Page 47

I squeeze his knot tightly and he comes apart with my name on his lips, the sound raw and broken and beautiful.

I swallow everything he gives me, the taste of him flooding my senses as I feel a surge of satisfaction that has nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with watching someone I care about surrender control completely.

I stay where I am until his breathing starts to slow, pressing gentle kisses to his inner thigh while he comes back to himself. When I finally look up, his eyes are soft and amazed, like he's seeing me for the first time.

"Come here," he says quietly, his voice hoarse but warm.

I rise and let him pull me into his lap, settling across his thighs while his arms come around me with careful tenderness. For a moment we just breathe together, the intensity of what just happened settling between us like a shared secret.

"How's your brain now?" I ask, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

"Remarkably quiet," he admits, wonder in his voice. "I'm not thinking about protocols or positioning or statistical probabilities of disaster."

"What are you thinking about?"

He's quiet for a moment, his fingers stroking through my hair with gentle reverence. "How incredible you are," he says finally. "How you saw what I needed and gave it to me without making me ask."

"That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Is that what this is?" he asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question. "Caring about each other?"

The words hang between us, weighted with implications I'm not sure any of us is ready to examine.

What are we to each other? The physical connection is undeniable, the emotional pull getting stronger every day, but we haven't defined what that means beyond saying we're a pack.

And we have been a pack, in name, in domestic routine, in everything except the ways that actually matter.

"Yes," I say simply, because it's true even if it feels insufficient for what's building between us. "I care about you, Julian. All of you. More than I expected to when I came here."

His arms tighten around me, and I feel some fundamental tension leave his body. "I care about you too," he says quietly. "More than I know how to quantify. More than I've let myself show."

There's an admission in that. That the careful distance hasn't been about not wanting, but about wanting too much, too fast. About all of us trying to be responsible when what we really want is to dive headfirst into whatever this is becoming.

"You don't have to quantify everything," I tell him, tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt. "Some things just are."

"That's terrifying for someone who lives by data and analysis."

"But also freeing, right? Not everything has to be solved or understood. Sometimes you can just... experience it."

He considers this, his analytical mind clearly struggling with the concept. "I want to," he says finally. "I want to learn how to just be with you without trying to predict every possible outcome."

"We have time," I assure him, settling more comfortably in his lap. "No rush, no pressure. We'll figure it out as we go."

"All of us?" he asks. "Because this thing between the four of us, it's..."

"Complicated," I finish. "But maybe complicated isn't bad. Maybe it's just... thorough."

The word choice makes him laugh, the sound surprised and genuine. "Leave it to you to find a way to make my neuroses sound appealing."

"They're not neuroses. They're part of what makes you you." I press another kiss to his jaw, breathing in his scent of black tea and bergamot that's now mixed with satisfaction and something deeper. "And I happen to like who you are."

"Even when I'm researching award show protocols like I'm planning a military operation?"

"Especially then. Though next time you start spiraling, maybe just ask for help instead of disappearing into spreadsheets for three hours."

"What kind of help?" he asks, his hands stroking down my back.

The innocent question combined with his touch sends heat racing through me again. I shift in his lap, noting how his breathing changes when my movement puts pressure exactly where he's still sensitive.

"Any kind I can give," I say, my voice dropping back into that intimate register that makes his pupils dilate.

"Lila," he warns, but there's want in his voice rather than protest.

"Hmm?" I rock slightly in his lap, watching his careful control start to fray again.

"You're going to kill me," he groans, his grip on my hips tightening.

"What a way to go, though."

His laugh is breathless, strained. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"Who says you're not taking care of me?" I lean closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Do you have any idea how good it makes me feel to watch you fall apart? To know I can do that to you?"

The confession makes him shudder, his hold on me becoming almost possessive. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," I challenge, pulling back to meet his eyes.

For a moment we just stare at each other, the air between us charged with possibility.

Then Julian's careful control snaps completely, and he's kissing me with a hunger that steals my breath.

His hands are everywhere, my back, my hair, my waist, mapping my body like he's trying to memorize every detail.

I hear the front door open, followed by familiar voices calling out greetings.

Dean and Callum, probably here for dinner like they have been most nights.

We finally break apart, both breathing hard, I can see something has shifted in his expression.

The uncertainty is still there, but it's overshadowed by determination and want and something that looks like wonder.

"Lila?" Dean's voice carries from the entryway. "You home?"

"Kitchen," I call back, though I don't move from Julian's lap.

We're decent enough, clothing mostly in place, though my hair is probably a mess and Julian's shirt is wrinkled from my hands. But there's an intimacy to our positioning that will be obvious to anyone who looks.

Footsteps approach, and then Dean appears in the kitchen doorway, Callum right behind him. They take in the scene. Me in Julian's lap, our obvious dishevelment, the laptop closed and pushed aside and I watch understanding dawn in their expressions.

But instead of awkwardness or jealousy, what I see is heat. Want. The kind of hunger that makes my mouth go dry and my pulse quicken.

"Looks like we missed something interesting," Dean says, his voice rougher than usual.

"Julian was overthinking," I explain, not moving from where I'm settled. "I helped him... refocus."

Callum's gaze travels over us with obvious appreciation, lingering on the way Julian's hands rest possessively on my hips. "Generous of you."

"I'm a giver," I say with mock innocence, which makes Julian laugh.

"We can see that," Dean says, moving closer. "Question is, what are you planning to give us?"

The bold question sends heat racing through me, and I feel Julian's grip tighten in response to my sharp intake of breath.

"Depends," I manage, my voice slightly unsteady. "What do you want?"

The look that passes between all three of them is loaded with meaning, and I realize something fundamental has shifted. We're not dancing around the attraction anymore. We're acknowledging what's been building between us, all of us.

"You," Callum says simply, his voice rough with honesty. "We want you."

The admission hangs in the air between us, weighted with possibility and promise and the kind of raw want, that makes rational thought impossible.

"Then you have me," I say, meaning it completely.

And as three pairs of hands reach for me, as I'm surrounded by warmth and want and the overwhelming certainty that this is exactly where I belong, I realize Julian's research was wrong about one thing.

There's no protocol for this. No spreadsheet that can map the variables of four people falling into something beautiful and complicated and entirely their own.

Sometimes the best things can't be quantified or analyzed or predicted.

Sometimes you just have to trust that love will figure itself out.

All of us together.