Page 36 of Christmas with Three Firemen

I’m stuck here.

That’s the part that’s different. Before, I could manufacture distance. Leave a room, find an excuse, put the investigation between myself and whatever was happening.

Now the blizzard has removed that option entirely, and what’s left is just this. Me in this room listening to the building breathe around me with nowhere to go and no way to pretend that what’s been building for a week isn’t exactly what it is.

I shift onto my side.

This is the problem with enforced proximity. It removes the machinery of avoidance and leaves you with nothing but the thing you were avoiding.

I close my eyes.

That’s a mistake.

Because the moment I do, it isn’t the case or the storm or the logistics of the next several days that my brain decides to occupy itself with.

It’s the kitchen three nights ago, but different. Expanded. It’s Grant in his office, closer than he should have been, his voice low and furious and something else underneath the fury. It’s Wes on the roof, the city spread out below us, his shoulder almost touching mine in the cold. It’s Mateo’s mouth.

All three of them, and nowhere to put any of it.

My breath has gone shallow. I’m aware of that in the detached way you become aware of your own body when your brain has stopped cooperating with your better judgment.

I should sleep.

I’m not going to sleep.

What I’m going to do instead is stop fighting the inevitability of this moment.

I lie there for another minute, listening to the wind claw at the building, before I finally give in.

My hand slips under the covers, under the thin fabric of my shorts, and I let out a slow breath as my fingers find slick, aching heat. The string lights above the headboard blink their lazy rhythm. I watch the lights dance over my skin for a second, then close my eyes.

And I let them in.

It starts with Grant.

I imagine the door to my room opening without a sound. He fills the frame, shoulders broad, expression dark and unreadable. No words at first.

He crosses the room in two strides, pulls the covers back, and looks down at me like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

His hand wraps around my thigh, firm and possessive, spreading me open as he kneels between my legs.

“Been thinking about this all night,” his voice rumbles in my head, low and rough. “Thinking about how wet you get when you’re pretending you hate me.”

I circle my clit slowly, matching the rhythm I imagine his thumb would take—careful teasing.

In my mind, he leans down, mouth hot against my neck, teeth grazing just under my jaw while two thick fingers push inside me without warning. I arch off the bed, biting my lip to stay quiet as my own fingers mimic the motion.

Then Mateo is there too.

He slides in behind me on the narrow bed, chest warm against my shoulder, arms wrapping around my waist.

His mouth finds the spot just below my ear, the one that makes me shiver. “Relax, cariño,” he murmurs, the smile audible in his voice even as his hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple until it’s tight and aching. “Let us take care of you.”

I imagine him kissing down my arm while Grant works his fingers deeper, curling them just right. Mateo’s free hand joins Grant’s between my thighs, spreading me wider, playing with my clit in slow, slick circles while Grant fucks me with his fingers.

The contrast wrecks me—Grant’s relentless pressure, Mateo’s playful, affectionate touch. I’m panting now, hips rolling into my own hand as the fantasy sharpens.

Wes appears last.