Picture Perfect - Page 154

A shift in the mattress pulls my attention away. Dre’s body moves with a predator’s grace as he crawls over the chaos of sheets toward me. His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, intense and unyielding. There’s something about Dre that always seems on the brink of danger, like a storm about to break. He leans down, his lips seeking mine in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s dirty, hard, and it ignites a spark deep inside me that I thought was too worn out to flare up again.

“Can you take one more, Snowflake?” Dre’s voice is a low growl against my lips, his breath hot and urgent. “Because I’m dying to have you.” His tattoos twist and flex over the scars that tell his story, a tapestry of pain and defiance that matches the complexities of his soul.

For a moment, I hesitate, my body screaming its fatigue, my emotions a jumbled mess. But looking into Dre’s hungry gaze, feeling the raw need there, mirrors a longing in myself that I can’t deny. I crave the escape that they offer, the searing intensity that erases everything but the present.

“Please,” I manage to say, my voice a whisper of surrender that seems to echo in the silence of the room.

His kiss steals any further protest, devouring any lingering doubt. This is what we do—we chase the high, we run from the past, we collide together in a desperate dance of need and desire. And right now, in this tangled mess of sheets and skin, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

The room is a haze of exertion and lingering arousal as Dre reaches for the silver packet, his movements deliberate. Chess’s breath is warm on my neck, his fingers trailing with sinful intent down my spine, while Saint’s presence to my other side is an anchor of strength, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he brushes strands of hair from my flushed cheeks.

“Ready for me, Snowflake?” Dre’s voice rumbles, charged with a promise that sends a shiver through me. I nod, breathless, as I feel the shift of the mattress beneath us.

Dre’s hands are firm on me then, guiding, turning me until I’m exposed and vulnerable on my stomach. The world tilts as he lifts me by the hips, setting me onto all fours. My heart hammers in my chest, each beat a drum calling me to this wild, forbidden march.

“Chess, Saint…” My voice is a breathy plea, searching for reassurance in their eyes.

“Shh, we got you,” Chess murmurs, his lips pressing to my temple in a kiss that could almost be mistaken for tender if not for the mischievous glint in his eye. “Enjoy this, Addy.”

Saint doesn’t speak, but his hand, steady on my waist, speaks volumes. It tells me he’s here, that despite the walls he puts up, this connection, however twisted it might be, has chipped away at some of his defenses.

Dre’s dirty words fill the air next, laced with edge and heat. “You’re so wet, it’s like you’re begging for it”

His language paints vivid pictures, raw and unfiltered, and my body responds with a mix of shock and dark thrill.

“Like that, Snowflake?” He teases, his tone dipping into something darker, more primal. I can only whimper in response before his hand comes down sharply against my bottom.

A yelp escapes me, the sting blooming into a sweet, searing heat that makes my knees buckle. But there’s pleasure too, unexpected and intense, spiraling out from where his hand met my skin.

“Tell me you like it,” Dre commands, his voice low and demanding.

“Yes,” I gasp out, the admission torn from me. “Yes, I like it.”

He rewards my honesty with another spank, and another, each one drawing a cry from my lips until I’m floating in a sea of sensation, anchored only by their touches and the sound of my own racing pulse.

“Spread those fucking legs for me.”

The suddenness of Dre’s thrust rips a gasp from my throat, a sound swallowed by the hunger in his eyes. His grip on my hips is possessive as he drives into me with a force that speaks of raw need. Harsh breaths fan across my back, and each whispered obscenity sends a jolt of electric pleasure through my shaking frame.

“Mine,” he growls against my skin, punctuating the word with a particularly deep thrust that sparks stars behind my eyes. “Say it, Snowflake.”

“Yours,” I manage to breathe out, the word more moan than declaration.

Chess’s fingers trace the curve of my jaw, tilting my head to meet his gaze. The hazel of his eyes is dark with desire, his usual playfulness edged with something deeper, something that resonates within me. He brushes his lips over mine, a contrast to the demanding possession of Dre’s movements.

“Feel us, all around you,” Chess murmurs against my mouth, his voice a tender counterpoint to Dre’s carnal declarations.

Saint’s touch is a silent language, one I’m learning word by heated word. His hands roam with a reverence that belies his often stoic exterior. He paints a trail of fire along my side, his fingertips memorizing every quiver and sigh that escapes me.

It’s a dance, dangerous and intimate, and I can’t seem to step out of rhythm. My thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, each one whispering that this is wrong, but those voices are drowned out by the thunder of my racing heart. Their bodies are heat and hard lines against mine, a pressure I can’t resist. My mind races, searching for an anchor in the chaos of sensation.

It’s wrong, so wrong, yet why do their touches chase away the coldness that usually clings to my soul? I part my lips, not in submission, but to protest—to reclaim my voice—but the words get lost in the pull of Saint’s kiss, deep and consuming. And I’m falling, falling into the abyss of what we’re creating, a place where past hurts and betrayals blur into nothingness.

“Princess,” Saint whispers, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. “Let go.”

And in that moment, as Dre claims me with relentless strokes and Chess’s kisses devour any lingering resistance, I do. I let go of everything but the now, the heat, the connection that binds us together in this tangled web of pleasure and pain.

This, this is what I’ve been searching for all this time.