Page 84 of Sweet Torment

After we finish cleaning up—for real this time—Owen offers me a clean shirt that smells like him, and I pull it over my head, inhaling deeply. I love wearing their clothes. I love smelling like them. It’s becoming a thing for me.

Owen guides me to the dining area, where the smell of lasagna makes my stomach growl audibly. Weller sits at the head of the table, elbows on the surface, head cradled in his hands like he’s trying to contain an explosion. Freddie and Tristan are already eating, their plates piled high with the lasagna we made earlier. The sight makes me smile. The high from the gummies lingers just enough to keep me relaxed.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us,” Tristan says when we enter the dining area, his eyes trailing over my bare legs with obvious appreciation.

I saunter over to him, still riding the high from Freddie and Owen, my body loose and satisfied. When I lean down to give him a quick welcome-home kiss and then start to pull away, his hand shoots up faster than I can track, wrapping around the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my damp hair, gripping just tight enough to make my scalp tingle as he pulls me back down.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he murmurs, his lips barely leaving mine, breath hot against my mouth.

His teeth catch my bottom lip. The sharp sting blooms outward, replaced by a rush of warmth when he soothes the spot with his tongue and then deepens the kiss, literally fucking my mouth with his tongue. My knees weaken, and I have to brace my hands on his shoulders to stay upright.

His other hand slides up my bare thigh, stopping just short of where I’m still sensitive and swollen from Freddie and Owen.

These men make me feel ridiculously needy. It’s a little embarrassing.

“Was it a good shower, omega?” He inhales deeply, and I feel the rumble of his dark chuckle before he pulls back to fix me with a knowing look. “Did you give Owen what he wanted, or did you put him in his place?”

Heat crawls up my neck, and I narrow my eyes at him. “I hate you.”

“I think we’ve established you’re a pretty little liar,” he whispers, his breath sending shivers down my spine, “since I can smell Owen dripping from your cunt right now.”

A whimper escapes before I can stop it, my thighs clenching together at his words. His hand lands on my ass with a playful swat as I step away, making me jump.

I watch, trying to regain my composure, as Tristan pulls out a tiny notebook from his pocket. It’s smaller than his palm, and he takes a little pencil from the spine and writes something down before tucking both items away with a flourish.

“What is that?” I ask, suspicious and intrigued.

He gives me a devilish smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I file that away for later investigation, already plotting how to get my hands on that notebook.

I roll my eyes, and Owen pulls out a chair for me, but instead of sitting in it, I make a beeline for Weller. His head lifts at my approach, those hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that would be intimidating if I didn’t feel the concern behind it.

I climb onto Weller’s lap, straddling him, folding myself into the space between his arms and pressing my face to his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong against my cheek, a little too fast to be calm. His arms wrap around me instantly, broad palms anchoring me, warming the small of my back. He leans in, his lips brushing the crown of my head. He lingers there.

It’s strange, I think, how easily we fit together after everything. Like the years between us were just a long inhale before picking up a conversation we never finished.

“Hi,” I whisper. I push back to see his face. Deep shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes, exhaustion written in the hard set of his jaw. I reach up, tracing a thumb over the furrows in his brow, trying to smooth away the tension. His skin is warm under my touch, stubble on his jaw that wasn’t there this morning.

He blinks, and his eyes go soft for a moment. “Bianca, we need to talk about⁠—”

I press my lips to his, barely there, just enough to stop the words. “I know, but don’t be mad at Freddie. He tried to stop when he remembered the cameras, but I made it impossibly hard for him to think straight.” I shift on his lap, making my point. “So if you’re looking for someone to blame, blame me.”

“Hmm.” Weller’s eyes narrow.

From behind us, Tristan laughs low and dark, while Freddie snorts.

I kiss Weller again, more insistent this time, licking along the seam of his lips until he opens for me with a sigh. The need to comfort him—to ease whatever’s eating at him from the inside out—is a need beneath my skin.

“You feel like home.” The words against my lips are so unexpected. His eyes search mine, vulnerability flashing across his face before he can hide it. “I wish I’d been here with you instead.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. “You had to do what you had to do.” My fingers tangle in his hair, massaging his scalp, trying to knead the tension from him. He groans, eyes fluttering closed.

He presses his face into the crook of my neck. Weller feels so deeply, but he holds it in. Every feeling locked down tight.

We’re definitely going to work on that.

“Eat.” His voice is back to business, hands guiding me to turn on his lap so my back’s to his chest, facing the table.