Page 96 of Light My Fire Three Times
Leo kisses my temple, murmuring steady words even as his hand slips between my thighs to circle where I need it most. “You feel good.”
Karl groans, pounding into me. “She was made for this. For us.”
I’m shattering. Bound, filled, overwhelmed, every nerve lit up until I can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins.
Jesse leans close, hot in my ear.
“You’re going to come so hard you’ll forget your own name.” His fingers dig into my jaw. “Do it. Now.”
And with Leo’s hand working me, Karl driving into me, Jesse’s command ringing in my head…
I break.
The orgasm tears through me, violent and consuming, my body spasming against the restraints as I scream into Jesse’s palm.
It doesn’t stop. Karl keeps going, chasing his own release, Leo whispering praise against my skin, Jesse watching like a devil who owns me completely.
I don’t come back down gently. I crash, wrecked and shaking, silk biting into my wrists, their hands everywhere, holding me, using me, worshipping me.
And it’s only the beginning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jesse
DECEMBER 10TH
Drywall dust isa special kind of hell. Gets in your hair, your nose, your clothes.
Hell, I’ll probably still be sneezing it out by Christmas. But there’s something satisfying about it too, because every layer we put up means this place is one step closer to being finished.
Leo’s over by the far wall with a roller, steady and precise as if he’s painting the Sistine Chapel instead of a rental property in Coyote Glen. Karl’s swearing at a cabinet that refuses to line up, and I’m standing here with a drill in my hand, smirking.
“You’re leaning it wrong,” I tell him, half grinning.
Karl glares at me. “You want to do it?”
“Not particularly.” I lean on the drill, shrugging. “You’ve got it handled.”
Leo snorts without looking up, which, from him, counts as a full-blown laugh. He’s focused, methodical, but there’s a tension in the set of his jaw. I know where his head is. Same place mine keeps going. Olivia.
Her house is finally coming together after days of hammering, painting, patching, and swearing. Once it becameclear the contractors were charging too much and dragging their feet, we took over. Now it’s actually starting to look homely again.
See? We didn’t need those overpriced professionals after all.
I set the drill down, brushing dust off my jeans.
“Gonna grab the other box of screws from the truck,” I call over my shoulder.
Outside, the cold air smacks me in the face, sharp and clean after the musty drywall inside. My boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward the truck bed, flipping up the tarp. That’s when I hear it… heels clicking against the driveway.
“Jesse.”
Vanessa.
Fucking hell.
She’s striding up confidently, coat cinched tight, makeup flawless as if she walked out of a boutique catalog and dropped herself straight into a construction zone.
