They switch places with a coordination that speaks to experience, and then Konnor is between my thighs, his cock pressing into me.
"Look at me," he orders.
I force my eyes open, meeting his dark gaze as he fills me inch by inch.
"You feel that?" He bottoms out, holding still. "You feel like you were made for us."
"Don't get romantic on me now." But my voice shakes, undermining the deflection.
"It's not romantic." He withdraws slowly, then drives back in hard enough to make me see stars. "It's сhemistry. You respond to us because your body recognizes something your mind is still fighting."
"I'm not fighting anymore."
"Good." He begins to move in earnest, each thrust precise and devastating, his thumb finding my oversensitive clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Because I intend to make you forget every man who came before us."
Oscar moves behind me, lifting my shoulders so I'm half-reclined against his chest. His hands cup my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers while Konnor fucks me with a relentlessness that borders on surgical.
"You look so good taking his cock." Oscar's voice is hot against my ear. "You look like you were made for this. Made for us."
I'm crying now—not sad tears, but overwhelmed ones, my body flooded with more pleasure than it knows how to process.
Konnor leans down, kissing the tears from my cheeks, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm.
"One more," he murmurs against my mouth. "Give us one more and then we'll let you rest."
"I can't—"
"You can." Oscar pinches my nipple at the same moment Konnor's thumb presses hard against my clit, and I explode.
This orgasm is different—deeper, full-body, a trembling devastation that starts in my core and radiates outward until even my fingertips are pulsing with it.
I feel Konnor follow me over the edge, his hips stuttering, his groan vibrating against my throat.
We collapse together in a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. Oscar pulls a blanket from somewhere, covering us in warmth, his hand stroking lazy patterns on my hip.
The fire crackles. The rain falls. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, my mind goes completely, blissfully quiet.
"Worth staying?" Oscar murmurs against my hair.
I should have a clever response, a deflection, a joke to maintain the distance I've been clinging to like a life raft.
Instead, I just nod, burrowing deeper into the warmth of two men who chased me down and brought me home.
***
Morning arrives golden and merciful.
I wake alone on the couch, wrapped in blankets that smell like Oscar's cologne and Konnor's soap, my body deliciously sore in places I'd forgotten could ache.
Sunlight streams through the cabin windows—actual, honest-to-God sunlight, not the watery gray filter that's been passing for daylight since I crashed into this place.
The coffee maker gurgles in the kitchen, and I follow the sound, wrapping a blanket around my naked body because my clothes are scattered somewhere between the fireplace and the dining table.
The smile that crosses my face feels foreign but genuine.
I pour the coffee and carry it to the front porch, pushing through the screen door into air that smells like pine and possibility.
The world looks different after a storm. Everything gleams, washed clean, the colors more saturated than they have any right to be.
Birds call from somewhere in the tree line, and the ground steams gently as the sun burns off the last of the moisture.
Konnor sits at the far end of the porch, hunched over the small table we've been using for meals when the weather cooperated.
His dark hair catches the light, still damp from a shower, and his surgeon's hands move over what appears to be a half-constructed birdhouse.
I settle into the chair beside him, tucking my feet beneath me, cradling the warm mug against my chest.
"I didn't peg you for the crafty type," I say.
He doesn't look up from his careful measurements, a pencil tucked behind his ear, a small saw resting within easy reach. "It centers me."
I watch his hands work—the same hands that took me apart last night, now fitted with delicate joints and tiny nails.
"Where did you even find the materials?" I ask.
"Scrap wood in the shed out back. I've been working on it since the second day here." He aligns two pieces of cedar, checking the angle before reaching for the glue. "Couldn't sleep. Needed something to do with my hands."
I think about the precision he applied to my body, the controlled devastation, and take a long sip of coffee to hide the flush creeping up my neck.
"Oscar's checking the property line," Konnor continues. "Making sure the storm didn't bring down any trees that need reporting to the rental company. He'll be back soon."
"And Jake?"
The question hangs between us. Konnor's hands still for just a moment before resuming their work.
"Still in town, presumably. He hasn't called."
I nod, swallowing the ache that blooms in my chest.
Jake left before dawn yesterday. He doesn't know what happened in this cabin while he was gone.
"Do you know what you're going to do?" Konnor asks, still focused on his birdhouse, his voice carefully neutral. "About the baby, I mean."
"I'm keeping it." The answer surprises me.
I didn't know I'd decided until the words left my mouth, but the moment they're in the air, I recognize their truth.
Somewhere between crashing my car and crashing into these men, the decision crystallized without my conscious awareness.
I'm keeping it.
This collection of cells that might become a person. This complication that Mason tried to weaponize against me. This terrifying, impossible, inexplicable thing growing inside my body.
Konnor nods slowly, no judgment in his dark eyes when he finally looks at me. "That's a significant choice."
"I know."
"You'll need support, medical care, a plan for when you can't hide anymore."
"I know that too."
He sets down the piece of wood he's been holding, turning to face me fully. The morning light catches the sharp angles of his face, softening them somehow.
"And us? Whatever this is?"
I open my mouth to answer—though I don't know what I'm going to say, don't know how to articulate the impossible tangle of want and fear and hope that's taken up residence in my chest.
But the sound of tires on gravel cuts through the morning quiet, and we both freeze.
A car is coming up the drive. Not the familiar rumble of Jake's truck, but something smoother, more expensive, completely wrong for these back roads.
Konnor rises slowly, his body shifting into something protective without conscious thought.
He steps in front of me, blocking my view of the driveway, and I have to peer around his shoulder to see.
The car that pulls up is sleek and black, a luxury sedan that probably costs more than the cabin's annual rental income.
It gleams in the sunlight, freshly waxed, completely out of place against the rustic backdrop of the Florida wilderness.
I know that car. I helped choose that car.
The driver's door opens, and the man who steps out wears a tailored suit despite the rural setting.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his shoes impractical for the still-muddy ground.
Mason.
My coffee mug slips from my fingers, shattering against the porch floor, hot liquid splashing across my bare feet.
I don't feel it. I don't feel anything except the cold spreading through my veins, the way my body wants to collapse and run and fight all at the same time.
Konnor's hand finds mine, squeezing hard. A grounding point. A reminder that I'm not alone.
"Hello, sweetheart," Mason says, his voice dripping with false warmth as he approaches the porch steps. "Miss me?"
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