Picture Perfect - Page 155

“That’s it, Snowflake. Cream my cock.”

I arch my back, feeling the waves of pleasure coursing through me, crashing against the barrier of restraint. The words, the voices, the touch, it all comes together and tears through the walls I’ve built around myself.

It feels like forever since I last felt this alive, this connected to someone else. And not just one someone else, but three someones. Three pairs of hands, two mouths, one relentless dick, and a whole lot of love, or at least something close to it.

The tremors of release finally still within me, the room falls silent but for our collective breaths, ragged and heavy. I am sprawled out, limbs too weak to move, heart too full to speak. Saint’s strong arms slide beneath me, as gentle as they are unyielding, cradling my exhausted body with an ease that belies his hulking frame.

“Come on, Princess,” he murmurs, a soft command that has me lifting my arms to loop around his neck. He lifts me from the bed effortlessly, the air cooler against my skin where sweat had made it stick to the sheets. The others watch us, their eyes holding words that don’t need to be spoken, each gaze a tether keeping me grounded in the aftermath of the storm we’ve weathered together.

The bathroom tiles are a shock of cold against my feet as Saint sets me down. The water starts, and steam soon fills the space, carrying away the raw scent of sex that clings to us. He doesn’t speak as he helps me step into the shower, the warm cascade a soothing balm over sensitive skin.

“Thank you,” I whisper, not just for this, but for everything—the protection, the pleasure, the unexpected tenderness. For a moment, his guard drops, and the look he gives me is so open, so vulnerable, it tightens something in my chest.

“Always, Princess,” he replies, voice barely above the sound of falling water.

He washes me with careful hands, fingers that once gripped and claimed now soothe and caress. Each touch sweeps away remnants of doubt, leaving only the purity of our connection. When he’s done, Saint wraps me in a towel, drying me off with motions that are more than just functional; they’re reverent.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument, though I have none to give.

We return to the bedroom, the others waiting, their expressions a mix of heat and contentment. Dre offers a small, satisfied smile, and Chess reaches out to brush a damp strand of hair from my face. There’s a sense of completion, of unity, as we all crawl under the covers together.

I nestle into the warmth of their bodies, a living cocoon, and let my eyes drift shut. Their steady breathing lulls me towards sleep, each exhale a whispered promise of belonging. As consciousness slips from my grasp, one last thought floats up through the haze of bliss:

I’ve never been happier.

And then, nestled between the heartbeats of the boys who have become my world, I surrender to sleep.

Chapter sixty-eight

Addy

As Monday unfurls its inevitable arrival, I stand before my closet, the afterglow of the weekend still thrumming beneath my skin. Picking out an outfit feels like armoring up for battle, except this armor is made of soft fabric and leather. I pull out a red sundress that clings and flows in all the right places, then pair it with black leather ankle booties that add an edge to the innocent cut of the dress. The cropped leather jacket Dre selected drapes over my shoulders like a dark promise, a reminder of the person I am with them—fierce and unapologetic.

The mirror reflects a transformation I hardly recognize—me, but different. It’s not just the clothes; it’s the way my cheeks hold a happy flush that comes from days spent wrapped in love and reckless abandon. My green eyes sparkle back at me, filled with a life that’s long been missing.

Twisting this way and that, I admire the red sundress hugging my curves, the leather jacket adding a touch of wild to the softness. A small laugh escapes me because, for once, I feel like the Addy I’ve always wanted to be.

“Damn,” Dre’s voice comes from behind, laced with a mixture of pride and desire. “Going for the kill, I see,” Dre murmurs from the doorway, his approving gaze tracing the lines of my chosen attire.

“Only way to start a week,” I reply, spinning on my heel to face him, the skirt flaring around my thighs. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer, grounding me in the reality that is us—complicated, intense, and real.

“If every Monday starts like this, I’ll worship the damn calendar.”

His hands slide onto my hips, a feeling so familiar yet still electric. The slight brush of his fingers sends ripples of warmth through my body, and I lean back into him, letting his presence envelop me. His lips find the tender skin of my neck, and I close my eyes, savoring the sensation of being wanted, of being seen.

“Looks like someone approves of his own taste,” I tease, tilting my head to grant him better access. The dress might be new, the jacket might be Dre’s choice, but this moment is all us—raw and real.

“Can’t help it when you make everything look this good,” he answers, his breath hot against my skin as he trails kisses up to my earlobe. I can tell by the huskiness in his voice that we’re both thinking about how the weekend blurred into a series of touches and whispered promises.

“Let’s not give them more to talk about than they already have,” I say, though my resolve wanes with another brush of his lips.

“Snowflake,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of warning and promise, “they’re going to talk regardless. Might as well give them a show.”

I turn within his grasp to face him, meeting those ice blue eyes that never fail to see through to my soul. “They can watch all they want,” I whisper back, “but they’ll never know the story behind the scenes.”

“Then let’s write our own script, babe,” he says, a smirk dancing on his lips, a challenge in his gaze that sets my heart racing with anticipation for what’s to come.

The moment shatters with Saint’s voice, a low rumble from the hallway that slices through the air. “Later,” he says without any hint of jest. “School’s not going to wait for you two to finish whatever this is.”