Page 94 of 11 Cowboys

I feelwanted, in a way that’s vast and quiet and terrifying.

Dylan leans up over me again, bracing himself on his forearms. He kisses me again, slower and deeper, down my throat, his breath hot against the skin, and his body heavy in the most perfect way. Every inch of contact is fire. I wrap my legs around his hips, drawing him closer, skin to skin. I feel him through his jeans—hard and restrained, holding himself back with a kind of trembling control that makes my breath hitch.

I want all of it. All ofthem.

“Let me undress you,” I whisper, dragging my fingers up the hard plane of his chest. He nods, and I help him unbutton his jeans and push the clinging fabric of his underwear over his hips. I gasp at the sight of his erection, the sheer length and girth overwhelming.

I don’t hear McCartney move until his fingers trace the line of my arm. I turn my head and find him kneeling beside me, eyes full of that dreamy light he carries like it’s stitched into his soul, his tattoo on full display.

All You Need Is Love.I wish I could believe that.

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, lazy, lips brushing my wrist.

I nod, and he leans in to kiss me, lightly at first, coaxing, drawing a gasp from me as Dylan’s hand slides lower, cupping the heat between my thighs. I’m caught between two fires now. Two mouths and four hands make every breath come faster.

McCartney’s hand glides up my side, gently, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away if he’s too rough. His mouth trails kisses down the curve of my shoulder while Dylan finally, finally, slips his fingers beneath the lace of my panties.

The pressure of his touch makes my hips jerk. It’s too much, and not enough. McCartney’s hand finds my breast, his palm wide and warm, thumb circling slowly, teasing my nerve endings awake.

Behind them, Lennon moves closer. He stands at the foot of the blanket, looking down at me like I’m the center of his world. The sharpness of him, the deliberate, commanding edge, sends a shiver through me. He unbuttons his jeans slowly, watching my eyes the entire time.

“I want to hear you,” he says softly. “I want to hear every sound you make when they touch you. Don’t hold back.”

His voice doesn’t ask. Ittells. And I love it. I lovehimfor that. I lift my hips into Dylan’s hand, and a broken, aching sound spills out of me as he slides one finger inside, curling it perfectly.

“Yes… oh fuck…”

“Jesus,” Lennon breathes. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He steps forward and cups the back of my knee, guiding my leg open wider. Then he leans in and kisses the inside of my thigh, once, then again, teeth dragging enough to make my breath catch. I’m on fire. I’mbareand burning, and every single one of them is watching me fall apart.

Then Harrison approaches.

He moves slowly, like he always does, silent and thoughtful, every step considered. He kneels near my head, brushing my hair back, searching for order and neatness even in this chaos.

“You good, Grace?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, Harrison,” I breathe, chest rising. “More than good.”

He nods, lips twitching like he wants to smile but doesn’t dare. Has he done this before? Shared a woman with his brothers? Or is this new to him? He kisses my forehead, my temple, my cheek, each one tender, and when his fingers lace through mine, I squeeze back, grounding myself there. In him. Inthem.

Dylan takes time to work inside me, stretching me so wide in a delicious violation that has me crying out his name. He moves slowly at first, and my whole body arches. McCartney presses kisses over my chest. Lennon’s mouth finds my nipple, sucking in slow but hard rhythmic pulls to match his brother’s thrusts. Harrison strokes my palm, his breath brushing my ear.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Dylan murmurs, rocking into me, eyes locked on mine. “We all do.”

This feeling is something I can’t get used to.

It’s the pleasure, the desire and the sheer belonging that comes with four men surrounding me like the points of a compass.

And I wantmore.

Dylan’s movements quicken, his breath catching against my skin. His hand slides under my knee, lifting it higher as he drives in deeper, his rhythm catching fire.

“I’m close,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to mine, voice cracked open with it. “You feel so good. God, Grace, you feel likehome.”

I hold his face between my hands, kissing him hard as he shudders against me, hips grinding in a final, deep thrust before he groans into my mouth. His body softens, but hedoesn’t pull away. He stays like that, pressing kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, still wrapped around me.

But McCartney’s already there, already beside me, already trailing fingers down my thigh like he’s asking permission before he even says a word.