Page 96 of Trust

Of course he’s already watching.

Our eyes lock. He’s sprawled against the pillows, one arm behind his head, blanket slung indecently low across his hips. That lethal smirk of his, temptation incarnate.

It hits me fast, all heat and nerves, and I don’t know where to put my hands.

I flush from head to toe and whirl around before I can combust, nearly tripping over my own feet as I bolt into the bathroom. I grip the sink and try unsuccessfully to steady myself.

Splashing water on my face, I hope it will cool the fever burning beneath my skin.

It doesn’t.

My pulse is sprinting. Images of that look, that smirk, that body, replay in my head the second I close my eyes.

I brush my teeth, trying and failing to think about anything other than the man in that bed. Then I rummage for a hoodie and reach for Cash’s without a second thought. I don’t even ask anymore. Rotating between their clothes has become part of my routine.

The way each of them looks at me when I’m wearing their things isn’t lost on me. That flicker of pride or possessiveness feels almost territorial. I enjoy that far too much.

Now I understand what Mom meant, why someone would steal a sweater from her boyfriend. Or boyfriends, in my case. It makes me smile, and a question I never dared to face finally takes root:

Could I do without the answers I’ve spent years chasing?

Perhaps I can hold onto her memory and still move forward. Even if I found out what really happened, it wouldn’t bring her back. She’d be gone either way.

When I come downstairs, Chris is already in the kitchen, barefoot in sweats and a black muscle shirt. His arms flex with every movement as he leans over the stove, hair messy from sleep.

The maleness in this house hangs heavy. Their presence drifts in like a tide, washing over me, scattering my thoughts, leaving me winded.

Chris looks up when I enter, and his mouth curves.

“Morning,” he says, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Sleep well?”

He gives me a knowing look.

Ugh.

I cross my arms and raise a brow. “Really? You too?”

He sets the spatula down, and in two strides he’s in front of me. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking over my face, “how cute you’re when you are flustered.”

Then he kisses me fiercely. His hands slip under the hoodie, fingers tracing bare skin at my waist, up my ribs, drawing me closer. My breath catches as surprise floods through me, followed by a rush of thrill and the surrender I can’t hold back.

Then the other one decides to show up.

“Wow,” Cash drawls from the doorway, and my whole body stiffens. “A show before breakfast. Don’t mind me.”

There’s a playful edge in his tone. “Didn’t realize we were switching roles. Watching is usually Stix's thing.” His words make me falter because of what he’s getting at: Watching. As in actually watching. The idea startles me. Somehow this is scandalous, and intriguing.

Is that how sharing works?

They told me they had the same girlfriend before. I never asked what that implied or thought too hard about logistics or rules. But now, with Cash’s words, how far does sharing go?

I’m not sure what that means for me. Or what it says about the fact that I’m not instantly recoiling from the thought.

It’s not the first time I’ve imagined one of them nearby while I was with the other.

I should be more shocked.

Instead, my stomach flutters and my face goes hot again.