Page 63 of Pack Me Up
“Let us help,” he says, and I hear the command in it, but also a plea.
I nod. It’s all I can do.
Saint enters, then guides me back to lying on the bed, then kneels in front of me, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at me like he’s desperate for me. “You need us.”
My face burns, my body trembles, but I nod again.
Saint gestures to the others, and the choreography is perfect: Fox moves in first, sitting on the bed beside me, hands warm and dry as he presses the water bottle to my lips.
“Small sips,” he murmurs. “You’re burning up.”
The twins sit on the floor, close enough to touch but not crowding each other. Colton drapes a blanket over my knees, then gives my ankle a reassuring squeeze. Cody’s eyes never leave my face, watchful but not predatory.
Hunter hovers near the window, fingers drumming the sill. Rain spatters against the glass, painting the room in shifting grey light. He closes the blackout blinds, leaving only the soft glow from my fairy lights as the only light.
Fox runs his hand, slow and sensually, down my neck to my pulse, then over my collarbone. He’s careful, always looking for signs that I might panic, but the only thing I feel is relief. He presses along my sternum, then stops above my heart.
“Still racing,” he says, then leans in, voice pitched low for just me. “We can help. You want that?”
The logic of my brain is gone; the answer is in my skin, my thighs, my everything. “Yes,” I gasp.
His hands move with practiced grace as he finds the tension in my shoulders, my arms, and even the knots in my calves. He works each one loose until I’m a trembling, puddled mess. Every time his fingers brush the edge of my breasts or the sensitive skin at my hip, I flinch, but not from fear but from wanting more.
Hunter is the next to approach. “Can I touch you, too?” he asks, and his voice is stripped of all bravado. He’s shy, if that’s possible for a man who radiates confidence from every pore.
I nod, and he slips onto the bed at my other side. His hands are less precise than Fox’s, but softer, more playful. He runs his palm over my bare knee, then up my thigh, stopping just before it gets indecent.
“You smell so fucking good,” he whispers, and the honesty in it sends a shock through my belly.
Saint watches, unmoving, but his eyes are molten. The twins whisper to each other in words I can’t catch, but their attention never leaves me. They’re holding back, waiting for the signal.
Fox slides his hand under the hem of my shirt, presses a slow circle just below my navel. “This is a pressure point,” he says, and with each rotation the cramps ease, replaced by a flood of warmth.
Hunter’s hand mirrors Fox’s on the opposite side, and suddenly I’m sandwiched in sensation, bodies bracketing mine, the room spinning in honeyed light.
“Saint wants to kiss you, songbird,” Fox whispers, and the invitation is a spell.
Saint moves closer, one hand on my ankle, the other brushing hair from my cheek. His scent is overwhelming, a blend of mahogany and leather, with a hint of pepper underneath. When he leans in, I part my lips without thinking.
The kiss is not gentle, but it isn’t painful, either. His mouth is hot and insistent, tongue darting against mine with hungry precision. The hand on my ankle slides up to my thigh, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp. But he never takes more than I give. He waits for me to pull him closer, and when I do, the kiss deepens, turns molten and bright and endless.
Hunter nuzzles my neck, teeth scraping the tender skin below my ear. “We’re going to take such good care of you,” he promises, voice dark and sweet. “All of us. You’ll never want for anything again.”
Fox kisses my forehead, then my jaw, then the hollow just above my collarbone. Each touch is grounding, a way to keep me tethered to the body I’m in. I want to thank him, but the words are gone, replaced by panting and sweating and more.
Saint finally pulls back, breathing hard, eyes burning. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say, and I mean it.
The twins are at my feet now. I look at them, and the intensity of their gaze is a dare.
“You can touch me, too,” I say, voice hoarse.
Colton moves first, his hand firm on my ankle, thumb stroking the inside in lazy circles. Cody mirrors him on the other side, and the symmetry of it is dizzying.
Hunter’s hand slips under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, then slides up to cup my breast. He’s gentle, but not shy anymore. The heat of his skin against mine is a relief, a balm, a challenge. He pinches my nipple, just hard enough to make me squirm, and then soothes it with his tongue.
Fox’s hand follows Hunter’s, but instead of squeezing or pinching, he uses just his fingertips, feather-light, tracing the edge of my ribs, the underside of my arm, the delicate hollow at my hip bone. I feel like I’m being mapped, claimed, and worshipped.
