The three of us are tangled together, bodies still warm, limbs draped lazily, exhaustion weighing heavy but satisfaction even heavier. Carter’s fingers trace gently over my hip. Tate is behind me, his body heat pressing against my back, his lips brushing against the top of my ear every now and then, like he wants to say something but won’t. I let my eyes flutter closed, feeling the rise and fall of Carter’s breathing beneath my cheek, the steady pulse of Tate’s heartbeat against my spine. My body is ruined, my mind is a mess, but I’ve never felt more at home than I do right here, with them.

Then Tate ruins it. “So, pretty,” he teases, a smug little edge curling through every word. “Think you’ll last longer in our next round, or are we gonna have to carry your ass through it again?”

Carter groans, not even lifting his head. “Dude. She’s literally still shaking.”

“I’m just checking,” Tate laughs, brushing a kiss against the side of my neck like he didn’t just say something completely stupid. “Gotta keep her on her toes.”

I peek up at Carter, catching his expression, half exasperated, content and I can’t help but grin. “You two are the worst,” I mumble, voice hoarse from overuse.

“Objectively true,” Carter says, his fingers tightening just slightly on my waist. “But I’d argue we’re also the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“Oh, the best,” I deadpan, even as my grin widens. “You mean besides the part where I can’t feel my legs?”

Tate chuckles behind me, shifting just enough to drape his arm across my stomach, his palm splayed over my ribs like he owns the space. “I take full responsibility for that.”

“Yeah,” Carter mutters. “Of course you do.”

“Relax,” Tate hums, and now his voice dips lower, quieter, dragging shivers across my skin. “You both loved it.”

God, he’s not wrong. “Maybe,” he adds, rolling me gently onto my back, his grin all teeth and trouble. “But you can’t get enough of us.”

Carter shifts beside me, brushing his thumb along my jaw as his gaze softens. “Not that I’d ever let you go.”

My throat tightens at that, just a little. I look between them, my troublemakers, my chaos.

“You’re right. I can’t.”
I’ll never get enough. Not of Carter. Not of Tate. Not of the beautiful, messy thing we’ve created together. Maybe it makes me twisted. Maybe it makes me theirs. But fuck, I’ve never felt more alive. Maybe that’s the point.
Life was never supposed to be neat. It was never supposed to be clean lines and carefully drawn boundaries. It’s supposed to shattered and stitched together again by the people crazy enough to love every broken piece. There’s a violent kind of beauty in being wanted this way. In being kept.