Page 105 of Kill for a Kiss

Before he can answer, Stan mutters unintelligibly in his sleep, along the lines of “give me the axe, bro.” It’s so absurd, I can’t help it. A chuckle escapes. Sterling’s chest moves under me as he tries to hold in his own laugh. It doesn’t work. I tuck my face against him again. Everything about this moment in time is a bit ridiculous but absolutely perfect.

Sterling runs his hand down my back again, so wonderfully warm. “Sleep, Elle.”

“I want to stay awake.” I settle my chin over his heart. “I want to stay here with you.”

His eyes close, lashes grazing his cheeks. When he speaks, it’s less guarded and a little fragile. “Then stay with me.”

I don’t need to answer. Because I’m already here. I’m already his.

***

Hours later, the sun is setting. Dinner settles warm in our spent bodies. The scent of roasted boar and herbs lingers faintly in the air. Fire crackles in the hearth.

Then Stan brushes past me in the kitchen. His fingers skim my hip, light but suggestive. Still, it steals a breath straight from my lungs.

A moment of blurred movement later, Stan presses me against the counter, his voice low and sinful in my ear, fingers gripping my thighs. Sterling kneels in front of me, focused and quiet in the way he devours my soaked center.

Stan gives Sterling instructions, and he gives me praise with every breath.

They clear the table next. I’m seated at the edge, legs parted, fingers gripping wood as Sterling thrusts slow and deep. The table groans beneath us.

Stan stands close, mouth tracing down my throat, murmuring how pretty I sound, how good I look between them, and how he’s eager for his turn.

Then it’s the rug. The wall. Even the windowsill, where I’m lifted clean off my feet, helpless with laughter and a light heart, despite how sore I feel. It doesn’t matter. I want everything they’ll give me. So I take every quivering ache and every agonizing stretch. I accept every way they want to show their devotion to me. And I do the same, by giving in to their want. To mine.

Soon, Sterling’s armchair becomes mine for a stretch of time. Stan stays behind me, whispering filthy promises into my ear while Sterling’s kneeling between my legs again. His fingers are gentle, his warm mouth so torturously precise.

Sterling doesn’t speak much during all of this. He doesn’t need to. His silence carries everything I crave—devotion, hunger, care.

But Stan is always talking. He fills every pause with praise, alongside little barbs that make Sterling narrow his eyes in warning. I feel them both so differently. One wild and impulsive. The other steady and sure. And I love it.

By the time we collapse in bed again, I have no strength left. I sigh, satisfied, as I lie between them.

Stan is spooning me like he never wants to let go. He nuzzles against my hair and says something completely obscene that it makes me giggle despite how boneless I feel. “I swear,” he mumbles, “this should be illegal. It’s more addictive than any hit.”

Sterling lies on my other side, eyes half-lidded but lit with thatwarmth I always search for in him. His fingers trace circles along my hip, slow and idle, like he doesn’t want to stop touching me.

Stan kisses my neck. “Such a good girl.”

Sterling hums in his throat, agreeing. He takes my hand under the blanket, linking our fingers. I look at him, and even though he doesn’t say a word, the kiss he places on my nose says more than enough.

My hand lays flat against Sterling’s chest, right over his heart. That steady rhythm is still there, strong and constant. I breathe with him and rest there, skin to skin, while Stan talks himself into sleep behind me, trailing off mid-sentence with one last cocky ramble about being “the crowd favorite.” Then there’s his snores, familiar and endearing, I suppose, since they’re faint this time.

Sterling breathes out, long and aggravated. Stan is taking up too much space again. I smile anyway. And like I did earlier, I climb on top of Sterling, fitting perfectly, as if I was made to belong right here against him.

His arms wrap around my waist. His chest rises beneath my cheek.

I stare up at him, eyes meeting his, and I don’t have to say anything. Neither does he.

His touch is steady, fingers gliding along my back, calming me like always.

When Stan’s snores grow louder, I laugh into Sterling’s chest. He doesn’t laugh with me, but his thumb grazes the small of my back, light yet intimate.

Then Sterling asks, “You okay? Want water?”

“You’re a little much when you get like this,” I tease lightly.

He exhales through his nose, almost smiling.