Page 66 of Theirs to Hunt
And I realize maybe I don’t have to choose between being wanted and being safe. Here, with them, I get both.
Grayson bends to my neck, jaw grazing my skin. His breath is hot, slow, calculated.
Brooks shifts closer, hands sliding higher, silk bunching until there’s nothing left to hide behind.
Grayson slips his hand beneath my knee, draping my legs wider, open across his thighs.
It should feel like exposure. Instead it feels like worship.
My breath catches. My back arches, hips tilting forward on instinct.
Grayson’s mouth drags along my throat while Brooks leans in at the other side, lips brushing my collarbone, hot and reverent.
“Mmmm, little fawn,” Grayson murmurs against my skin.
“What did you wear under this?” He doesn’t reach for the answer. Not yet. His question hangs there, thick with promise.
I swallow hard, head tipping back into his shoulder.
“Lace,” I whisper.
“Barely.” Brooks chuckles low. “That’s generous. Closer to air stitched together with bad intentions.”
Grayson huffs a sound that could be a laugh, could be hunger. His fingers brush the edge of my hip.
“And all for us?”
I nod, speechless, every nerve lit and listening.
“Good girl,” Brooks says, thumb circling my knee. “But we take our time. Let you learn what it means to be the center of everything.”
Grayson kisses just beneath my ear.
“Because you are, Reagan. You’re ours.”
And in the dim cellar, between vintage bottles and velvet shadows, I believe it.
Chapter fifty-five
Reagan, Saturday 09:20 p.m.
Ensconced in the back of the car, the only light comes from the flickering of passing streetlamps, lending a sense of intimacy heightened by the smooth jazz and low hum of tires that drifts in.
I'm warm from the wine, the food, the night, and the way Grayson's hand has barely left my thigh. Steady. It feels like we have been doing this for years.
Brooks parks, and before I can reach for the door handle, he's there, opening it, offering me his hand like I’m breakable and precious. I take it anyway. There's no teasing in his smile tonight. Only gentleness and the bonds of newly forming intimacy.
Inside, the house is dim and welcoming. I toe off my heels by the door and sway a little as I straighten.
Grayson is behind me instantly, his hand wrapping around my hip. "Easy, little fawn," he murmurs near my ear.
"I'm not drunk," I whisper.
"No," he agrees, brushing my hair over one shoulder.
"Just full. A little tipsy. Let us take care of you."
I don't resist when he slides the zipper of my dress down. The silk pools at my feet. I'm left in delicate lace underwear and nothing else. I should feel exposed, but I don't.
