Page 105 of House Rules

Atticus’s mouth presses hot and wet against the inside of my knee. The contrast is maddening—Storm whispering sharp promises into my ear while Atticus moves slowly, deliberately up the delicate terrain of my inner thigh.

“Once I watch you polish every blade,” Storm continues, “I’ll blindfold you. Tie you to my bed. Leave you open and exposed. I’ll run each blade across your skin, tip to flesh, until you can name every one by touch.”

I’m vibrating. From the belt, from the breathlessness, from the hunger in their voices. Every part of me is braced. Bare.

Atticus’s mouth traces closer to the center of me, lips leaving a wet trail of reverence—or punishment. Just when I think he’s going to stop and start over on the other leg, I feel the slow drag of his tongue along the seam of my sex.

“Are you going to win this, Angel?” Storm asks, tightening his grip on my throat just enough to make me dizzy.

“Yes,” I try to say, but no sound comes out. I mouth it anyway.

It must be enough.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I want you in my bed. I want to take you apart, piece by piece. I want to strip you of every lie anyone’s ever told you about yourself. I want to make you burn, Phoenix. Peel away the bullshit and find the light underneath. Will you break for me? Will you bleed for me?”

His voice terrifies me. Arouses me. Claims something inside me I didn’t even know was missing.

Atticus’s tongue is relentless, tracing every nerve like it was carved for him to find. Then his fingers slide inside—two, pressing deep. The stretch feels impossibly tight with the plug still buried in my ass, every inch of me filled and trembling.

“I can feel your pulse racing,” Storm growls, his lips brushing my ear as he bites down gently on the lobe.

The pressure in my core is unbearable. My thighs shake. A sheen of sweat breaks across my skin.

“She’s not going to last much longer,” Maverick warns, somewhere off to my right.

“She’ll last as long as I want her to,” Atticus replies, curling his fingers inside me. I bite back a sob.

“She better,” Con says, stepping into view. His hand reaches down, gripping my breast—thumb and forefinger clamping over my nipple, sending a sharp current through me.

Storm loosens his grip on my throat just enough for me to draw a deeper breath. My lungs burn. My head spins. I am fraying.

Atticus latches onto my clit, sucking hard, while his fingers find my g-spot again and again, milking the pressure building inside me.

My safe word hovers on the edge of my lips. I want to say it. I want to scream it.

But I don’t.

They need me.

But more than that…I need them.

If I let go, I lose them. It’s not about mobsters. Or my father. It never was. This is about the men in this room—the ones who broke me open and found something they wanted inside.

I want Storm to take me apart and stitch me back together. I want us to heal each other in the wreckage.

I want Atticus to see obedience as devotion—to know he’s worth submitting to. That someone sees the man under the brain.

I want Maverick’s laughter and his chaos. I want his rough edges and his brawn. I want his hands on me like I’m a secret joke only he gets to tell.

And I want Con toclaimme. Not just in the dark—but when he’s breaking. I want to be his anchor.

Everything I’ve survived was just training for this. For them. For becoming the kind of woman who can take all of them—and still stand.

“Fuck,” Con breathes. “Let her come. If she can take all of us without breaking—she’s in.”

“Fuckingfinally,” Maverick mutters, though his tone is rough with reverence.

I don’t understand what they mean. I don’t have time to.