Oscar's hand is warm in mine as he pulls me from the chair, and the music wraps around us like something tangible.
Bass notes vibrate through the floorboards, through my bare feet, up into the hollow spaces behind my ribs where anxiety has been living rent-free for weeks.
I watch Konnor move toward the fireplace over Oscar's shoulder, his movements precise and unhurried as he crouches to arrange kindling.
The scratch of a match. The first tentative crackle of flame catching.
Outside, rain begins to tap against the windows again, soft at first, then building to a steady percussion that harmonizes with the low, slow song filling the cabin.
"You're watching him," Oscar murmurs against my temple.
"I'm watching the fire."
"Liar." But there's no accusation in it, just warmth. His hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me into a rhythm I don't have to think about. "It's okay to want to watch him. He's beautiful when he's focused."
Konnor glances up at that, firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. "I can hear you."
"I know." Oscar spins me gently.
I catch a glimpse of Konnor's expression—something heated flickering behind those dark eyes before he returns his attention to building the fire higher.
My heart is doing something complicated in my chest. The exhaustion from twenty-seven sleepless hours should be dragging me under, but instead I feel hyper-aware—every nerve ending sparking, every sensation magnified.
Oscar's chest against my back. The warmth radiating from the growing fire. The rain drumming its approval against the roof.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit, the words slipping out before I can catch them.
"Nobody does." Oscar's lips brush my ear. "That's the secret. We're all improvising."
Konnor rises from the fireplace, brushing ash from his hands, and crosses toward us with that deliberate stride that makes my stomach tighten.
The fire crackles and pops behind him, casting his shadow long across the worn wooden floor.
"May I?" He extends his hand, and Oscar releases me with a theatrical sigh.
"Cutting in already? I had at least three more moves I wanted to try."
"Your moves are adequate at best." Konnor's fingers close around mine, and his other hand finds my waist, and it shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "I've been watching you dance with him for two minutes and seventeen seconds. That's long enough."
"You timed it?"
"I time everything." His thumb traces a small circle against my hip bone, and I shiver despite the growing warmth from the fire. "It's a professional hazard."
We move together differently than Oscar and I did—less playful, more intentional.
Konnor dances like he operates, I realize. Every motion calculated for maximum effect, every touch deliberate. Where Oscar led with charm, Konnor leads with certainty.
Oscar doesn't retreat.
Instead, he moves behind me, and suddenly I'm sandwiched between them again—Konnor's chest against my front, Oscar's warmth at my back.
"This okay?" Oscar's breath is hot against my neck.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Konnor tilts my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. The firelight dances in his dark eyes, turning them amber at the edges.
"Words, Kelly. We need words."
"Yes." The syllable scrapes out of me. "Hell, yes."
He kisses me, and it's nothing like I expected.
Konnor has been so controlled, so clinical, that I anticipated surgical accuracy. Instead, he kisses me like he's starving. His tongue slides against mine, and I gasp into his mouth.
Behind me, Oscar's hands find my hips, pulling me back against him as he presses open-mouthed kisses along my shoulder, my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear.
The sensation is overwhelming. Two mouths, four hands, heat from the fire and heat from their bodies. I'm trembling already, and they've barely touched me.
"Bedroom?" Oscar suggests, his voice rougher than before.
"No." Konnor's dark eyes don't leave mine. "Here."
The words send a pulse of heat straight between my thighs.
Oscar spins me to face him, and then his mouth is on mine—different from Konnor, warmer and more playful, his tongue teasing rather than claiming.
He tastes like coffee and something sweet, and I melt into him even as I feel Konnor's hands at my waist from behind, his lips trailing down my neck.
"God, you're responsive." Oscar pulls back just enough to watch my face as Konnor's teeth graze my shoulder. "Every little touch and you light up like Christmas."
"Shut up," I manage, but it comes out breathless, without any real heat.
"Make me."
I kiss him hard, channeling every ounce of frustration and want into the press of my lips against his. He groans into my mouth, his hips rolling forward, and I feel him thick and hard through his jeans.
Konnor's fingers find the hem of my shirt, and I tense for just a moment before nodding. He lifts it over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me in just my bra, pressed between two fully clothed men.
The inequity should bother me. Instead, it makes me feel powerful.
"Look at you," Oscar breathes, his honey-colored eyes darkening as they trace my exposed skin. "Konnor, look at her."
"I'm looking." Konnor's voice is strained, his hands spanning my waist like he's measuring me.
Oscar's fingers work the clasp of my bra—fumbling slightly, which makes him more human and somehow more attractive—until the fabric falls away. The cool air hits my bare breasts, tightening my nipples instantly, and both men go still.
"Jesus," Oscar whispers. "You're—"
"If you say something about baby traps, I will literally murder you and make it look like an accident."
He laughs, surprised and genuine, and the tension breaks just enough for me to breathe. "I was going to say beautiful, you psychopath."
"Oh." Heat floods my cheeks. "That's... acceptable."
"Acceptable," Konnor repeats dryly. "We tell her she's beautiful and she grades our compliment like a term paper."
"Would you prefer effusive gratitude? Should I swoon dramatically into your arms and declare myself forever in your debt?"
"I'd prefer you stop talking," Oscar says, and then his mouth is on my breast and I can't talk, can't think, can't do anything except arch into the wet heat of his tongue circling my nipple.
Konnor's hands work at my jeans, popping the button with clinical efficiency. He pushes them down over my hips, and I step out of them awkwardly, kicking them aside while Oscar continues his assault on my chest.
I'm standing in the middle of the living room in nothing but underwear—plain cotton, because I didn't exactly pack for seduction when I fled my entire life—and somehow I've never felt more desired.
"Couch," Konnor decides, and it's definitely a command this time. "Now."
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