Page 40

GRACE

Dylan’s like a different man. He’s always seemed so stoic and solid, but without humor or lightheartedness. He’s loyal to his family, a protector of his children. A good man. That much is obvious. But setting aside all the duties and responsibilities, I was struggling to get a feel for who he is.

Not anymore. This man who holds me to him, laughing, asking me if he can take me to bed, is like a different person. He’s shed a concrete overcoat, and now he’s flying free.

But why? Is it something I’ve done?

I want to believe it is. The boots were the first sign that he felt a connection to me. No man buys someone expensive boots for nothing. But he’s remained reserved until today.

Maybe it’s because his brothers and cousins have been making their own connections with me, and he doesn’t want to get left behind. Maybe all he needed was their reassurance.

I don’t know. But whatever it is, I’m happy for him.

This feels like a vacation for me. A time and opportunity to step out of my life and make different choices.

They’re not that different, my mind whispers. Falling into bed with men who say nice things is my MO. Regretting it in the morning is the way things go. Except with these cowboys, I haven’t felt an ounce of regret. Even with Levi, I was so stunned with orgasming that all I could feel was gratitude.

But they want so much more than I can give in the long term.

I feel it in their touch, in their lingering looks and sweet words.

They’re trying to seduce slowly me as a group, and it’s working.

I glance over at the men following me and Dylan.

McCartney’s dreamy eyes and loose, wet hair curling around his shoulders make him look so young.

Lennon’s sharp cheekbones and neat dark blond hair give him an air of focus.

Harrison’s observant gray eyes watch me closely from behind his black-rimmed glasses, and all I can think is yes, yes, yes.

I’m so damned lucky and happy in a way I don’t ever remember being.

I thought this was a crazy, stupid proposition, and now, all I can see are the benefits.

Yes, this home is busy beyond belief. Yes, they’re carrying a burden of responsibility so far outside of my experience that it’s hard to fathom.

Yes, there are personalities galore. But it all works.

It’s like a well-oiled machine. There are no bad apples here.

Nobody’s thinking only about themselves.

This is a place of harmony, of consideration, of kindness, and even though I have to, I don’t want to think about leaving.

I expect Dylan to lead us into the house, but he changes his mind, diverting to the barn instead. I shouldn’t find the prospect of getting down in the hay so arousing, but nothing about this place or these men is what I expected, and Levi proved to me how good a roll in the hay can be.

Inside, Harrison finds a couple of old plaid blankets, which he lays over the hay.

Dylan lowers me, and then his hand closes around mine, callused and warm.

He brings it up slowly, pressing it against his chest like he wants me to feel what’s happening underneath his skin.

His heart is racing. I thought I’d be the nervous one, but he is, too.

This steady, hard-edged cowboy is as wrecked by this as I am.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, roughened with restraint.

I nod again, but it’s not enough. I need him to know .

“I’ve been sure,” I whisper. “I didn’t know you were.”

That does something to him, changing his expression as quickly as a rope snapping taut.

His lips are on mine before I can say anything else.

He tastes like mint and heat and all the words he hasn’t said, all the nights he’s probably laid awake thinking about what the future could hold.

Maybe even thinking about me. His hands settle at my waist, dragging me in like I’m something he needs to hold on to or fall apart without.

Behind us, the space dims as someone closes the barn door, and the others move quietly without words.

McCartney sinks onto a stool in the corner, knees spread, watching with his hand cupping his dick.

Lennon leans back against the wall, arms crossed, his expression serious and hungry all at once.

Harrison stays nearest the door, his presence steady and analytical.

But all I feel is Dylan.

He lifts the hem of my wet top slowly, knuckles grazing skin. My arms go up automatically, and then I’m almost bare from the waist up, laying in front of four cowboys like I’m in some dream I never let myself have. Dylan’s breath hitches. His knuckles graze my skin gently.

“Christ,” he murmurs, like he’s praying. “You’re... damn , Grace.”

His mouth lowers again, this time to the curve of my shoulder, down to the hollow above my heart. Every press of his lips is deliberate, and when he wraps his arms around my thighs and lifts me like I weigh nothing, I gasp.

The blanket is rough against my back, but my skin is burning. He kneels over me, still wearing his wet jeans. His eyes flick to mine as he slides a hand up the inside of my thigh, spreading heat in his wake.

I fumble with his buttons, desperate to get us out of our wet clothes, but he stills me with one hand over mine.

“Let me take my time with you,” he says. “Been wantin’ this too long to rush.”

Then his hands are on my jeans, slow and sure, working them down while his mouth maps a trail over every inch of exposed skin.

He’s reverent, like I’m a place he’s been homesick for, eyes filled with yearning and hands heartbreakingly gentle.

When his tongue flicks below my belly button, I arch without meaning to, breath catching in my throat.

Behind him, I hear the rustle of movement as one of the others, maybe McCartney, lets out a slow exhale.

And I like it.

I like that they’re here. It doesn’t feel like an intrusion. They’re a safety net, not a cage, and for once, I don’t feel used or small or like I’m trying to mean more than I do.

I feel wanted , 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 of them .

“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. It tells . And I love it. I love him for 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’m bare and 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. In them .

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.”