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)
“Yes.”
As he shudders, hips jerking in a final, deep thrust, I feel it—feel the warmth of him pouring into me, hot and thick, as Harrison’s cock kicks, and he groans, “Fuck, yeah,” and their releases mingle inside me. It’s overwhelming. Filthy. A claiming so beautiful and sacred that I’d struggle to put into words how they’ve made me feel.
I sob once, high and broken, shuddering with another climax that takes me by surprise. I collapse back, chest heaving.
And they’re all there.
Hands. Mouths. Fingers brushing back damp hair. Lips pressing against my cheeks, my collarbone, my thighs. Soft words. Praise. It feels like Love.
I’m undone.
I’m held.
I am theirs.
And none of them leave.
Lennon rubs my back, his voice low and steady. McCartney presses his forehead to mine. Harrison holds me like a man who’s made of patience, and Dylan strokes my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip like he wants to memorize the shape of it.
“We’re not leaving this barn until you’re too sore to walk,” Dylan says, voice low and rough.
I smile because I believe him.
I want that more than he could ever know.
35
McCARTNEY
Grace is a work of art. Not just her body, though God knows my eyes can’t stop tracing the soft curve of her waist, the slope of her thighs, and the dip at the base of her throat. But the way she moves, the way she lets go…
She’s colored by raw, open vulnerability and the trust she’s offering all four of us is staggering.
My fingers twitch with the need to sketch her and capture this moment, not because of how she looks, but because of what she is: a woman choosing to be with us, even for a moment; a muse breathing life into the parts of me I’ve let slip away.
Lennon is moving between her legs now, like a man who’s been starving and finally found a meal to sate hunger. His shoulders tense with everything he’s feeling but isn’t saying. Dylan’s caressing her, like she’s precious and breakable even though we all know she’s stronger than any of us. Harrison’s sucking on her perfect pink nipple, squeezing her soft flesh.
And me?
I lean down, press a slow kiss to her temple, letting my hand slide gently through her hair. She turns her face toward me and our eyes lock, as a soft, shared current passes between us. Her mouth parts and I kiss her there, tasting the heat of it, the want, and the promise. Her fingers curl around my wrist, anchoring me to her.
“Gracie.” I murmur, my voice low against her cheek. “Is this still okay?” Her hand grips my neck, tugging at the loose curls there, possessive, needy, and moaning against my lips. She’s taken us all twice, and I’m starting to worry that we’re going to hurt her with our passion.
“Yes,” she says, eyes rolling in pleasure. She’s fuck drunk, if that’s a thing. Her body is limp, her breaths coming in short sharp pants punctuated by moans that sound dazed and delirious.
I never imagined we’d find a woman who would want to fuck this much.
“That’s it,” Lennon says. “That’s it. Fuck, Grace. You feel so fucking good.”
Heat surges through me, as I palm my cock, teasing the slickness of my precum over the head.
Watching my little brother fuck Grace is hot, but knowing I’m next is enough to make me sweat.
There’s nothing more sacred to me than a woman feeling safe in her own skin, especially with four men around her and the weight of the world pressing in and choosing this moment anyway.
We don’t rush.
Dylan worships her like she’s as vital to him as oxygen. Harrison watches her with reverence I didn’t know he had in him. Lennon looks at her like he wants to make her the first and last entry on every one of his lists. And me? I take it all in. Her sighs, her flushed skin, the way she reaches for us with her hands and her heart.
She kisses me again, messy and breathless, and for a heartbeat, I forget that this wasn’t supposed to happen. That she’s meant to leave. Go back to her life in the city. Become that polished, professional woman who arrived on our doorstep, looking like she stepped out of a magazine.
In this barn, at this moment, she belongs.
Not because we touched her. Not because we made her come so hard she forgot her name. Not because she let us inside her, one after the other, and then again.
She belongs because she’s choosing this.
She’s choosing us.
She chose me, when her mouth crashed into mine like she needed the taste of my name to stay grounded. Her lips are swollen now, pink and open, her eyes glassy and soft. I brush my thumb over the corner of her mouth, catching a smudge of someone else’s desire. She doesn’t flinch or shy away from the mess of what we’ve made together.