Page 25 of Dreadful

“What if I do though?”

The hard line of his erection presses insistently against me through the thin fabric of my boxers, and for a second all coherent thought dissolves into static. He scrapes the blunt edge of his teeth along my earlobe, humming softly as if considering. “No mouths. Got it.” Then he shifts lower, his hands bracketing my ribcage, holding me still as his mouth finds the lower curve of my breast. His lips are warm and damp as they slide over my skin.

I suck in a sharp breath.

“What are you doing,” I whisper, but my hips shift toward him anyway.

On the other side of me, Cruz stirs with a low groan, his body shifting against the sheets. “It’s too early for this shit, Gage.”

Gage’s mouth doesn’t leave my skin as he murmurs, “It’s never too early to kiss my girl, brother.”

“Your timing is fucking terrible,” Cruz mutters with his forearm thrown over his eyes, voice still thick with sleep.

My eyes dart toward the bedroom door, half-expecting it to swing open again. “So funny story. Coco just walked in. No knock—nothing. Is that, uh, normal?”

“You probably didn’t hear it over Cruz’s loud ass fuck sound machine,” Gage says against my breast, his tongue tracing a slow, wet circle around the peak before drawing it into his mouth.

“It’s not even that loud,” Cruz grumbles.

“It’s not,” I agree, but the words come out breathy and thin. I swipe my tongue over my dry bottom lip, swallowing around the sudden tightness in my throat. “But you’re missing the point. I could’ve been in a... compromising situation, and she would’ve just seen everything.”

I’m staring at the top of Gage’s head—the dark strands of his hair, the way his shoulders flex—so when he lifts his gaze to meet mine, the intensity locks me in place. He doesn’t break eye contact as he wraps his lips around my nipple, his tongue swirling slowly, deliberately. Heat floods straight to my core.

This time, my hips cant upward of their own volition, seeking friction. “Shit.”

Cruz chuckles. “Tell me, baby girl, in this compromising situation you’ve been fantasizing about⁠—”

“Never said that,” I mumble through a heaving breath.

“It’s my mouth on you.” Long fingers wrap around my chin, turning my head to the left. Cruz’s eyes look dark from this angle, like all the brown swallowed the green, leaving only a shadowed, liquid intensity behind. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t—” Arousal and disorientation twine together, and I’m having a hard time focusing when Gage’s devastating mouth starts traveling lower.

Cruz’s hand slides lower, palming my throat and using his thumb to tilt my chin back toward him. He stares between my eyes, unblinking. “Did you get a concussion last night, hm?”

My breath hitches when Gage stops just above the ap ex of my thighs. The borrowed boxer briefs are too big on me, the leg holes gaping wide where they’ve been pushed aside. I feel exposed in the raw morning light but in the best kind of way—skin humming, nerve endings alive. Pleasure skips down my spine like a smooth stone across still water, rippling outward.

“I thought you hated watching me with your brothers?” Isn’t that what he said to me outside the fence’s office?

His mouth presses into a flat line before twisting into that lethal half-smirk of his. “Nah, it wasn’t hate. It was jealousy.”

My head starts feeling light as Gage breathes out, dragging his nose along the sensitive crease between my thigh and pelvis. His breath skates over my skin and goosebumps erupt everywhere it touches.

“And now?” It costs me something to stay present with Cruz. I can feel the importance of it somewhere underneath everything else, but the everything else is winning.

His grip on my throat shifts to steer my face away from his. His mouth finds the hollow behind my ear, lips barely parted, breath warm and deliberate against the skin there. The words come out low, right against the shell of my ear. “Tell me it’s my face you dream of riding, Bells.”

The sentence moves through me like a current. Gage chooses that exact moment to drag the flat of his tongue along the crease of my thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be. My fingers curl into the sheets.

“Tell me—” My voice catches. I reset. “Tell me you want me to sit on your face.” I meant it to land harder than that. Instead, it comes out too soft—more plea than demand, more breath than steel.

Gage huffs a low laugh against my skin. The vibration travels up through me, landing somewhere deep and insistent.

“Baby girl.” Cruz’s voice is low, unhurried. His thumb traces a slow arc along my jaw. “It’s the first of many, many things I dream about.”

Two fingers press flat against the fabric between my legs, applying just enough pressure to make me acutely aware of what’s still between us. I wiggle my hips upward, but his hand doesn’t follow.

“I thought”—I wet my lips—“You didn’t want to share.”