Page 162 of The Final Cut

“Green,” I say at once.

His hands tie the blindfold snug, careful not to catch my hair. “Good girl.”

The praise travels every neural pathway, molten and dangerous.

Without sight, the room changes. I hear fabric. Shiloh’s zipper. Ever’s belt. Nash’s footsteps crossing the carpet to the chair near the corner. The faint creak as he sits. My own breathing, too fast. The city behind the curtains. The old panic waiting outside the circle they have built around me: my mother’s face, Delia’s flinch, Cal’s hand warm under mine, Isabel’s shadow over every move we make.

Then Nash speaks.

“Ever, put her on the bed.”

Large hands close around my waist.

I gasp even though I know him. Ever lifts me like I weigh nothing, carries me three steps, and lays me on the mattress with more care than his grip suggests. The sheets are cool beneath my back. My arms move instinctively to cover myself, but he catches my wrists and pins them beside my head.

“No hiding,” he says.

My body arches at the sound of his voice so close.

Shiloh’s fingers skim up my calf, over my knee, along the inside of my thigh. “Poor Yank. You’re shaking.”

“I hate the blindfold.”

Nash’s voice comes from the corner. “No, you don’t.”

I turn my head toward him, uselessly, because he’s right, and I hate that more.

“Shiloh,” he says. “Mouth first. She has too much to say.”

Shiloh’s laugh is soft, then the bed dips near my head.

His hand cups my cheek. “Open for me.”

I do.

He slides his thumb over my lower lip first, teasing, and then he feeds me his cock. I take him carefully at first, tongue sliding along him, lips closing around the head. He groans, and the sound goes straight through me. Ever’s mouth finds my breast at the same moment, hot and wet, teeth catching my nipple while his fingers drag through the slick between my thighs.

I moan around Shiloh.

“That’s better,” Nash says.

The only voice with shape is his.

Ever and Shiloh become touch. Weight. Heat. Shiloh’s hand in my hair, guiding without forcing. Ever’s fingers working into me from below, two at first, then deeper, curling until my hips jerk. My own hands twist in the sheets because I have nothing to hold and nowhere to look. Every sensation arrives too bright. Shiloh sliding over my tongue. Ever biting my breast. Nash breathing from the corner, quiet and controlled, telling them when to slow, when to stop, when to make me wait.

I lose track of anger quickly.

That might be the point.

Shiloh pushes a little deeper, and I gag.

He freezes.

“Color,” Nash says.

I pull off enough to breathe. “Green.”

Shiloh’s thumb strokes my temple once, tender enough to undo me. Then Nash says, “Again,” and Shiloh pushes back into my mouth while Ever’s fingers make wet, filthy sounds between my legs.