Page 227 of Rising Heat

“And yet,” Tyler says, looking at her, “you keep us around.”

We move on her together, the water cooling around us as Darcy’s laughter gives way to breathless sounds and whatever composure we had left disappears with it. When she comes again, one hand tangled in Tyler’s hair and the other gripping my arm, she says both our names before going taut between us.

Tyler laughs against her shoulder, and for a moment there’s nothing but the three of us breathing hard beneath the water.

“I love you,” Tyler says against her neck.

Darcy turns her head enough to look between us, her smile softening.

“I love you too. Both of you.”

I answer her with a kiss.

Darcy rests against me, Tyler beside us with his eyes closed, and none of us is in any hurry to be anywhere else as the water starts running lukewarm.

I could get used to this.

Except I already have.

“We should probably get out,” Darcy murmurs eventually. “Water’s freezing.”

“Probably,” Tyler agrees.

I tighten my arm around her and close my eyes.

“In a minute.”

We stay.

epilogue

DARCY

One year later…

I landed the account on a Wednesday. An independent Italian restaurant in the North End, third-generation and family-owned, with an actual story worth telling instead of a branding committee trying to manufacture one.

I’d pitched for it back in May, spent two weeks building a campaign I’m genuinely proud of, and when the call finally came, I did a small, completely undignified victory lap around the apartment before texting the boys.

Mack had replied, “Good,” which, from him, is basically confetti cannons. Tyler called me immediately.

“We should go check it out,” he’d said. “Take you to dinner to celebrate.”

“You mean eat pasta.”

“I mean support your client professionally through chicken parm.”

It seemed obvious after that. I had the account, and now we had an excuse to dress up on a Tuesday in June.

When the date finally rolls around, we almost don’t make it out the door. I come downstairs in my black silk midi dress, cream dots scattered across the fabric and kitten heels low enough to survive cobblestone. Tyler looks at me with the expression that means I’m about to be thoroughly ruined before I even reach the last stair. Mack notices his face, then follows his gaze toward me.

“Fuck, Darcy,” he mutters before Tyler’s even standing.

Ninety seconds later, I’m bent over the couch with my dress shoved up around my hips and both of them taking turns filling me like I’m the main event, which I suppose I am.

I come twice in under fifteen minutes.

By the time I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror fixing my lipstick, my hair’s ruined, my knees feel unreliable at best, and they’re both leaning in the doorway watching me with zero remorse.