Page 6 of Believe it or Knot

My heart lurches uncomfortably when I realize what it is. I know this song well, so well in fact that I just put a video of me playing it on my TikTok. Bad Ideas by Tessa Violet. It just went up last week.

But that must be a coincidence, because there’s no way that he learned that song because of me. He’s not a fan of my dinky little social media site. And he certainly doesn’t know that it’s me, because I never show my face. It’s always filmed from my collarbone down with my guitar or my keyboard in the shot, depending on the song.

I literally bite my tongue to keep from singing along with him, from working out harmonies that would blend our voices together. My mind snapping from one verse to the next, already mentally.

Instead, I sit quietly and just watch his fingers strum. It’s freaking addicting as hell and a dream come true. How many people can say that Liam Cordova serenaded them on their own guitar?

When he’s finished, I clap, and Rafe whistles and Liam plays another song without my prompting. One song flows into the next, and it might be my imagination, but more than half of them are ones I’ve made videos of, my own versions strummed out on that very guitar in his hands.

I lean heavily against Rafe, eyes drifting closed, chin bobbing toward my chest. I’m exhausted, but I don’t want this night to end. Not even a little, so I keep jerking myself awake to keep it going.

I’ve done that maybe three times, when Rafe lets out a low chuckle and runs a knuckle down the side of my face. “Okay, conejita. You need to sleep. Let’s go to bed, baby.”

I hum and snuggle deeper into him, inhaling the gorgeous winter pine scent of him. “I’m good here.”

Another soft hand pushes the few strands of hair out of my face, before lips press into my cheekbone, sliding up to my ear. “Come on, lovely, let’s go to bed so we can both cuddle you.” The words and the touch are so tender it makes my chest ache.

But in the next moment I’m gasping, squealing, because Rafe has stood up from the couch somehow swinging me into his arms. “Don’t!” I protest, curling my arms around his shoulders. “I’m too heavy!”

He tsks. “You are not. You’re perfect.” I want to tell him that my ass and thighs would beg to differ, but he hefts me higher and nuzzles into my neck. “Don’t argue, little beta.”

He sounds so firm that I do as he says, letting him carry me up the stairs and into my tiny loft bedroom. He settles me on the edge of the mattress and kneels in front of me, fingers hooking into my socks to tug them off, while Liam makes his way to my dresser and starts opening drawers.

A second later, he’s back with a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts. “Should we leave you alone to get changed?” Rafe asks, hands gripping the outside of my thighs, thumbs in the crease of my hip joint. The heat of his palm scalding through the denim. His voice sounds raspy, lower and heavier somehow. But a good type of heavy. The type you want to burrow under and let protect you from the entire world.

I swallow and shake my head, even though it’s crazy. So freaking crazy. I’ve never just let two men, two strangers, watch me get undressed.

But then I’m wearing a bralette and a pair of black high waisted panties, both of which cover as much as a bikini. More actually than some I’ve worn to the lake.

“No, you can stay.” Holy hell, is that my voice? When did it start having such a sultry tone?

“Can we help?” Liam asks, kneeling next to me on the bed.

I meet his forest green eyes and give a jerky nod. “Yes.”

“Oh thank fuck,” he murmurs, looking at the ceiling, before grinning at me. “I’m having a really hard time keeping my hands off you.”

“No touching,” Rafe says, sounding like a prison guard. “I mean a little touching, but we will not rush this, Liam.” He pins his omega with a look that is an entire conversion that I can’t make out, beyond the warning there.

But warning against what? Me? Does he see me as a threat? Or maybe he’s thinking that come morning I might not have such a shiny new glow and he doesn’t want his omega to regret doing anything with me.

That’s probably it.

It must be it.

Honestly, I don’t think I’m quite ready to just jump into bed with them. Even if it would be wild to say I had sex with Liam Cordova. Not that I would use him for bragging rights.

I’ve had meaningless sex before and it was not good. When it was over, I felt gross, used and discarded, and I came to the unfortunate realization that in order for me to enjoy sex, I have to actually like who I’m fucking. I have to care about them.

I care about Liam and Rafe, but not in the way I would need to in order to enjoy myself. I care about them in a sort of diaphanous way, like they’re humans and so I care about them. More than that, Liam is one of my Hollywood crushes, and if something actually happened to him, I would hate it. But I don’t care about them on a personal level, not to where I would need to.

My vagina disagrees, but what does she know, the hussy?

Conversation over, Rafe’s hands slide to the waistband of my jeans and flicks open the button, while Liam kneels behind me, sliding his bent knees on either side of my hips. He loops his arms around me and grips the front hem of my t-shirt to pull it over my head.

“Arms up, lovely,” he murmurs right against my ear and a gush of wet heat floods between my legs, even as I move on auto pilot to do as he says. Rafe curls his hands in the waistband of my jeans and when my shirt is off, I brace on Liam’s thighs to lift my hips and help him pull them down.

In a matter of ten seconds, I’m sitting between them with very little clothing on. Rafe’s brown eyes devour me from the front, taking in every dip and swell, my tan skin sprinkled with freckles. His hands grip my hips again, but this time there’s no fabric between us and I can feel every callus and knick and scar on his fingers. “You feel like satin,” he murmurs, watching his own hand as he strokes over my thigh.

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