Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I fumble with his buttons, desperate to get us out of our wet clothes, but he stills me with one hand over mine.
“Let me take my time with you,” he says. “Been wantin’ this too long to rush.”
Then his hands are on my jeans, slow and sure, working them down while his mouth maps a trail over every inch of exposed skin. He’s reverent, like I’m a place he’s been homesick for, eyes filled with yearning and hands heartbreakingly gentle. When his tongue flicks below my belly button, I arch without meaning to, breath catching in my throat.
Behind him, I hear the rustle of movement as one of the others, maybe McCartney, lets out a slow exhale.
And I like it.
I like that they’re here. It doesn’t feel like an intrusion. They’re a safety net, not a cage, and for once, I don’t feel used or small or like I’m trying to mean more than I do.
I feel wanted, in a way that’s vast and quiet and terrifying.
Dylan leans up over me again, bracing himself on his forearms. He kisses me again, slower and deeper, down my throat, his breath hot against the skin, and his body heavy in the most perfect way. Every inch of contact is fire. I wrap my legs around his hips, drawing him closer, skin to skin. I feel him through his jeans—hard and restrained, holding himself back with a kind of trembling control that makes my breath hitch.
I want all of it. All of them.
“Let me undress you,” I whisper, dragging my fingers up the hard plane of his chest. He nods, and I help him unbutton his jeans and push the clinging fabric of his underwear over his hips. I gasp at the sight of his erection, the sheer length and girth overwhelming.
I don’t hear McCartney move until his fingers trace the line of my arm. I turn my head and find him kneeling beside me, eyes full of that dreamy light he carries like it’s stitched into his soul, his tattoo on full display.
All You Need Is Love. I wish I could believe that.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, lazy, lips brushing my wrist.
I nod, and he leans in to kiss me, lightly at first, coaxing, drawing a gasp from me as Dylan’s hand slides lower, cupping the heat between my thighs. I’m caught between two fires now. Two mouths and four hands make every breath come faster.
McCartney’s hand glides up my side, gently, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away if he’s too rough. His mouth trails kisses down the curve of my shoulder while Dylan finally, finally, slips his fingers beneath the lace of my panties.
The pressure of his touch makes my hips jerk. It’s too much, and not enough. McCartney’s hand finds my breast, his palm wide and warm, thumb circling slowly, teasing my nerve endings awake.
Behind them, Lennon moves closer. He stands at the foot of the blanket, looking down at me like I’m the center of his world. The sharpness of him, the deliberate, commanding edge, sends a shiver through me. He unbuttons his jeans slowly, watching my eyes the entire time.
“I want to hear you,” he says softly. “I want to hear every sound you make when they touch you. Don’t hold back.”
His voice doesn’t ask. It tells. And I love it. I love him for that. I lift my hips into Dylan’s hand, and a broken, aching sound spills out of me as he slides one finger inside, curling it perfectly.
“Yes… oh fuck…”
“Jesus,” Lennon breathes. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He steps forward and cups the back of my knee, guiding my leg open wider. Then he leans in and kisses the inside of my thigh, once, then again, teeth dragging enough to make my breath catch. I’m on fire. I’m bare and burning, and every single one of them is watching me fall apart.
Then Harrison approaches.
He moves slowly, like he always does, silent and thoughtful, every step considered. He kneels near my head, brushing my hair back, searching for order and neatness even in this chaos.
“You good, Grace?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, Harrison,” I breathe, chest rising. “More than good.”
He nods, lips twitching like he wants to smile but doesn’t dare. Has he done this before? Shared a woman with his brothers? Or is this new to him? He kisses my forehead, my temple, my cheek, each one tender, and when his fingers lace through mine, I squeeze back, grounding myself there. In him. In them.
Dylan takes time to work inside me, stretching me so wide in a delicious violation that has me crying out his name. He moves slowly at first, and my whole body arches. McCartney presses kisses over my chest. Lennon’s mouth finds my nipple, sucking in slow but hard rhythmic pulls to match his brother’s thrusts. Harrison strokes my palm, his breath brushing my ear.