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McCARTNEY

Grace is a work of art. Not just her body, though God knows my eyes can’t stop tracing the soft curve of her waist, the slope of her thighs, and the dip at the base of her throat. But the way she moves, the way she lets go…

She’s colored by raw, open vulnerability and the trust she’s offering all four of us is staggering.

My fingers twitch with the need to sketch her and capture this moment, not because of how she looks, but because of what she is: a woman choosing to be with us, even for a moment; a muse breathing life into the parts of me I’ve let slip away.

Lennon is moving between her legs now, like a man who’s been starving and finally found a meal to sate hunger.

His shoulders tense with everything he’s feeling but isn’t saying.

Dylan’s caressing her, like she’s precious and breakable even though we all know she’s stronger than any of us.

Harrison’s sucking on her perfect pink nipple, squeezing her soft flesh.

And me ?

I lean down, press a slow kiss to her temple, letting my hand slide gently through her hair.

She turns her face toward me and our eyes lock, as a soft, shared current passes between us.

Her mouth parts and I kiss her there, tasting the heat of it, the want, and the promise.

Her fingers curl around my wrist, anchoring me to her.

“Gracie.” I murmur, my voice low against her cheek. “Is this still okay?” Her hand grips my neck, tugging at the loose curls there, possessive, needy, and moaning against my lips. She’s taken us all twice, and I’m starting to worry that we’re going to hurt her with our passion.

“Yes,” she says, eyes rolling in pleasure. She’s fuck drunk, if that’s a thing. Her body is limp, her breaths coming in short sharp pants punctuated by moans that sound dazed and delirious.

I never imagined we’d find a woman who would want to fuck this much.

“That’s it,” Lennon says. “That’s it. Fuck, Grace. You feel so fucking good.”

Heat surges through me, as I palm my cock, teasing the slickness of my precum over the head.

Watching my little brother fuck Grace is hot, but knowing I’m next is enough to make me sweat.

There’s nothing more sacred to me than a woman feeling safe in her own skin, especially with four men around her and the weight of the world pressing in and choosing this moment anyway.

We don’t rush.

Dylan worships her like she’s as vital to him as oxygen.

Harrison watches her with reverence I didn’t know he had in him.

Lennon looks at her like he wants to make her the first and last entry on every one of his lists.

And me? I take it all in. Her sighs, her flushed skin, the way she reaches for us with her hands and her heart.

She kisses me again, messy and breathless, and for a heartbeat, I forget that this wasn’t supposed to happen. That she’s meant to leave. Go back to her life in the city. Become that polished, professional woman who arrived on our doorstep, looking like she stepped out of a magazine.

In this barn, at this moment, she belongs.

Not because we touched her. Not because we made her come so hard she forgot her name. Not because she let us inside her, one after the other, and then again.

She belongs because she’s choosing this.

She’s choosing us.

She chose me , when her mouth crashed into mine like she needed the taste of my name to stay grounded.

Her lips are swollen now, pink and open, her eyes glassy and soft.

I brush my thumb over the corner of her mouth, catching a smudge of someone else’s desire.

She doesn’t flinch or shy away from the mess of what we’ve made together.

She looks up at me like I’m her home, and I feel undone.

Her hand finds mine, fingers lacing without hesitation. Her leg shifts, brushing my thigh, and I want to pull her into my lap, wrap her in my arms and never let her go.

Instead, I lean in, brushing a kiss over her brow.

Her breath catches, and I feel the quiet, overwhelming wave rolling through her again.

Another orgasm. Jesus. It’s like Levi opened the faucet and now she can’t switch it off.

And I know she’s feeling all of us still inside her; the weight and heft of our cocks, the power of our thrusts and our releases that trickle out of her, making a sticky mess of the horse blanket we’re using as a makeshift bed.

And I know it without her saying a word.

Dylan’s hand skims along her waist, resting on the dip of her hip. Lennon releases, his big body seizing like he felt the slice of a horse whip across his skin.

We surround her, and cocoon her like shelter made of muscle and heat and breath.

And she isn’t running.

Not yet.

“Talk to me,” I say, voice barely audible.

She finally meets my eyes. Her voice is hoarse, raw from moaning and kissing and gasping for air .

“McCartney.” My name comes out on a whispered breath, like she’s too dazed to say anything more.

“This isn’t just sex,” I tell her. She has to know. She has to feel it.

“No,” she whispers, her fingers squeezing mine. “What do we do now?”

Everyone stills. I feel all three of them freeze around us. Nobody says a word, like they’re all waiting for me to answer. But hell if I know. I’m the dreamer, the painter, the poet; the one who believes in magic and timing. But none of that has prepared me for this .

Still, I say what I mean.

“You stay as long as you want,” I murmur. “We want forever, but we’ll be damn grateful for every second you gave us.”

She swallows. Tears brim in her eyes.

“I don’t want to leave.”

That’s when I break. I pull her into my arms, hold her against my chest so she feels as well as hears me. Her leg drapes over my hip, her face tucks under my chin, and the others shift closer, like we’re protecting her from the idea of the outside world.

Dylan kisses the back of her shoulder. “So, don’t, pretty girl. Don’t go.”

Harrison runs a palm down her side. “Stay here.”

Lennon strokes her hair with slow, steady fingers like he’s writing a love letter without ink. “Let us keep you, Gracie.”

We hold her. Breathe her in.

And let her belong to us for as long as she can.