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)
Maybe it’s the fullness. Maybe the amount of stimulation pressed between the two of us. Maybe it’s the overwhelming sense of being claimed completely, all the eyes on her, the other men stroking their dicks at the sight of her nakedness. Maybe it’s the ultimate release of letting go of all her inhibitions, or maybe it’s my words and the nudge of my hips against her clit, but she does, and her whole body jerks and shakes as she climaxes, a hoarse scream tearing from her throat, her pussy clamping down so hard I lose control and Corbin stops moving.
“Fuck,” I choke, hips snapping forward as I spill deep inside her.
Corbin follows a heartbeat later, his mouth on her shoulder, groaning her name as he pumps her ass full.
We hold her gripped between us, panting, trembling, and completely undone.
Her body’s soft in our hands, pliant and warm, her skin slick with the sweat and heat of everything she’s taken tonight. Corbin’s arms are still wrapped around her chest, holding her up like she might float away if he let go. I’m still buried inside her, trying to remember how to breathe.
She looks up at me, then cups my cheek so tenderly I can’t meet her eyes anymore.
Something inside me shifts.
It’s more than the sex and the fact that we finally had her like we’ve all been aching to and claimed her as ours. It’s like she sees me. Really sees me.
I’ve been wanted before. Plenty of times. Mostly for the way I fill out a pair of jeans, or how I carry a calf across the yard like it weighs nothing. For what I can give people. What I can do. What they can take from me.
But this?
Grace is looking at me and touching me like I’m more than that, and I don’t know how to respond.
“You don’t have to run,” she whispers. “I see you.”
My eyes flick to hers, and my heart stutters at the warmth there.
I nod once, jaw tight, thickness sitting in my throat. I brush a hand over her cheek, my thumb catching on the damp corner of her mouth.
I don’t say anything.
I stay.
We all do.
And even with everything that’s happened and the scent of sex still thick in the air, it doesn’t feel like an ending.
It feels like the start of something I’ve never believed I was good enough to be part of.
41
GRACE
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and bacon. Someone’s humming near the stove.
I pad in barefoot, wearing the oversized T-shirt I accidentally stole from McCartney’s laundry pile. No one looks twice. The chaos that first overwhelmed me now feels... comforting. Familiar. Like slipping into a warm pool in the summer sunshine.
Corbin hands me coffee before I ask. Nash lifts a wiggling toddler off the table like it’s normal for there to be toddlers on tables.
“You okay?” Cody asks, towel over his shoulder, eyes soft but still sharp enough to undress me on the spot.
The memory of him inside me, of them all inside me, floods through me, filling me in a way I never thought possible. All my adult life, sex has been something that emptied me of hope, self-worth, and a belief in love. But what happened last night showed me it can be the opposite, too. These men filled me with their bodies and their releases, but with their hearts and dreams and a glimpse at a future I could never have believed would include me.
“Yeah.” I smile softly, my eyes a little glazed at the memories, and he touches my cheek tenderly and with understanding.
I sit down at the big, worn table. There’s a groove under my palm I didn’t notice before, like a scar in the wood. I look around at the chipped paint and the place where a picture has fallen from the wall, at the yellowing curtains hung by another woman a long time ago, and at the ancient stone floor, and realize something.
This place is scarred, too.
And somehow, that makes me love it more.
Yesterday felt like a dream: birthday candles in a cake they baked because it’s my favorite, cowboy hats swapped out for dancing shoes, off-key singing that made me laugh harder than I have for some time. They didn’t make a big speech or get anything Pinterest perfect, but everything they did was for me. For me. They turned up, and they showed me what it means to be good men.
Thoughtful men.
And that painting, featuring this beautiful ranch and this beautiful family and me—little old me —at the center. It nearly broke my heart.
Afterwards, they claimed me the way only they could: slowly, reverently, and with a surety that I’ve never experienced before. There are eleven of them, but at times, they felt as one. A mouth at my throat, a hand at my breast, another hand guiding me, eyes on me, and hearts wrapped around me. They held me in ways I didn’t know I needed, talked to me like I’m precious, and took me apart until there was nothing but truth between us.