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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 want more .

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 like home .”

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 he doesn’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.

“You ready for more, darlin’?” His voice is softer than silk, but his eyes burn.

“I want you,” I breathe. “Both of you.”

He glances at Lennon, who’s already stripping out of the last of his clothes. The air shifts, heavier now and less tentative, laced with even more need . But still no rush. Still no urgency that doesn’t start with me .

Dylan eases back, brushing his lips against mine before slipping off the blanket. I feel his weight leave, but then McCartney’s crawling over me, mouth brushing the curve of my breast while Lennon kneels between my thighs, eyes sharp, deliberate.

“She can take us both,” Lennon says, voice like smoke. “You want it, baby?”

I nod. Hell yes, I want it.

McCartney’s mouth covers mine before I can speak, tongue lazy and coaxing, while Lennon presses two fingers between my legs, testing, teasing, stroking Dylan’s release up and over my clit. I writhe beneath them, overwhelmed as sensation crowds in from every angle.

Then McCartney shifts behind me, lifting me with that strong, steady grace that comes so easily to him.

I’m on my knees now, straddling his lap, his cock pressed against my slick heat.

He slides in achingly slow, both of us moaning at the stretch, the fullness, the feel of finally being together like this.

Before I can even adjust, Lennon steps in close, brushing my face with his fingers, tilting my chin up.

“I want your mouth,” he says, voice thick. “Let me feel you.”

I open willingly.

He slides in, hand cradling the back of my head, but he’s careful, watching every breath, blink, and signal. I take him deep, loving the way he swears under his breath, the way McCartney moans behind me as I rock against him.

And then Harrison’s hands are in my hair. At my waist. On my back.

He doesn’t ask. He knows .

His mouth finds my shoulder, my spine, kisses like the tickle of feathers as I take Lennon deeper, ride McCartney harder, the pressure building to something blinding, unbearable, perfect .

Every sound I make is swallowed by them. Every gasp, cry, and desperate moan. Harrison whispers to me between kisses.

“You’re doing so good, Grace. You’re everything. We’ve got you.”

I don’t know how long it lasts. It could be minutes, hours, eternity. But when I come, it’s like nothing I’ve ever known. My body clenches, back bowing, mouth filled with the taste of Lennon’s skin and the sound of Harrison murmuring my name.

Lennon groans deep and pulls free, stroking himself hard and fast, spilling across my cheek with a shudder. McCartney follows a second later, buried deep inside me, whispering, “Oh fuck, yeah,” tightly, like he didn’t mean for it to come out, but it did.

I collapse into Harrison’s arms, who eases me down with infinite care, like I’m breakable crystal and not a woman who took three cowboys and still wants more.

He presses a kiss on my temple.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. “And the most beautiful.”

I’m still catching my breath, limp and burning, when Harrison slips behind me.

His hands are gentle but confident as he touches my hips. My skin’s damp, flushed, and overly sensitive, but when he runs his palms down my sides, I melt all over again.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs into my hair. “Let me.”

I nod, because words feel like smoke in my mouth right now. I’m trembling from the inside out. McCartney’s hands stroke my thighs, his lips finding my knee, my belly, his voice murmuring soft things I can’t even make out.

Lennon lies on his side beside me, fingers drifting lazily across my shoulder, brushing sweat-damp strands of hair off my cheek.

“You look wrecked, baby,” he says with a crooked grin. “In the best goddamn way.”

“Still gorgeous,” Dylan murmurs from behind Harrison. He’s back, hard again , his eyes low and dark with renewed hunger. “You’re gonna make us lose our minds, sweetheart.”

My throat tightens because they mean every word. I’ve never felt so bare and so adored in my whole life.

And then Harrison is inside me.

He enters slowly from behind, carefully, maybe worried that I’m sore.

It does sting a little because he’s thick and heavy, but it’s his pace that undoes me.

Measured. Loving. A rhythm that feels like the endless undulation of the ocean against the shore.

One hand slides under my ribs to hold me close while the other grips my wrist, grounding me as he moves.

My head drops back on his shoulder, mouth falling open in a gasp.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” McCartney says, kissing between my breasts. “That’s it. Let go again, Grace.”

Lennon props himself up on one elbow and kisses my temple. “You’re gonna come again,” he says with total certainty. “He’s gonna make you, and I want you to look at me when it hits.”

Harrison groans softly behind me, his lips grazing my shoulder blade. “So damn tight… You’re still fluttering around me from before, aren’t you?”

I can’t answer. I’m gone. Floating between their bodies, their voices, their hands, and their mouths.

Dylan kneels beside me now, his hand cradling my face. He looks wrecked, too.

I reach for him blindly, pulling him in for a kiss. His mouth is open and searching, tongue sliding over mine as Harrison’s hips rock into me from behind, deep and unhurried. The world narrows down to touch and breath and pressure until every nerve inside me lights up again.

I cry out, half into Dylan’s mouth, half into the thick, humid air between us.

My body pulses around Harrison, gripping him tight. He groans low and desperate and buries himself deep. I’m shaking, my hips twitching, thighs slick, and chest rising in fast, uneven waves. Harrison holds me through it with his lips on my neck, his hand tight around mine.

Then I feel Dylan’s hand slide down my belly, fingers teasing my sensitive clit.

He doesn’t wait long, watching like he’s checking every signal, every flicker in my eyes.

And when he sees I want it— need it—he moves.

One hand lifts my thigh. The other braces at my waist. And then, with slow, thick, aching force, he pushes inside me, too.

I gasp at the unbelievable stretch, crowded on both sides by big, muscular bodies that overwhelm me with their size and strength.

Harrison is still inside me, and I’m throbbing and wet from release.

But Dylan doesn’t force or thrust; he eases forward inch by inch, his eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“Holy hell ,” he breathes, face crumpling. “You’re still full of him. Jesus, Grace…”

I moan, barely able to breathe, my body clenching around him. There’s no resistance. Only the stretch, the depth, and the unbearable fullness of being opened again so soon, my body still caught between release and need.

McCartney’s lips find my throat. He kisses a slow line to my collarbone, whispering, “You’re perfect. Look how you take them both…”

Lennon strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, slicking this cum over my skin as his other hand holds mine. “Look at her,” he murmurs. “She’s dripping. God, you can see where they’re both stretching her…”

Harrison is still holding my waist even as he pulls back slowly and carefully, leaning in to kiss my shoulder again.

“I love feeling you come,” he says, low and steady. “You think you can do it again, around both our dicks?”

“Yes,” I say, shifting as Dylan begins to draw out, slow and slick.

Dylan moves deeper now, groaning as he bottoms out, hips flush against mine, muscular thighs braced wide to support my weight. His jaw clenches, and sweat glistens at his temples. His hands are firm on my hips, but they tremble, like this is breaking something open in him.

“You’re so goddamn warm,” he grits out. “So wet. You make it hard to be gentle.”

“Then don’t be,” I whisper, mouth brushing his jaw. “I want you .”

That breaks him.

He drives deep in one long, hard thrust that makes me cry out again.

My legs shake and the others shift, their hands everywhere as they work toward one goal.

McCartney cups my breast, thumb teasing my nipple.

Lennon strokes between my legs, circling slowly where Dylan’s cock drags against sensitive, overworked nerves.

Harrison’s lips are still at my neck, whispering something that sounds like mine as he fucks into me.

I’m past words now, filled with moans and gasps and helpless sounds torn from somewhere deep.

Dylan’s pace picks up with sharp, deep, relentless thrusts. He leans over me, his hand tangled in my hair as he kisses me hard and dirty, tongue pushing past my lips with every thrust.

“You feel that?” he pants into my mouth. “Us. Inside you. Claiming you. ”

I can’t speak, so I nod, moaning, body clenching tight again.

“I’m gonna come in you,” he growls. “Right on top of him. And you’re gonna take it.”

“Yes.”

As he shudders, hips jerking in a final, deep thrust, I feel it— feel the warmth of him pouring into me, hot and thick, as Harrison’s cock kicks, and he groans, “Fuck, yeah,” and their releases mingle inside me.

It’s overwhelming. Filthy. A claiming so beautiful and sacred that I’d struggle to put into words how they’ve made me feel.

I sob once, high and broken, shuddering with another climax that takes me by surprise. I collapse back, chest heaving.

And they’re all there.

Hands. Mouths. Fingers brushing back damp hair. Lips pressing against my cheeks, my collarbone, my thighs. Soft words. Praise. It feels like Love.

I’m undone.

I’m held.

I am theirs .

And none of them leave.

Lennon rubs my back, his voice low and steady. McCartney presses his forehead to mine. Harrison holds me like a man who’s made of patience, and Dylan strokes my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip like he wants to memorize the shape of it.

“We’re not leaving this barn until you’re too sore to walk,” Dylan says, voice low and rough.

I smile because I believe him.

I want that more than he could ever know.