Page 115 of Triple Play
Grant’s arm comes around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. Jordie’s hand finds mine. Wyatt’s fingers trace patterns on my ankle where it’s hanging off the edge of the bed.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur.
“Best terrible idea we’ve ever had,” Jordie says.
Grant’s lips brush my shoulder. “You love it.”
I do. I really do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SURRENDER
Grant
I wake up at 2 AM because Elise is making sounds.
Not bad sounds. Not panic attack sounds or nightmare sounds or any of the things that would send me into full protective mode.
No, these are the kind of sounds that make my dick go from zero to painfully hard in about three seconds.
She’s pressed against me—in Jordie’s childhood bed, with his parents down the hall, Wyatt on the floor in a sleeping bag—and she’s shifting in her sleep, making these little breathy noises that are absolutely wrecking me.
I should move. Should put distance between us before I do something stupid like wake her up by grinding against her.
Instead I stay perfectly still and try to think about hockey stats. Coach’s new plays. Literally anything except the way she feels against me.
It doesn’t work.
Her hips shift back and I bite down on my bottom lip hard enough to taste copper.
“Grant?” Her voice is sleep-rough, barely a whisper.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t.” She rolls over to face me and even in the dark I can see her eyes are dilated. “I had a dream.”
On the other side of her, Jordie shifts. “What kind of dream?” His voice is awake. Alert. He’s been listening.
“The kind I shouldn’t tell you about at two in the morning,” Elise whispers.
From the floor, Wyatt’s sleeping bag rustles. “We’re all awake now. Might as well tell us.”
“It was—” She stops. Starts again. “Grant was—we were—”
“Tell me.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
“You were touching me. Everywhere. Your hands, your mouth, and you kept saying—” Her breath catches. “You kept telling me I was yours.”
The possessive thing in my chest roars to life.
“You are mine.” The words come out rougher than I intend. More honest.
“Ours,” Jordie corrects softly. “She’s ours.”
I should argue. Should assert territory. But he’s right and we all know it.
“You are,” I amend. “Ours.”
