Page 38 of Taken By The Wolves
I need them to speak. I need words.
I need to know who I am now that I’m with them.
My mother’s voice rises in my mind:What would people say? Who are you, letting three men touch you, taste you, fuck you… Watch you?It finishes with the huff of disapproval.You should know better.
I almost pull away, but their touches anchor me now rather than unravel me. I sink into the pleasure and the gravity of their bodies around me, and I let thempetme.
Nixon’s hand curls around my waist, lifting me gently, his intention clear. I don’t even need to stand. I follow the gentle current of his strength until I’m boneless and wrapped in his arms, flanked by his brothers. We bypass my bedroom and end up in a grand room across the hall, which is large and quiet, with a bed big enough for all of us.
He sets me at the center of the mattress as if laying out the world at his feet, eyes never leaving mine. Finn and Reed settle on either side of me, creating a cradle of warm flesh and the promise of comfort. Each one presses kisses to my shoulders, my hips, the crease of my thighs.
Nixon lies behind me, tracing the line of my collarbone. “You’re ours.”
It’s a statement of fact, not a question. No one has ever staked a claim on me with such confidence.
“For tonight,” I whisper back because, of course, he means temporarily. He knows I’m leaving. I’m pretty sure they’ll want me out of their hair tomorrow, when the sex-haze has left us all, and the new light of the morning reminds us who we are and where we belong in the world.
He doesn’t disagree, but then again, he doesn’t agree. Hekeeps stroking me until Finn climbs between my legs to slide his tongue through my folds and over my sensitized clit. Reed sucks my nipple, connecting streams of pleasure I didn’t know were possible. Then Nixon is next to me, kissing my mouth like he’s sipping dessert wine, until three brothers beckon another orgasm from me, and I drown in the deep water of pleasure, drifting into the coma of sleep.
***
I wake up to the soft scent of roses and the quiet absence of bodies around me. The bed beneath my bare skin is cool, the linens tangled from a night I still can’t quite believe happened. Beside me, a single red rose lies on the pillow, dewy, unblemished, and beautiful. I draw it close, inhale deeply, and let the sweetness fill my lungs.
When I glance down, the marks that reveal the heat of what we did last night are the first thing I notice. My nipples are still tender, peaked from the memory of mouths and hands. Hickeys bloom across my hips and belly in scattered clusters. I haven’t worn marks like these since high school. Rather than juvenile, there’s a possessive, territorial quality to them.
I trace a bruise with careful fingers and the echo ripples through me. Their touch, their voices, the pleasure they gave me again and again until I drifted, not drowning, but flying. Soaring.
I stretch slowly, testing my ankle. It pulses with stiffness, but not enough to stop me. With a little help from the painkillers in my bag, I could probably drive today.
And I should.
I can’t stay forever.
A note sits on the nightstand, scribbled on a napkin:
At the yard. Finn will return for you at 11 AM.
I glance at the clock: 10:30. I slept three hours past my usual alarm, and I didn’t even stir. My body must’ve needed it.
I shower quickly, sorry to reluctantly wash away our night of passion, and dress in jeans, a loose tee, and boots.
Even though they’re everyday actions, I’m dazed, as if I’m still in the rhythm of last night’s surrender. As I move through the cabin, every step stirs memories. The way Nixon kissed my spine. The bubble of Reed’s laughter against my thigh. Finn’s fingers, reverent and patient.
The place is empty now. But it’s not cold. The cabin still carries their energy that surrounds me with warmth.
At exactly 11:00, Finn opens the door, freshly shaven, dressed in a soft gray shirt and well-worn jeans. He looks like morning should: crisp and calm, except for the warmth in his eyes when he sees me, and the passion that stirs in his lips when he kisses me, pulling me close with a possessive arm around my hips.
“You ready?” he asks, like it’s any other day, and he didn’t watch me come apart beneath his brothers and then take me to pieces himself. Like I’m not a random woman his brother rescued in the woods and brought home like a lost orphan.
“I think I am.” I push my purse strap onto my shoulder, shift my crutch, and follow him to the truck.
“You guys started early,” I say as we pull onto the road winding through arching trees that seem to be leaning in to listen.
“We had a delivery,” he says, opening the window.
Dappled light paints the hood of the truck, and I draw in the scent of the woods, and the crisp, clean air clears the last of sleep from my head. When we’re a minute away fromthe cabin, he lifts his head and scans both sides of the road and then slows, pulling the truck over at an unmarked patch of shoulder.
“What is it?” I ask, watching the way he lifts his chin.
