Page 91 of Seven Lost Summers
Do they share the same room, or do they each have their own?
Do they sleep together?
Not only passing out in the same bed after a long night. I’m talking about fucking. The kind of sex that strips you bare and leaves you vulnerable.
I’m not talking about lazy mornings tangled in sheets. Not only the brotherhood, the bond, the ease that comes with years of sharing the same space. But mouths on skin. Hands gripping hard. Theo pushing into Nate, or Nate taking him apart with nothing but his mouth and a fist in his hair. Perhaps they’ve never crossed that line, or they have and never speak about it.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
I bury my face in the pillow, trying to breathe through it, but the image is burned into my brain now… Theo’s hands gripping Nate’s hips, Nate whispering filth into his ear while one of them bites back a moan.
I squeeze my thighs together. Pull it together, Quinn. Get your shit straight. I’m supposed to be working with them, not fantasizing about them. Not craving what it would be to fall apart between them.
But fuck, I do. That kind of intimacy makes you want in.
I shove the covers aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my feet, jolting my sluggish body awake.
Coffee.
That’s the only thought cutting through the haze.
Someone’s already up. Maybe they’ve made a pot.
I stand, stretch the tension from my spine, and cross the room. My hand closes around the doorknob. A moment passes before I twist it open and step out.
The house is still, the only sound drifting from the kitchen. I step into the hallway, nerves simmering beneath my skin. My feet move on instinct, pulled forward by the sound, and soon I see him.
Theo.
He’s standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, the soft light from above catching every inch of him.
Broad chest, tight abs, every line of muscle flexing with the smallest movement. His back is strong, tapering down to a narrow waist.
His body isn’t only fit. It’s brutal. Built from pain and purpose.
The kind of physique you get when control over your body is the only thing left to hold onto while everything else falls apart.
Tattooed angel wings spread across his chest, massive and detailed, each feather etched with a precision that looks painful. They frame the words: Freedom. Hope. Loyalty.
That tattoo does something to me.
Not only because of how fucking good it looks on him, but because I understand the weight of it. Bianca wore those angel wings around her neck every single day. Now Theo carries the same wings on his skin, inked right over his heart.
My gaze dips lower, following the hard lines of his abs, the deep cut of muscle leading down to the sharp V that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. They hang low on his hips, offering only enough of a tease to make my stomach clench.
My eyes drop further and fuck me… there it is.
The thick outline of his cock strains against the fabric.
Even soft, he’s impressive—the kind of size that makes you ache before he’s ever touched you.
I should look away.
Instead, heat crawls up my spine, my pulse hammering in places that have no business waking up this early. Hunger spreads, sharp and steady. All I can think about is how much I want to run my hands over that ink, trace every curve of muscle, feel the weight of him under me, over me, inside me.
Nate might’ve been the guy who made girls weak in high school, but Theo… Theo could make a girl forget how to fucking breathe.
He grabs a mug and turns, setting it on the counter before nudging it toward one of the stools.
