Page 67 of Theirs to Hunt

Grayson's shirt is gone. Brooks', too. Bare chests. Warm hands. My eyes don't know where to look. Grayson is sleek and lethal, with a swimmer's build. Brooks is broader. Cut. All muscle but so thick. How am I supposed to look at one over the other? They're both beautiful. Grayson has a few faded scars I want to explore, but I'm distracted when Brooks lifts the hem of one of Grayson's old Navy T-shirts. It's navy blue, the emblem faded, and he helps me into it. My arms slide through the sleeves.

Grayson catches my hands, pressing a kiss to each knuckle some old-world prince.

"Bed," Brooks says quietly. His voice is gentle but authoritative, a word I've almost always reserved for Grayson.

They lead me to the big bed. Sheets turned down. Pillows fluffed. One of them must have done this before we left. I curl up in the middle, legs tucked beneath me, and watch as they settle beside me.

Grayson to my left.

Brooks to my right.

Their bodies frame mine without boxing me in.

Grayson strokes the side of my neck with the back of his fingers. Brooks pushes a strand of hair off my cheek and looks at me like he can see straight through to the part of me that still doesn't believe any of this is real.

"We don't have to do anything tonight," Grayson says, voice low and slow. "We just want to show you what it feels to be wanted. Cared for. Together."

My breath hitches. My legs shift.

Brooks' hand slides under the edge of the shirt, resting on my thigh. Resting, waiting.

"I want that," I whisper. "I want you both." Permission.

That's all it takes.

Grayson leans in first, his mouth trailing a slow line down my throat. Brooks mirrors the touch, lips brushing just beneath my ear. The other side. I'm the tether between them, and they pull me tighter. Centered and stretched in the best way. Hands move slowly. One on my inner thigh. The other at my waist. Their murmurs flow over me. Their little nicknames. Checking in as their fingers meet between my thighs. One finger, then another. I don't know whose are whose, but I trust them. They move with practiced patience, their rhythms syncing. I arch into their touch, heat blooming low and thick.

"Just let go," Grayson says against my temple.

"You're safe," Brooks breathes at my collarbone.

When the orgasm rolls through me, it isn't sharp or wild. It's molten. Quiet. The slow drag of a tide pulling me under.

I cry out, muted and breathless, and both of them hold me steady.

They don't move away when it's over. They tuck me in between them. My face against Grayson's chest. My back curved into Brooks' warmth. I'm held on both sides. Surrounded and filled with something I don't have a name for yet. Grayson's hand strokes my hair. Brooks' arm drapes over my waist.

"Good night, little fawn," Grayson whispers.

"Night, Bambi," Brooks murmurs.

I smile, already half-asleep.

"Good night," I whisper back.

Chapter fifty-six

Brooks, Saturday 09:25 p.m.

She's quiet in the backseat, head resting against the window, legs folded up she's trying to stay small. But I know better now. Reagan's never small. Even when she's silent, she's still the loudest presence in the room. Or the car.

Grayson's hand hasn't moved from her thigh since we left the restaurant. Resting there, fingers curved, thumb rubbing slow arcs. She hasn't pushed him away. She won't. Not anymore.

I park in the drive and kill the engine. Grayson leans over to open her door, but I'm already there. She blinks at me I surprised her, then slides her hand into mine.

I don't say anything. I just hold her steady while she climbs out. She doesn't need a speech. She needs contact.

Inside, the house is warm and low-lit.