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This isn’t about Lucian. (Okay, maybe it’s 12% about Lucian.) But it’s mostly about Theo - the first one I reached for. The one who held me like I wasn’t just heat and instinct.
And yeah, okay, I want him. Emotionally. Physically. Carnally. In every soft, awkward, reverent way that is so painfully him.
Kai presses one last kiss to the back of my neck and slides off the couch like a man who’s both deeply satisfied and possibly considering early retirement. I hear the soft thud as he stretches out on the floor beside me, totally naked and unbothered, dragging his knuckles over my calf like he’s petting his favorite meal.
“You’re a fuckingdream,” he mutters. “Better hope Lucian’s got a vault full of self-control, or we’re gonna be back in round two before your spine recalibrates.”
Ash snorts like he doesn’t disagree. And then I feel Theo move.
The air shifts. The temperature goes up three degrees. My instincts ping like a radar.
He’s hard - like, embarrassingly hard. Leaking and flushed and doing his absolute best not to look like he’s been dying to fuck me for a week.
But he doesn’t make it about that.
He waits. Big, warm, and buzzing with restraint.
I look up at him, totally fried and somehow still hungry. I reach for him with a hand that barely lifts off the cushion.
“Theo…”
He moves instantly - like he was just waiting for the green light - and lifts me into his arms with zero struggle.
I'm not small, but he holds me like I’m feathers. Warm, strong, safe -
And according to the hard-on he's got pressed up against me, ready to rail me into the next dimension.
He settles me on the couch again and asks, soft as a prayer -
“Can I?”
I nod, already tearing up like my body knows this one’s going to hit different.
He kisses me - not like he’s trying to stake a claim, but like he’s been holding his breath since I touched him, and this is the first inhale.
His lips are soft. Slow. Devotional.
And oh god, hishands.
One in my hair, one on my cheek, like he’s afraid I’ll break apart if he doesn’t hold me just right.
I melt. Fully.
Turning into a puddle of Rhea.
He shifts, nestling between my thighs like he belongs there (he does), cock thick and flushed and twitching against me. He doesn’t push, doesn’t rush - he just looks at me like I’m the question and the answer all at once.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, that wrecked voice of his damn near undoing me. “If anything hurts, I stop.”
“It’s not going to be too much,” I breathe. “It’s you.”
His eyes shut like those words hit him somewhere deep.
Then he presses in.
It’s slow. It’s full. It’s devastating.
Every inch of him feels like it’s melting into my bones, thick and deep and careful. I gasp, already teetering on the edge. He watches me the entire time - like he’s reading scripture off my face - and when he’s fully inside, when we’re flush, he breathes my name like it’s a confession.
