Page 51

Late morning finds me on the back deck, flowing through sun salutations while the guys work out like a damn action movie montage. The contrast would be comical if it weren’t so perfectly them—me in my quiet yoga flow, slow and deliberate… while Hank counts push-ups at full volume, deliberately trying to mess with Gabe’s rhythm as he grinds through his pull-ups.

“Thirty-seven!” Hank grunts, arms flexing, back muscles rippling with each smooth descent.

I have an excellent view from my downward dog—and take full advantage.

Gabe’s hanging from the pull-up bar, sweat slicking his back, every muscle cut and defined, moving with lethal grace. “Nineteen—no, twenty—damn it, Hank!”

Hank’s smug grin flashes. “What? Not my fault you can’t count and lift at the same time. Thirty-eight!”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Gabe mutters, his grip tightening as he powers through another pull-up, veins standing out along his forearms .

“Have you seen your ass in those shorts?” I offer, stretching deeper into my pose. “It’s a distraction hazard.”

“Sweetheart, I am the hazard.” Gabe huffs, but his mouth curves into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Forty!” Hank announces, skipping a number on purpose, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“That was thirty-nine,” Gabe drops from the bar, shaking his head. “Anyway, I lost count at twenty-three.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.” Hank springs to his feet in one fluid motion.

The switch from banter to brotherhood is seamless—their rhythm is as steady as my breathing. I move into warrior pose, letting their presence wrap around me like sunlight.

Warm. Solid. Steady.

They move around each other with the ease of men who’ve shared foxholes, firefights, and women—passing water bottles, trading good-natured insults, and filling the morning air with their comfortable dynamic.

I sink deeper into my pose, hiding my smile against my knee. Their playful competitiveness is the soundtrack to my day; these two men somehow fit together as seamlessly as they fit with me.

“You’re disrupting her zen,” Gabe complains when Hank hums “Eye of the Tiger.”

“She’s smiling, isn’t she?” Hank shoots back, and he’s right.

I am.

Helplessly so.

Gabe narrows his eyes, muscles coiled with predatory intent. He lunges forward, taking a playful swing that Hank dodges.

They’re grappling on the deck in seconds, a tangle of limbs and testosterone. Hank hooks an ankle behind Gabe’s knee, attempting to throw him off balance, but Gabe counters with a move that sends them both rolling dangerously close to where I’m trying to maintain my warrior pose.

“Seriously, guys?” I try to sound stern but can’t keep the laughter from my voice as I sidestep their wrestling match.

Neither responds, too caught up in their mock battle. Gabe gets Hank in a loose headlock, but Hank twists out of it, flipping their positions with a grunt of effort. The deck vibrates beneath my feet with their wrestling.

“ Namaste ,” I mutter sarcastically, closing my eyes and attempting to find my center despite the chaos unfolding three feet away.

The sounds of their struggle—huffed breaths, muffled curses, and barely contained laughter—create a strange counterpoint to my controlled breathing.

I open one eye to see Hank pin Gabe briefly before Gabe reverses their positions, both of them grinning like schoolboys despite the deadly skills their bodies possess.

I sink into my final pose, somehow finding calm in the eye of their storm. With their lethal training, these dangerous men wrestle like puppies while I find my zen.

It shouldn’t work, this unlikely trio we’ve become, but somehow, it does.

Lunch is simple—sandwiches, fruit, and what Gabe now calls “compulsory blowies ” because apparently, protein is important.

We find excuses to touch all afternoon—Hank brushing past to grab the pepper when it’s nowhere near me, Gabe reaching for a glass I don’t need help with.

The afternoon dissolves into one of our marathon movie sessions.

I’m sprawled across both of them on the couch, my head in Gabe’s lap while my feet rest in Hank’s. We’re supposedly watching Die Hard—Hank’s choice—but no one’s paying attention. There’s too much lazy touching, too much warmth.

Too much fucking.

I take that back.

There can never be enough fucking when it comes to Hank and Gabe.

“Aren’t we way better than your father’s security detail?” Hank refers to a rather vigorous session in which he had me bent over the couch less than an hour ago. His thumb traces circles on my ankle. “They never provided this level of intimate protection.”

Gabe snorts. “You’re terrible. ”

“He’s not wrong, though.” I stretch slowly, deliberately—arms overhead, arching just enough to tease, to provoke. Both men freeze, watching every movement like predators locked on their prey.

Gabe’s lap is solid beneath me, one arm locked around my waist. Hank’s thumb drags in slow circles across my ankle, eyes burning with something dangerous.

“Pretty sure none of my father’s guards ever tied me up.” I glance between them, my voice dipping low. “I mean… what would they have done with a helpless woman in ropes?”

Gabe’s grip tightens instantly, his free hand sliding up my spine, anchoring me against him. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”

“I’m not playing,” I murmur, my pulse pounding. “And I’m not asking. I’m begging .”

Hank moves first—shifting my legs from his lap, rising in one smooth motion. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so I’m forced to meet his gaze.

“Up,” he orders. “Now.”

Gabe lets me go, but not without a possessive squeeze at my waist. I stand, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and heat.

Hank steps in close, his voice low, lethal. “Go to Gabe’s playroom. Wait for us there.”

My heart pounds.

“And Ally…” His fingers brush my cheek, deceptively gentle. “Tonight, you’ll call me Sir .”

Heat floods my veins. I nod, breathless. “Yes, Sir.”

Gabe rises behind me, eyes dark and full of promise. “Run, sweetheart. Before we make you crawl.”

I don’t hesitate.

This time, what happens in Gabe’s playroom isn’t fire and fury.

There’s no sting of the crop or whip, no sharp crack of leather meeting skin. This time, it’s Hank’s domain—the ropes, the knots, the art of restraint.

It’s Shibari time: a blur of silk rope, whispered commands, and the intoxicating weight of surrender.

Hank’s hands are steady, sure—methodical. Every knot, every loop of rope is laid with purpose; his brow furrowed in concentration as he binds me, not with brute strength, but with precision. There’s a reverence to it, a quiet intensity that pulls me deeper into the moment with each pass of rope over my skin.

It’s erotic in a way that still surprises me—sensual, intimate, the heat building not from pain but from anticipation. From the tension of the rope. From the way his fingers brush, glide, and adjust.

And Gabe—usually the storm—is calm now, grounding me with his touch, his presence. He hands Hank coils of rope as needed, helps position me, and lifts and supports me as Hank works. His eyes burn, but he holds back his intensity, respecting this as Hank’s scene, as my surrender to Hank’s control. He’s the anchor as I’m slowly suspended, lifted one knot at a time into the air.

The world shifts—my body is no longer my own, strung up like art, bound tight and helpless.

As Hank secures the final knot, my body is fully suspended, an intricate web of silk rope cradling and supporting me.

Rendering me helpless and open.

The playroom is quiet, the air thick with anticipation, and the scent of rope and desire permeates every breath.

Hank steps back, his eyes roving over his handiwork, a look of satisfaction and hunger on his face. This is his domain, his art, and I am his canvas. He circles me, his fingers trailing over the rope, adjusting and checking the tension, his touch clinical yet intimate.

Gabe stands to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes burning with lust as he watches. He respects Hank’s scene and Hank’s control, but his desire is palpable, his cock already hard and straining against his jeans.

Hank moves closer, his hands sliding over my skin, his touch shifting from methodical to sensual. He cups my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, drawing a gasp from deep within me. His eyes meet mine, his gaze intense and focused.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, threaded with dark desire. “Bound. Helpless. Mine.”

Hank steps back, eyes tracing over every knot, every line of rope stretched tight across my skin. His expression shifts—appreciation, possession, a flicker of pride in the art he’s created. He doesn’t rush.

He never does.

Slowly, deliberately, he undresses.

His shirt comes off first, dragged over his head with unhurried precision. Muscles ripple beneath golden skin, the low light catching on the defined lines of his chest, the cut of his abs. He folds the shirt, setting it aside, calm and collected. Then, his fingers move to his belt, unfastening it with the same quiet intensity, his gaze never leaving mine.

My breath catches—not just from the suspension, but from the weight of his attention, the way he consumes me with his eyes alone.

He peels off the rest, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left between us but the rope and the tension.

Hank moves behind me, hands trailing down my thighs, gripping my hips to position me just so. His fingers skim the ropes where they bite into my skin, checking tension, adjusting slightly—perfecting his masterpiece.

And I can feel it—him—the heat of his body, the hard line of his cock pressing against me, eager, unyielding. But still, he waits.

Savoring every heartbeat.

Every breath.

His control is absolute.

His need, contained.

His desire is undeniable.

Suspended, bound, and utterly his, I can do nothing but tremble—and wait.

He takes his time slowly pushing into me, inch by inch, filling me completely. I moan, my body arching into his touch, the rope creaking as it holds me in place. The way I’m bound, there’s nothing I can do to move. I rely solely upon Hank.

His thrusts are measured and precise, his focus unyielding. He fucks me with a controlled intensity, his hands never leaving my hips, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s different from Gabe’s wild, passionate storm—this is a slow burn, a steady build, a testament to Hank’s unwavering control.

Gabe watches, his breath ragged, his eyes never leaving the sight of Hank moving in and out of me. He palms his cock through his jeans, his restraint visible in the tense set of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw.

Hank leans forward, his body pressing against mine, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You feel so good, luv,” he murmurs, his voice strained with effort. “So tight, so warm. You’re perfect.”

He straightens, his grip on my hips tightening, his thrusts becoming harder, more insistent. The rope digs into my skin, the sensation heightening my arousal. The bite of pain mixes with pleasure until I’m a writhing, moaning mess.

Hank groans, his body tensing as he finds his release, his cock pulsing inside me. He holds me close, his breath hot and ragged against my shoulder, his heart pounding against my back.

As Hank steps away, Gabe moves in, his eyes locked onto mine, a dark promise in their depths.

“My turn,” he growls, his voice rough with desire. He unbuttons his jeans, his cock springing free, hard, and ready.

He doesn’t make me wait—doesn’t give me time to brace. One deep, unrelenting thrust, and he’s inside me, stealing the breath from my lungs. A groan rumbles from his chest, feral and raw, vibrating through the ropes that hold me suspended.

His hands grip the silk bindings above, not to steady himself—but to control the motion. He doesn’t thrust. He moves me.

My body moves with the rhythm he sets—rocking forward, back, forward again—each arc driving me onto his cock with a force that makes the ropes creak and my breath hitch. It’s not just penetration—it’s propulsion.

Gravity.

Momentum.

His strength turning my restraint into power.

He watches me writhe, breath coming hard, muscles shaking, the cords biting into my skin just enough to anchor me to this moment. To him.

To the brutal beauty of surrender .

The room fills with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the creak of the rope, and the raw, primal sounds of our pleasure. Hank watches, his eyes hooded, his cock already stirring again as he sees me take Gabe, sees the rope bite into my skin, sees the ecstasy on my face.

Gabe’s eyes never leave mine, his gaze intense, his love and desire burning bright. He leans in, his lips capturing mine in a brutal, passionate kiss, swallowing my cries as he drives into me again and again.

As Gabe finds his release, his body shuddering against mine, he presses a fierce kiss to my lips before stepping back, chest heaving.

Hank steps in—no hesitation, no delay—his eyes molten with hunger as he sizes up the scene. He adjusts the ropes, lowering me slightly and tilting my hips just so. Suspended and weightless, I’m nothing but a plaything in their hands.

Hank grips the ropes, not my body, and uses them to swing me forward—lining me up perfectly with Gabe’s cock. My mouth hovers inches from his growing erection.

“Open your mouth, luv,” Hank growls, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze. His hands never touch me directly—only the ropes, only the control.

I obey, lips parting as Gabe steps in, his cock already thickening beneath my gaze. He groans as he slides between my lips, his hands fisting in the ropes just above my head, steadying himself.

Then Hank pulls me back.

My body jerks in the harness, swinging away from Gabe and slamming down onto Hank’s cock, buried deep. Back and forth.

Hank controls the rhythm, pulling the ropes with deadly precision—driving me onto him, then forward, mouth re-filling with Gabe.

It’s not just sex—it’s orchestrated perfection, a rhythm of bodies and rope, and raw, unrelenting desire. I am nothing but sensation swinging between them, claimed from both ends.

Gabe’s hands tangle in my hair, his grip tightening as he begins to move, his hips fucking my mouth in tandem with Hank’s thrusts. Their rhythm is synchronized, their control absolute, and I’m lost in the pleasure of being taken and loved by them both.

Hank’s voice is rough, his breath ragged as he watches me take Gabe deep, watching his cock disappear into my mouth.

“That’s it, luv.” His thrusts become harder, more insistent. “Take him deep. Take us both.”

The room fills with the raw, primal sounds of our pleasure, the wet sounds of sucking and fucking, the low groans and gasps of exertion. I’m suspended between them, reveling in the pure, unadulterated pleasure of it all.

Gabe’s body tenses, his cock throbbing in my mouth as he finds his release. My body convulses with my orgasm as Hank drives into me, his pace relentless, his control unbreaking. Ripples of pleasure skate along my nerves.

As Gabe pulls away, Hank’s grip on my hips tightens, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. He’s chasing his own release now, his body tense, his breath ragged. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside me, his cock pulsing as he comes, filling me with his heat.

As they lower me down, their hands are gentle, their touch tender and reverent.

“You did so well, luv. So fucking well.” Hank presses a soft kiss to my forehead, his eyes filled with love and pride.

Gabe cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, his eyes filled with warmth and adoration. “You’re incredible, sweetheart,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “Absolutely incredible.”

Later, wrapped in one of Gabe’s oversized shirts, my skin still marked by the ropes and their touch, I watch them move through the house, doing their usual security check—silent, focused, a rhythm of protection neither of them seems capable of breaking.

Some habits never die.