Page 44 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

AUTUMN PROMISES

~DAMON~

T he whipped cream is cold against my fingers as I return from the pavilion's small service area, canister in one hand, brown sugar in the other. Cinnamon too, because if we're going to commit to autumn flavors, we might as well be thorough.

Velvet watches our approach with eyes gone dark, pupils blown wide enough that only a ring of brown remains. She's still sitting on the blanket, but her posture has shifted—less casual sprawl, more coiled tension.

"Second thoughts?" Dante asks, though his voice carries certainty that she won't back down.

"Third and fourth thoughts." But she's already reaching for the bow at her throat, fingers working the silk knot. "Doesn't mean I'm stopping."

The orange fabric slides away, and she lets it fall beside her with deliberate carelessness. The white blouse underneath has too many buttons—I count them as her fingers work downward, revealing skin that glows pale in the string lights.

"Someone should check the pavilion entrance," she suggests, voice steady despite the flush spreading down her chest.

"Already locked," I inform her, setting down my supplies to move closer. "Alessandro was very thorough in his privacy arrangements."

"Of course he was."

The blouse parts, revealing burgundy lace that makes my mouth go dry. Dante makes a sound that's barely human, already reaching for her, but she holds up one hand.

"Rules first."

"Rules?" we ask in unison.

"Nothing that would actually scandalize if someone did walk in. We keep some clothes on. And—" her smile turns wicked, "—you take turns. I want to know who's better at this."

"Competition?" Dante grins. "You're speaking our language."

She stands, orange skirt pooling at her feet, and those ridiculous pumpkin stockings against burgundy lace might be the death of me.

"Who's first?"

We exchanged a look I’d only ever shared with my twin, the kind that compresses a universe of communication into a flick of a brow.

Dante gave a theatrical sigh of concession, then retreated two steps to shake the whipped cream canister in slow, suggestive arcs, his eyes never leaving Velvet’s face.

That left me standing in front of her—my heart hammering, my head full of summer evenings past, and every instinct in my body tuned to the way she waited, half wild and half wary, for what would come next.

I reached out, fingers deliberate, guiding her chin up with a touch so light it might have been a trick of the early autumn breeze.

"Remember," I murmured, lips ghosting her pulse, "this is about taste.

" The words vibrated through her, barely louder than the wind, but her answering shiver was seismic.

I caught her gaze at close range: pupils huge, lips parted—not with fear, not with nerves, but with anticipation so raw it made me ache to be careful with her.

I could taste the memory of her need on the air.

"Just kiss me," she said. "Before I remember this is insane."

So I did.

It's easy to be rough, when you're built like Dante and me, when the world expects you to take what you want and leave the debris behind.

But I kissed Velvet the way I'd learned to paint—slow, with short, testing strokes, then longer, bolder lines that outlined the edges of her desire before filling them in.

She made a soft noise against my mouth, and I felt her hand snake behind my neck, pulling me closer, until I could have sworn she'd been kissing Corleones since birth.

She tasted like the wine we'd shared earlier, sweet and slightly smoky, and the hint of autumn spice caught in the corners of her smile.

I let myself lose track of everything but the shape of her, the way her body melted into the touch, the way the tension in her frame dissolved with every sweep of my thumb at her jawline.

When I finally let her breathe, she staggered a half step, dizzy but grinning, her cheeks a blush that couldn't be faked.

"Good?" Dante said from over my shoulder, his tone deliberately skeptical, as though we hadn't shared every secret since the womb.

"Acceptable," Velvet said, a little hoarse. "But I vote we withhold judgment until all contestants have performed."

She crooked a finger at Dante, who wasted no time, vaulting across the blanket with a predator's grace—or maybe just a big brother's need to outdo.

He didn't play fair. He started with a line of whipped cream down the exposed slope of her collarbone, then bent to trace it with his tongue, eyes up and smoldering the whole time.

Velvet gasped, but didn't flinch, her hands gripping his arms as though she needed an anchor.

He made a show of licking the last dot of cream from her clavicle, then pressed his mouth to hers, hard and unapologetic—a counterpoint to the way I'd kissed her, but no less honest for it.

When he pulled away, the stunned silence was nearly comic.

"I'm giving him style points," Velvet said eventually, as if she hadn't just nearly combusted.

"Unfair advantage," I grumbled, but it was all for show. I knew what she was doing—making sure neither of us got too cocky, keeping the game alive.

The next fifteen minutes were a fever dream of flavors and textures.

Brown sugar traced along the inside of her wrist, cinnamon dusted over the curve of her hipbone, whipped cream in all the obvious places and some less so. We alternated, sometimes competing, sometimes collaborating, Velvet the ever-willing canvas for our edible experiments.

She moaned and giggled and, at one point, threatened to bite if we didn't stop teasing and get serious. I think it was the moment with the warm honey—Dante poured it with surgical precision, but I made her taste it from my mouth—that finally tipped her over the edge.

I watched the shift in her expression as she spoke those words, something vulnerable flickering beneath the desire. My brother and I had shared many things over the years, but this—this felt sacred in a way that made my chest tight.

"Love making," I state softly, my hand stilling against her thigh, grabbing her attention. "Is that something you want?"

She nodded, silver hair spilling across the blanket like moonlight.

"I've had enough of being used. I want to be cherished. Really experienced what love is like. Not in haste or secret, or an after thought. Just to be lost in the action of passion. Is that... is that something you two can deliver?"

Dante caught my eye over her shoulder, and I saw my own emotions reflected there—p rotectiveness, desire, and something deeper that we'd both been fighting since the moment we'd seen her at that airport.

"Velvet," I murmured, shifting to cradle her face in my hands. "We've been waiting forty-two years to cherish someone properly."

"Specifically you," Dante added, his voice rough with honesty. "We knew the moment you could tell us apart. No one else ever bothered to truly see us."

I leaned down, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing in that intoxicating scent of black orchids mixed with autumn spices. "Let us show you what you've been missing. What those cowards never gave you."

Her eyes fluttered closed, and I felt her body relax between us—not the unconscious surrender she'd been conditioned to, but conscious trust. Active choice.

"Please," she whispered.

I kissed her then, slow and deep, pouring decades of waiting into the connection. This wasn't the passionate claiming from the airport or the hungry kisses we'd shared earlier. This was reverent, a promise made with lips and tongue and careful hands.

Dante's fingers tangled with mine where they rested on her hip, our touch unified as we held her. When I pulled back to let her breathe, he was there, continuing the kiss with the same careful worship.

"Beautiful," I breathed against her throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck. "Do you know how beautiful you are? Not just physically—though God, Velvet, you're stunning—but your spirit. Your fire. The way you've survived everything and still chose to trust us."

She made a sound that might have been a sob if it wasn't wrapped in pleasure. Her hands found my hair, Dante's shoulder, holding us close like she was afraid we'd disappear.

"I'm here," I promised between kisses. "We're here. Not going anywhere."

The string lights cast golden shadows across her skin as we slowly, reverently removed her clothes. Each revealed inch was met with kisses, with murmured appreciation, with the kind of attention that had nothing to do with conquest and everything to do with devotion.

When my fingers found her center again, I moved with deliberate care, watching her face for every reaction. "Tell me what feels good," I urged. "This is about you."

"Everything," she gasped, arching into my touch. "Everything feels... God, I didn't know it could be like this."

"This is just the beginning," Dante promised, his mouth trailing along her collarbone. "We have all night. All our lives, if you'll let us."

I found a rhythm that had her gasping, her body moving with mine rather than despite it. This wasn't taking—this was giving, sharing, building something together. When she got close, I slowed, drawing it out, making sure she felt every second of pleasure.

"Damon," she whimpered, and my name on her lips was better than any symphony.

"I've got you," I promised, increasing the pressure just slightly. "Let go, Velvet. We'll catch you."

She came apart between us with a cry that echoed off the trees, her whole body shuddering as waves of pleasure rolled through her. We held her through it, murmuring praise and promises, our hands gentle as she floated back down.

"That was..." she started, then stopped, apparently unable to find words.

"Just the beginning," I reminded her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We meant what we said about having all night."

She laughed, the sound bright and free. "At this rate, you're going to kill me with kindness."