Page 31 of Daddies on Ice
Jake’s fingers toy with the hem of my sweater, teasing the inch of skin at my waist.
No one rushes me.
No one hurries the pace.
They let the wanting stretch, slow and sweet, until I’m almost dizzy with it.
Carl’s mouth finds mine again, patient, and this time when he deepens the kiss I meet him with everything in me.
His beard scratches lightly, delicious, and he makes that low sound again.
Ash kisses the inside of my wrist, then my palm, like a vow. Jake nips gently at my jaw, then soothes with his tongue, smug and tender at once.
“Tell us what you want,” Ash says, his thumb stroking my pulse point.
“Everything,” I breathe, surprised at my own honesty.
“Good answer,” Jake whispers, laughter low against my throat.
They move like they’ve practiced—like they understand the choreography of care.
Carl holds me, solid.
Ash steadies me, hands patient and strong.
Jake coaxes me to laugh into kisses, to sink into the couch, to stop thinking.
Heat blooms low and heavy. My sweater slides up and cool air hits warm skin. Three sets of hands learn me like a favorite song.
I tilt back and Ash’s mouth follows the line of my throat, slow and devoted, each kiss a yes I feel down to my toes.
Jake’s palm maps the dip of my waist, the curve of my hip, the outside of my thigh; he squeezes once and I gasp, and his grin turns fierce and fond.
Carl kisses me like we have all the time in the world, and I clutch at his shoulders because something inside me starts to unravel.
When I arch, all three of them react—hands soothing, lips gentling, breath warm at my ear.
“We’ve got you,” Ash says.
“We’ve got you,” Carl echoes, his voice a rumble against my mouth.
“We’ve got you,” Jake teases, softer than I’ve ever heard him.
I wake with my heart sprinting and heat blooming under my skin like I’ve been running.
The room is dark. The apartment is quiet.
My name still seems to hang in the air, threaded with a laugh, a vow, and a growled “Trisha” that makes my pulse misbehave.
I press a palm to my mouth and try to breathe. It’s only a dream.
“Oh my god,” I whisper to the ceiling. “Get a grip.”
My phone says 4:17 a.m. I’m up in forty-three minutes anyway. Fine. Shower it is.
An hour later, I’m showered and dressed, and the girls have had breakfast and I’m checking suitcases.
I open the front door to grab any forgotten mail before we go and nearly trip over a bouquet of roses sitting there.
