my wrist twice.”

My fingers are curled around his forearm. I manage one deliberate squeeze instead.

His expression softens. “Green. I’ve got you.”

Theo comes first among the three of them, spilling against my hip with a soft, broken cry, his face buried in my neck, his bodyshaking through it while Sloane and Idris both reach to steady him.

I follow not long after, the third release pulled from me by Idris’ careful angle and the feeling of both Sloane and Theo still touching me. The pleasure spreading through me takes me farther under, my body tightening around Idris before every muscle seems to let go at once.

Tears slide into my hair, my body relaxing in increments until I’m floating somewhere beneath thought, aware of hands and mouths and Idris’ voice without needing to sort any of them into separate pieces.

When Sloane kisses my cheek, I turn toward him, awkwardly trying to sink deeper into their touch.

Sloane takes his own release in my hand while watching my face, forehead pressed to mine, the nearness of the knot held back by sheer will. Idris lasts longest, the controlled anchor until the end. When he finally lets go, it’s with a low, muffled sound against my shoulder, his body taut above me, the choice not to bite still written in every line of him.

Idris stays over me until my breathing begins to even, his forehead resting against mine before he eases back.

Theo stays half sprawled across my chest, possessive and boneless, his hand repeatedly finding my arm, my side, my cheek as if confirming I am still solid. Sloane keeps one hand open near my hip, palm up, until I take it. Idris reaches for the water on the nightstand, helps me drink, then draws the heaviest blanket over all of us. His voice stays low and even.

“Name where you are, Callie.”

“In the bed. With you. With them.”

“Do you want more space or us to come closer?”

“Closer.”

He settles the blanket higher and keeps his hand resting lightly on my ankle, a quiet point of contact while the room slowly comes back down around us.

I’m on my back with Theo half across my chest, one of his legs hooked over mine like he plans to physically prevent morning from taking me anywhere. Sloane lies at my side with his forehead pressed to my ribs, and Idris is behind him, one arm slung over Sloane’s waist while his hand rests lightly on my hip. The bed feels too full and still incomplete, though I don't understand the shape of the absence until I open my eyes.

Dash is in the doorway.

He's barefoot, one shoulder against the frame, his expression unreadable in the low light. He isn't angry. That almost makes it worse. He looks like a man who followed a sound, found exactly what he told me to want, and stopped at the edge because he does not know whether the invitation extends to him. My heart turns over so hard it hurts.