Page 81 of Christmas with Three Firemen

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine.

“Take me downstairs,” she says.

We walk into the kitchen still holding hands.

Mateo is at the stove. He looks up, sees our faces, and gives the smallest nod. Wes is in the doorway. He reads the room the way he always does and stays quiet.

I don’t stop. I keep hold of Noelle’s hand and lead her straight down the hallway to my room. The door closes behind us. I lock it.

For a moment it’s just the two of us. She looks at me, still carrying everything we said upstairs, and I pull her in and kiss her slowly. She kisses me back just as carefully.

A soft knock comes a minute later. I open the door. Mateo and Wes step inside without a word. Mateo closes the door behind them and locks it again.

Noelle looks at all three of us. Her voice is quiet but steady.

“I don’t want to waste any more time.”

The room is dim—just the lamp on the nightstand, and past the window the storm has gone soft, snow drifting now instead of driving against the glass.

Clothes come off without rush. My hands are the ones that tremble once when her shirt hits the floor. Mateo is the one who makes her almost laugh with a low, filthy murmur against her ear while he unhooks her bra. Wes kneels and slides her pants down, pressing one open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh and then simply watching her face for the reaction he seems to know is coming.

She reaches for me first.

I guide her onto the bed and settle between her legs. I don’t rush. I map her with my mouth—collarbone, the slope of one breast, the soft place just above her hip—until her fingers are in my hair and she is no longer holding herself still. Only then do I put my mouth on her. Long, focused strokes. The kind of attention that has nowhere else to go.

Mateo claims her mouth. Wes stays at her side, one hand in her hair, the other tracing the line of her throat like he is memorizing the pulse there.

When I finally lie back, she climbs over me and takes me in one slow sink. The sound I make is quiet and wrecked. She starts to move. Mateo kneels beside us; she turns her head and takes him into her mouth without being asked. Wes’s hand slides between our bodies, two fingers finding her clit with the exact pressure she reacted to weeks ago in the equipment room. He does not need to ask if it is right.

We stay like that for a long time—me buried inside her, Mateo in her mouth, Wes’s fingers steady and precise. There’s nowhere else any of us needs to be.

Mateo eventually pulls free and moves behind her. He presses open-mouthed kisses down her spine while she continues to ride me. His fingers, slick with her, begin circling her ass. He does not speak. He just waits until she pushes back against him.

My hands are on her hips, holding her steady. My eyes never leave her face. Something shifts in me—the exact moment I realize she is no longer braced for impact. The old protective tension in her shoulders is simply gone. She is choosing this. Choosing all of us.

“I want both of you,” she says, looking down at me.

Mateo’s voice is soft against her shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I nod once. I stay completely still inside her while Mateo works her open with patience and spit, adding a second finger only when she asks for it with her body. Wes keeps the pleasure constant—slow circles on her clit, mouth at the hinge of her jaw—so the stretch never turns sharp.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” Mateo murmurs, his mouth at the back of her neck.

“I’m okay,” she breathes. “Just go slow.”

When Mateo finally presses the head of his cock against her and begins to push in, my hands tighten on her hips. Not to control her. To anchor her.

The stretch is intense. She breathes through it, forehead against mine. Mateo goes inch by careful inch, stopping every time her body asks him to. When he is fully seated, the three of us stay still for several heartbeats.

Her voice is steady. “Okay. You can move.”

We find a rhythm that has nothing to do with performance. I thrust up in short, deep strokes. Mateo moves in the opposite cadence. Wes stays close, one hand still working her, the other tangled in her hair. The dual sensation is overwhelming, but for once the point isn’t the finish.

She never goes quiet, and she never gets loud. Every so often she tells us what she wants—deeper, or slower, or just that it’s good—and we listen, and we adjust.

I watch her face the entire time. When her eyes start to flutter and her body begins to tighten around both of us, I reach up and cup the side of her face.

“Look at me,” I say, voice low and rough. The command is quiet. It is also the only place left in my life where I still need control.