Page 69 of Theirs to Hunt

My hand meets his between her thighs.

We don't need to speak. We already know how to move. We've been waiting for this chance, for years.

She arches into our hands, her breath catching on each soft sound she makes. Every time she moans, something in me sharpens and softens all at once.

"Just let go," Grayson tells her. His voice is right by her temple.

"You're safe," I whisper, kissing her collarbone.

When she comes, it's not loud. It's not dramatic. It's real. Her whole body trembles, her legs clenching, her fingers curling into the sheets. We hold her through it, steady and close, not letting go.

After, we don't leave her.

She folds into Grayson's chest and I slide in behind her, arm around her waist.

She's warm and spent and still glowing.

And mine. And his. And somehow, still completely her own.

Grayson whispers, "Good night, little fawn."

I press my lips to her hair and murmur, "'Night, Bambi." Her voice is faint, already drifting.

"Good night." And just that, she's asleep between us.

Chapter fifty-seven

Bobbie, Sunday 10:15 a.m.

I'm already seated by the time they walk in.

Muriel's is humming.

Jazz winds through the room, smooth and slow from the band near the front, champagne glasses clink, and the low murmur of locals and tourists blends into a soft, decadent buzz. From my seat, tucked against the wall of the table, I can see the Square through the old windows.

It should be the star of the morning. It's not.

Reagan walks in the heroine of her own why choose novel.

Hair brushed back in soft waves. That glow women only get after they've been thoroughly ruined in the best possible way. She's not trying to hide it either. Not today.

And the man prowling in behind her, hand at her lower back, all unreadable power stitched into every movement? Yeah. That's the one who did it. Grayson Calhoun sits beside her without needing to be told where.

Brooks, big golden lion of a man, takes the spot across from them next to Devon, who sat beside me we've been doing this for years.

Reagan's eyes catch mine across the table. There's a flicker of something. Hesitation, guilt maybe. Her smile is a little stiff.

"I didn't check in yesterday," she says softly.

Ah, so that's the guilt.

After everything she did, she thinks she's a bad friend because for once, she's reaching for something more. Honestly? It's wild and perfect that my something more is happening at the same time.

"Girl, please, I didn't get out of bed yesterday if you know what I mean."

"And you brought the reason you were in bed?" Her voice lowers, one brow rising toward Devon.

"Anonymous," I say with a small grin, reaching for my mimosa. "He has a name, you know. I even got a last one."