Page 9 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

He nods, like he expected that answer. “Me neither.”

We sit, the only two people awake in a world that’s frozen solid. He pours the last of the cider, slides the mug to me, and this time our fingers linger.

“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.

“Anytime,” he answers, and I know he means that too.

The next interruption is inevitable. The kitchen door thumps open, letting in a scythe of hallway light and a swirl of frigid air.

Beau walks in like he’s headlining, bare feet slapping tile, sweatpants hitched so low on his hips I briefly forget how language works.

He sees us—me and Finn, hunched close over the mug—and gives a wicked grin.

“Are you two running a speakeasy?” he asks, eyeing the stove. “Or is this the world’s saddest after-party?”

Finn leans back, spine straightening. The brief warmth between us evaporates, replaced with something more cautious, defensive.

I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes avoid mine now.

I feel it too, a flush of disappointment, then the rush of adrenaline that always comes with Kingston in the room.

I slide off the barstool, holding the tea mug like a shield. “If you wanted a nightcap, you should’ve come sooner. Finn’s got the last of the cider.”

Beau ignores that and goes straight for the fridge, rummaging until he finds a carton of orange juice.

He drinks from the spout, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks at us with theatrical innocence.

“Generator’s toast,” he says. “Ryland’s threatening to sleep in the equipment closet until sunrise.

We’re supposed to keep the water running or the pipes freeze and kill us all.

Who’s got the over/under on survival odds? ”

Finn just shrugs, but I can see his lips fighting a smile.

Beau puts the juice back, then leans against the counter, arms folded, and gives me a once-over. “You always look this cute at four a.m., Moretti? Or is it just the socks?”

I glance down. My socks are mismatched, one purple stripe and one Storm blue. They look ridiculous, but I’m not too bothered. “You have a thing for socks, Kingston?”

“Only when someone wears them better than I do.” He’s pure swagger, but the edges are soft tonight—maybe the dark, maybe the hour, maybe the way Finn still holds himself between me and the world like it’s instinct.

Before I can fire back, there’s a new sound in the hall, heavy steps, no rush, just a steady advance.

Grey McTavish appears in the doorway, filling the frame.

He’s in a T-shirt and flannel pants, both too tight for decency, and his hair is damp, plastered to his forehead like he walked through the storm instead of just sleeping through it.

He doesn’t speak. Just surveys the room, scans each of us in turn, and takes up position by the coffee maker.

He starts it, not looking at anyone, but his presence bends the room’s gravity. For a few seconds, nobody talks. The machine coughs to life, the only noise in a kitchen suddenly too small for four people with this much history and heat.

Beau breaks the silence first. “McTavish, you ever actually sleep?”

Grey grunts, the sound somewhere between “no” and “fuck off.”

Finn snorts, and I catch his eye. There’s something conspiratorial in the look, like we’re the only sane ones left at the world’s weirdest slumber party.

Beau, not content to let the silence win, jumps onto the stool next to mine, the wood creaking under his weight. He leans in, voice low. “Seriously, Sage. What’s the protocol for hypothermia? Asking for a friend.”

“You lose fine motor control, then you get weird and impulsive. Next is confusion and risky decisions,” I reply, ticking the list off on my fingers.

Beau grins, teeth bright in the half light. “So basically a normal night out, then.”

Grey pours his coffee, and when he turns, I swear the whole room tilts. He doesn’t look at Beau. He looks at me, eyes flat but intent. “So,” he asks, his voice dark and hoarse. “No heat in your rooms?”

I nod, pulse picking up. “I can’t feel my fingers. I’m one degree from sleeping in the supply closet.”

Grey sets his mug down with a soft thunk. “You should move to the bunk room. Stay together. Safer.”

Beau waggles his eyebrows. “Safety in numbers, huh? That’s your pitch?”

Grey just stares at him until Beau laughs, then relents. “Fine. Sage can crash with us. I’ll bring the marshmallows and scary stories.”

Finn doesn’t say anything, but the muscle in his jaw twitches.

I sip my tea, watching them over the rim. Four people, four types of hunger. Nobody here is just killing time.

There’s so much more that I want to do, and it wouldn’t be safe to do any of it here.

Risks be gone, maybe the little alcohol I’ve had has gone to my head, or maybe I’m tired of never doing what I want to.

“I’m heading out,” I say, standing and setting my mug in the sink. “Got to get back to my room.”

Finn’s voice follows almost immediately. “I’ll walk you.” Beau and Grey flank him and stare at me.

I don’t argue.

The hallway is narrow and empty, lit only by dim emergency strips along the baseboards. My door is at the end of the hall. I pause with my hand on the knob. “You coming in?”

It isn’t really a question. I step inside and they follow.

Beau closes the door and shifts, turning his full attention on me.

“Ever done a real winter lockdown?” he asks.

“We did it once in the minors—lost power, nothing to do but drink, play cards, and…” he trails off, eyes flicking to my lips, then back up.

“And?” I prod, like I don’t know exactly where this is going.

“And get creative with what you got.” He’s close enough now that I can smell the juice and the heat from his skin. His hand drifts toward me, not quite touching.

I feel Finn move, the lightest shift, and suddenly his hand is at my lower back. Not possessive, just there, grounding. A question and an answer, all in one.

Beau clocks it but doesn’t back off. He just smiles wider, a dare in every line of his body.

Grey stands silent, watching the three of us with that velvet, sin-dipped, warm calm. He finally speaks, voice so quiet it barely cuts the air. “If you’re cold, I can help.”

I meet his gaze. There’s nothing suggestive in his tone, but everything is in his eyes.

I look at Beau, then Finn, then back to Grey. It’s like standing at the edge of a frozen lake—one step, and there’s no going back.

“We’re all adults,” I say, steady as I can. “But if anyone tries to spoon me, I’m charging by the hour.”

Finn huffs a laugh, but his hand stays where it is. Beau just smirks, not even pretending to take it slow. Grey’s eyes never leave mine, and for a moment, it feels like this—whatever this is—could burn straight through the storm.

Outside, the wind screams, the windows rattling with it. Inside, we’re four bodies in a bubble of heat and want, every boundary melting.

The lines are blurred. The rules are gone.

The only thing left is what comes next.