The bedroom door clicks shut behind us and the click sounds final, like the last page of a chapter I’m not ready to finish reading.
For a heartbeat no one moves. The only light is the faint gray bleed from the streetlamps through half-closed blinds, striping gold across Mateo’s cheekbones and turning Axel’s eyes into glacier water.
Mateo is the one who breaks first. He drags a hand through his curls, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“Selene.” My name is soft, careful. “Last chance to kick us out. No hard feelings. Swear on my jump shot.”
I should laugh. I should say something clever and therapist-neutral that puts us all back on safe ground. Instead I reach up, fist the fabric of his t-shirt and yank him down until his mouth crashes into mine.
That’s all the answer he needs.
Mateo kisses like he plays: creative, instinctive, a little filthy. His tongue slides against mine, teasing, then demanding, and his hands are already mapping my waist, my hips, the curve where my blouse meets skin.
He tastes like tequila and the lime we passed around earlier, and I want to drown in it.
Behind me, the mattress dips. Axel hasn’t said a word, but I feel him: six-foot-eight of deliberate heat settling at my back. His palms skim up my sides, slow, like he’s memorizing the shape of me through fabric.
There’s no awkward shuffle, no accidental elbow. They’ve shared hotel rooms for years; they know exactly how much space the other needs. That same choreography is here now, effortless, and it’s devastating.
Mateo pulls back just far enough to grin against my lips. “Told you she wouldn’t kick us out.”
Axel’s answer is a low growl in Icelandic: rough syllables that vibrate against the shell of my ear and make my knees weak even though I don’t understand a single one. Then his mouth is on my neck, teeth scraping just hard enough to promise a mark tomorrow.
Buttons scatter. My blouse disappears somewhere across the room. Mateo’s t-shirt follows, then Axel’s, and suddenly there’s skin everywhere: warm tan and pale marble and the dark ink of Axel’s Norse runes flexing over muscle as he moves.
I reach for Mateo again and he lets me, but Axel catches my wrists before I make contact, pinning them gently above my head against the headboard.
The wood is cool against my knuckles; his grip is anything but.
“Look at me,” Axel says, voice gravel and smoke. His eyes are molten now, all that ice melted into something dangerous. “You’re sure?”
I nod, breathless. “Don’t you dare stop now.”
He makes a sound: half laugh, half prayer, and crushes his mouth to mine.
This kiss is different: controlled, filthy, deliberate. He kisses like a man who’s been starving and finally allowed to feast. His free hand slides down my body, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, and I arch into him without meaning to.
Mateo’s mouth finds my collarbone, then lower, tongue tracing the lace edge of my bra until I’m trembling.
“You taste better than I imagined,” he murmurs against my skin, and the vibration shoots straight between my legs. “And I imagined a lot, Doc. Like, embarrassingly often.”
I laugh: actually laugh, while Axel’s teeth graze my throat and Mateo’s fingers hook into my jeans zipper. The sound surprises all three of us.
“There she is,” Mateo says, grinning up at me, hazel eyes bright even in the near-dark. “Knew we could get the real smile back.”
Axel releases my wrists only to slide both massive hands under my thighs and lift. My back meets the mattress and suddenly I’m flat on the sheets with two very focused men looking down at me like I’m the only thing in the universe.
Mateo crawls up my body, kissing every inch he passes, until he’s braced over me. “Tell me what you want, Selene.”
“You,” I breathe. “Both of you. Now.”
He groans like I’ve wounded him and kisses me again, deep and dirty, while Axel’s hands work my jeans down my hips. Cool air hits overheated skin and then Axel’s mouth is on my inner thigh, slow, deliberate, speaking more Icelandic that I feel in my bones.
His beard scrapes deliciously, tongue drawing lazy circles higher and higher until I’m writhing, begging without words.
Mateo shifts to the side, giving Axel room without ever stopping: his fingers roll my nipple through lace until I’m gasping. When the bra is gone too, his mouth replaces his hand, hot and wet and perfect.
He bit hard enough to make my hips buck, then soothes the sting with gentle licks that have me moaning his name.
I lose track of who is where. There’s just sensation: Axel’s beard scraping sensitive skin, Mateo’s curls tickling my stomach, four hands that never seem to be in the same place twice.
Someone’s fingers slide inside me: two, then three, curling just right while a thumb circles my clit until I’m shaking, dripping, pleading.
“Please…” I gasp, not even sure what I’m asking for.
“We’ve got you,” Mateo whispers against my breast. “Let go, baby.”
Axel moves up, replacing his fingers with his cock: slow, thick pressure that stretches me open, makes my eyes roll back. He pauses, forehead pressed to mine, letting me adjust to the feeling. “Breathe.”
I do, and he slides home in one long thrust that blanks my mind completely.
Mateo watches us, pupils blown, stroking himself lazily. “Jesus, you two are gorgeous.”
Axel starts to move: deep, measured strokes that hit every perfect spot, and Mateo leans in to kiss me through it, swallowing every moan.
Then they switch, seamless, like they choreographed it in a past life.
Mateo inside me now, faster, playful, angling his hips until I see stars. Axel behind me, chest to my back, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other tangled in my hair as he growls praise I don’t need translated.
I come first: hard, blinding, crying out into Mateo’s shoulder while Axel holds me through the aftershocks. His palm pressing low on my belly like he’s claiming the pleasure itself.
They follow seconds apart, one after the other, like they timed it that way on purpose.
After, the room is nothing but tangled limbs and heavy breathing. Gray pre-dawn light creeps across the ceiling.
Mateo is half-asleep, arm flung across my stomach, face buried in my neck. Every few seconds he mumbles something that might be English, might be Spanish, might just be contentment.
Axel lies on his back beside me, one hand resting on my hip, the other staring at the ceiling like it owes him answers. His thumb traces idle circles on my skin.
I float somewhere above my body, lighter than I’ve felt in weeks.
My brain: the one that analyzes everything to death, is finally, blissfully quiet.
Mateo’s voice is sleepy-rough against my collarbone. “Should’ve done this months ago…”
Axel’s fingers find mine in the dark. He squeezes once, firm, grounding. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Tomorrow I’ll overthink every second of this. Tomorrow I’ll panic about professionalism and reputations and what happens when the league finds out.
Tonight I’m just Selene, and Selene is free.