Page 102 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

His tongue slides inside me. My hips lift against his mouth.

Roman catches my wrists and holds them against his chest.

Wes groans against me. His purr deepens every time I chase his mouth, and the sound gets rougher the more desperate I become.

He brings me to the edge again.

And again.

Each time, he pulls back just enough to leave me trembling. By the fourth, my legs are shaking against his shoulders, and my scent has filled the nest.

“Please.” The word slips out raw.

Wes goes still. His eyes lift to mine. There is hunger in his expression, but something gentler beneath it, care threaded through the control. “What do you want?”

“Your mouth.”

A smile touches his lips. “You have it.”

“I want to come.”

He kisses the inside of my thigh. “Good.”

Then he takes my clit into his mouth and stops playing. His tongue moves hard and sure. Roman kisses me through the first broken sound, one hand cupping the back of my neck while Wes keeps me open and drinks from me.

Pleasure tears through every place the night left tender. I come in Wes’s mouth with my hips lifting from the bed. He doesn’t stop. The first orgasm is still moving through me when he licks me again.

I gasp. “Wes.”

His arms tighten over my thighs. “One more.”

“That is not a reasonable morning goal.”

He sucks my clit.

My argument disappears.

Roman laughs into my hair and gathers me closer while Wes starts the game again, gentler but no less determined. He lets me build, makes me wait, tastes every desperate movement like it is meant for him.

My second orgasm comes slower, deeper, my body already softened by the first and helpless against the patient devotion of his mouth. When I come again, Wes groans as though I have given him the pleasure. He drinks every shudder from me until my hands go loose in Roman’s shirt. Only then does he stop.

Wes presses one last kiss to my pussy. Soft. Closemouthed. Reverent. It’s not meant to start anything else. It’s a quiet token of care placed against the most vulnerable part of me.

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

He looks up and sees it. Neither of us names it.

Roman kisses my forehead. Wes pulls the quilt back over my legs and settles behind me again, his mouth brushing my shoulder. I lie between them wrecked, warm, and much too safe.

“You’re both trouble,” I whisper.

Roman strokes my hip. “Only us, not you?”

Wes sounds smug against my back. “She’s tired.”

“I’ve been awake for ten minutes.”

“Busy ten minutes.”