Page 122 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Definitely illegal," I agree cheerfully. "Want to try anyway, brother?"
Damon's grin matches mine—dangerous and delighted.
"I'll get the whipped cream."
AUTUMN PROMISES
~DAMON~
The whipped cream is cold against my fingers as I return from the pavilion's small service area, canister in one hand, brown sugar in the other. Cinnamon too, because if we're going to commit to autumn flavors, we might as well be thorough.
Velvet watches our approach with eyes gone dark, pupils blown wide enough that only a ring of brown remains. She's still sitting on the blanket, but her posture has shifted—less casual sprawl, more coiled tension.
"Second thoughts?" Dante asks, though his voice carries certainty that she won't back down.
"Third and fourth thoughts." But she's already reaching for the bow at her throat, fingers working the silk knot. "Doesn't mean I'm stopping."
The orange fabric slides away, and she lets it fall beside her with deliberate carelessness. The white blouse underneath has too many buttons—I count them as her fingers work downward, revealing skin that glows pale in the string lights.
"Someone should check the pavilion entrance," she suggests, voice steady despite the flush spreading down her chest.
"Already locked," I inform her, setting down my supplies to move closer. "Alessandro was very thorough in his privacy arrangements."
"Of course he was."
The blouse parts, revealing burgundy lace that makes my mouth go dry. Dante makes a sound that's barely human, already reaching for her, but she holds up one hand.
"Rules first."
"Rules?" we ask in unison.
"Nothing that would actually scandalize if someone did walk in. We keep some clothes on. And—" her smile turns wicked, "—you take turns. I want to know who's better at this."
"Competition?" Dante grins. "You're speaking our language."
She stands, orange skirt pooling at her feet, and those ridiculous pumpkin stockings against burgundy lace might be the death of me.
"Who's first?"
We exchanged a look I’d only ever shared with my twin, the kind that compresses a universe of communication into a flick of a brow. Dante gave a theatrical sigh of concession, then retreated two steps to shake the whipped cream canister in slow, suggestive arcs, his eyes never leaving Velvet’s face. That left me standing in front of her—my heart hammering, my head full of summer evenings past, and every instinct in my body tuned to the way she waited, half wild and half wary, for what would come next.
I reached out, fingers deliberate, guiding her chin up with a touch so light it might have been a trick of the early autumn breeze. "Remember," I murmured, lips ghosting her pulse, "this is about taste." The words vibrated through her, barely louder than the wind, but her answering shiver was seismic. I caught her gaze at close range: pupils huge, lips parted—not with fear, not with nerves, but with anticipation so raw it made me ache tobe careful with her. I could taste the memory of her need on the air.
"Just kiss me," she said. "Before I remember this is insane."
So I did.
It's easy to be rough, when you're built like Dante and me, when the world expects you to take what you want and leave the debris behind. But I kissed Velvet the way I'd learned to paint—slow, with short, testing strokes, then longer, bolder lines that outlined the edges of her desire before filling them in. She made a soft noise against my mouth, and I felt her hand snake behind my neck, pulling me closer, until I could have sworn she'd been kissing Corleones since birth.
She tasted like the wine we'd shared earlier, sweet and slightly smoky, and the hint of autumn spice caught in the corners of her smile. I let myself lose track of everything but the shape of her, the way her body melted into the touch, the way the tension in her frame dissolved with every sweep of my thumb at her jawline. When I finally let her breathe, she staggered a half step, dizzy but grinning, her cheeks a blush that couldn't be faked.
"Good?" Dante said from over my shoulder, his tone deliberately skeptical, as though we hadn't shared every secret since the womb.
"Acceptable," Velvet said, a little hoarse. "But I vote we withhold judgment until all contestants have performed."
She crooked a finger at Dante, who wasted no time, vaulting across the blanket with a predator's grace—or maybe just a big brother's need to outdo. He didn't play fair. He started with a line of whipped cream down the exposed slope of her collarbone, then bent to trace it with his tongue, eyes up and smoldering the whole time. Velvet gasped, but didn't flinch, her hands gripping his arms as though she needed an anchor. He made a show of licking the last dot of cream from her clavicle, then pressed hismouth to hers, hard and unapologetic—a counterpoint to the way I'd kissed her, but no less honest for it.
When he pulled away, the stunned silence was nearly comic.
