The only sound accompanying the change from my wraparound dress into pajamas is the rustle of clothing. Rebel remains silent as he watches me, dark eyes hooded with a longing that’s palpable. I can taste it in the remnants of his kiss, see it in the pitched tent of his jeans, feel it when he leans back on the bed, the long length of his body screamingfuck me.
I slip into the bathroom instead of climbing into his lap and dry humping him into oblivion. I resist, because I can’t give in to these men. Little things like tolerating their break-ins and tantrums, sure, I can handle that. But seeking out the warmth of their bodies? The sting of their touch?
My nipples harden to sharp peaks as a shiver rolls down my spine. I’m still strung out from Rage’s advances earlier in theday—always wetnow, it seems—and I go through the motions of my nighttime routine to try and break out of it. I remove my makeup, scrub my face, brush my hair and teeth, check my cuticles, hop into the shower, whatever I can do to delay walking back into the bedroom.
I know what’s waiting for me, and it’s averybad idea.
Everything about these brothers screamsbad fucking idea.
By the time I finally muster up the courage to face Rebel, he’s no longer in the bedroom. Darkness has fallen outside, which means that much like the last rays of sunlight, he’s gone, off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. He’s left the two bedside lamps on and a crudely-made sandwich on a plate.
A smarter woman would have reservations, a fear of poison or drugs or hidden razor blades, and throw the sandwich away, but I don’t. I devour it in two minutes flat, grateful that he sliced a fresh tomato and added pepper jack cheese. It’s not gourmet, andGod, my mother would lose her shit if she knew I was eating not just a cold-cut sandwich, but a sandwichin bed, but this is what my life has become.
I’m no longer cooking elaborate meals every night. Instead, I’m letting a stranger feed me scraps from the fridge.
Exhaustion creeps in far too quickly. I’ve got orders to place and clients to contact and groceries to buy, but I slip into a light sleep easily, like my body is ready for something my mind is not. It’s in these half moments, the ones where I’m sort of in my body but sort of not, that are the most dangerous.
It’s whenhearrives.
The third brother, his face and body covered in little more than black leather, always appears in my doorway as a shadow. At first, I think he’s just that: a trick of the light. A figment of my imagination. Nothing to worry about.
Except then he moves.
If death has a personification, I imagine that it’s Ruin. Moving through the shadows like ink, slowly bleeding from one to the next, so gentle that everything still feels like a dream. Yet, your body begins to react. It knows that something is near—something potentially dangerous—but the way he moves is breathtakingly beautiful, languid, graceful, soothing… how can something so magnificent be anything other thanwelcome?
He stands at the foot of my bed, staring.
This is how the night always begins.
Slowly, he reaches out a leather gloved hand, lifting the sheets to expose my feet, my legs. He starts there, brushing his fingertips against the tips of my toes, the arch of my foot, gliding gently across my body with a lover’s touch. It’s only when he reaches my calves that he hooks around them, palming my muscles, rubbing now, soothing the aches of the day away. My eyes flutter—open, closed, doesn’t matter—because now I can feel him. Now, I know that this isn’t a dream, that he’s here with me.
Inside my bedroom. Inside my mind.
His breathing is steady until he bends my knees, lifting them higher on the mattress, his movements louder, his touch persistent. If I spread my legs to quicken things along, he freezes in place.
Only when I settle back into the sheets does he continue. He likes me pliant, but not willing. Clothed, but not covered. Trapped, but not chained.
He works the blankets up over my waist, pinning me with their weight on my torso and his hands on either side. Breathing heavy, he exhales harsh against the black mask covering his entire face.Staring.
“Were you good girl today,krosotka?” His Russian accent is thicker than his brothers’ and always present. “Or did you let them touch you?”
I bite my lip as he runs a gloved palm up my inner thigh, spreading my legs wider, making room for him. He already knows the answer: I couldn’t stop Rage from touching me if I tried, and Rebel keeps his kisses above-the-waist. Each man’s touch is different, and Ruin is no exception. Our eyes lock through the slits in his mask, the sight of their irises—not quite black like his brothers’, but a deep ocean blue—becoming as achingly familiar as his touch. Featherlight, then not. Imaginary, then real.
Ruin pushes up my nightgown and shoves it beneath the wad of blankets across my waist. He drags his palm over my stomach, leaving sparks in its wake. I drag in a deep breath and try to stay still as he inches closer to where I want him most. His hand hovers over my mound, fingers twitching, before pulling back and reaching into his pocket. The ache between my thighs sharpens as reveals a switchblade and flicks it open with a snap of his wrist. I can’t see Ruin’s face, but I picture it all the same, blending his brothers’ features to come up with my best guess. Does he bite his bottom lip as he slices through my panties? Is there a divot between his brows as he concentrates on the task? Or are his lips parted in silent rapture as he pulls the fabric away to bare my body to him?
His voice crackles when he speaks, each word sharp as a knife’s edge. “Show me.”
My face flames as I wriggle my arms down the sides of my body, reaching for the place between us. He keeps his palms pressed tight to my knees, pinning them in an awkward angle that dips them into the mattress while lifting my hips closer toward him. I squirm to free my right hand from the blankets, and the first punch of cool air hits hard. My hand shakes as I brush over my swollen clit, the needy ache burrowed deep inside me sparking at first touch. It’s the ache that Rage planted this morning, embers of his touch seared into the deepest parts ofme. The same one that Rebel unknowingly tended, the long lines of his body and soft licks of his tongue fanning the flames.
Under a moonlit sky, it’s Ruin’s turn to crack me open and draw my desire out, to make me feel the weight of my body’s betrayal and the force of its release. He’s the one who shatters my resolve, bending me to his will with simple commands and promises of pleasure.
Ruin exhales harshly as he dips lower, applying more pressure to my knees as he leans in for a closer look. “Keep going.”
Biting my lip, I dip my fingers between my folds, knowing that he’s watching them slip inside, seeing my desire coat my fingers as I push and pull, teasing him as much as I’m teasing myself. Tension coils tight inside my abdomen as I pull them out and twirl the pads of my fingers over my clit. It’s not the same bruising intensity of Rage’s touch, but it doesn’t have to be. My toes curl, my breath catching in my throat. Heat blooms deep inside my body, and I catch myself moaning as I swipe across my bundle of nerves, faster, harder, needing the release. Knowing it’s close—that Ruin needs it, too, needs to see it. Feel it. Experience the crash with me.
His weight shifts on the bed and suddenly it’s not just my hand between my thighs, but his, too, his palm cupping mine as he crawls on top of me. Normal men might grind their dicks against my pussy, but not Ruin—he pushes the heel of my hand into my clit and shoves my fingers inside my heat, the feel of warm leather against my skin making my moans deeper, louder, frantic as his fingers join my own. I can’t tell which are mine and which are his, but there areso manynow, the wet suction drawing them all in. He leans on his forearm beside my head, the feel of his hot breath lost behind his mask, but I canhearit—the heavy panting, the way he growls as my hips buck up into ourhands, the tortured sound catching in his throat as he comes in his pants before I’ve even toppled over the edge.
But these moments are never about his pleasure, they’re about mine. How many times can I come in an hour? How loud can I moan, and at what pitch? Which are better—the breathless, high-pitched whines or the deep, long moans that reverberate around my ribs?