Page 98 of Carnival Mayhem

We sit in comfortable silence, watching the crowd, sharing occasional touches and private smiles. There is no need to fill the space with words. We’ve moved past the uncertainty that used to plague us. Now, we just are.

Flora hums along to the music, perfectly content between us. Nash catches my eye, and I see my feelings reflected there—this bone-deep satisfaction, this sense of rightness, of home.

I pull Flora closer to the booth, unable to resist her any longer. My lips find hers, soft and tender, savoring the sweet taste of her cocktail. She melts into me, her fingers trailing up my chest as we share this gentle moment.

Nash watches us with dark eyes before claiming Flora’s mouth next. Where my kiss had been gentle, his is fire—passionate, all-consuming. Flora whimpers against his lips, and the sound stirs something primal in me.

When they break apart, Nash’s gaze locks with mine. I cup his jaw, drawing him to me in front of Flora. Our lips meet, and it’s different from kissing Flora—rougher, more demanding, but filled with just as much love. Nash sighs into my mouth, and I feel Flora’s hands on our chests, holding us together.

“My beautiful men,” she whispers, and I feel Nash smile against my lips.

We separate but stay close, foreheads touching as we catch our breath. Flora turns to press kisses along Nash’s jaw, then mine.

“Fuck, you two are my world,” Nash murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I never thought I’d have anything like this.”

“Me either,” I admit, threading my fingers through his hair while my other hand finds Flora’s. “But here we are.”

Flora nuzzles into my neck. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

I pull Nash and Flora closer, the club’s chaos fading into white noise. Flora’s fingers trace lazy patterns on my chest while Nash’s hand rests warm and solid on my thigh. The familiar scents of Flora’s vanilla perfume and Nash’s woodsy cologne blend and ground me in this perfect moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” I murmur against Flora’s hair. She nods, already sliding out of the booth.

Nash takes her hand while I wrap my arm around her waist, and we weave through the crowd toward the exit. The winter air hits us like a kiss, crisp and clean after the heated club atmosphere. Snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, catching in Flora’s golden hair and on Nash’s dark lashes.

Flora tilts her face to the sky, letting the snowflakes melt on her cheeks. Her pure joy radiates from her, making my chest ache. Nash watches her, too; his tender expression steals my breath.

“I love you both,” Flora whispers, her words creating little clouds in the cold air. “So much it terrifies me sometimes.”

Nash pulls her close, pressing his lips to her temple. “You’re ours, little bird. Always.”

I step behind her, boxing her between us as I kiss the nape of her neck. “No more fear. We’ve got you.”

The world narrows to just us three, standing in the gently falling snow. The distant thump of bass from the club, the occasional passing car, the sounds of the city fade away until I can only hear our synchronized breathing and the quiet crunch of snow beneath our feet.

Flora turns in our arms, rising to kiss Nash, then me, her lips warm despite the cold. Nash’s hand finds mine around her waist, our fingers interlocking. The simple touch sends electricity through my veins. When Nash’s dark eyes meet mine over Flora’s head, I see everything I feel reflected there.

This is what home feels like. Not a place, but these two people who complete me in ways I never knew I needed.

43

FLORA

Two months later…

Colt and Nash tear down the wall between their bedrooms while I sip coffee, leaning against the far wall. Dust fills the air, but neither notice as they work in sync. Nash’s muscles flex with each swing of the sledgehammer while Colt carefully removes debris, mindful of his now-healed shoulder.

“The delivery guys said they’ll be here by noon,” I call out, checking my phone.

The Alaskan king bed we ordered is massive—perfect for three people who can’t keep their hands off each other but want space when we’re sleeping. These past months sharing Colt’s regular king has been cozy but cramped. More than once, I’ve woken up practically hanging off the edge.

Nash pauses, wiping sweat from his brow. His shirt clings to his chest in all the right places. “I guess we didn’t need to start so early. This is going faster than expected.”

Colt stacks another piece of drywall against the wall. “Though I’ll miss having my own space sometimes.” He winks at me, and I know he’s teasing.

None of us have slept apart since Christmas.

The bedroom transformation represents something bigger—we’re creating a space designed for the three of us.

---