Chapter 4: No Regrets, Only Family
The first sensation was warmth. Then weight. The solid, comforting pressure of a body curled against her back, a leg thrown over hers. The soft brush of lips against her temple. Jamie stirred, consciousness seeping in like dawn light through a cracked door.
Her body ached in a deep, unfamiliar way. A pleasant soreness radiated from her core, a dull throb between her thighs where she felt tender and used. Memories surfaced not as individual images, but as a flood of sensation: the crushing grip of hands, the searing stretch, the rough texture of a leather couch against her skin, the hot spill of release inside her. And then, the tenderness afterward. The warm towels. The whispered praises. The safety of being held between them.
She kept her eyes closed, savoring it. Vincent’s breath was a steady rhythm on the back of her neck. Marco’s arm was draped over her waist, his hand resting loosely on Vincent’s hip. She was the knot that tied them together.
Vincent’s voice broke the quiet, low and gravelly with sleep, but taut with something else. “You awake, principessa?”
She nodded slightly, the movement rustling the blanket.
His hand, which had been resting lightly on her stomach, splayed wider. His calloused fingertips traced idle patterns on her skin, just below her navel. The touch was possessive, contemplative. Marco, behind her, nuzzled into the crook of her neck, placing a soft, sleepy kiss there. But the easy silence didn’t last.
“We need to tell you something,” Vincent said, his voice losing its drowsy edge. It was the tone he used for business. Serious. Unflinching.
Jamie’s eyes fluttered open. The lounge was dark, the single candle long since burnt out. Only the faint, ambient glow from a security light in the hallway spilled through the crack under the door, painting the room in shades of gray and deep blue.
Marco stilled behind her.
Vincent’s fingers stopped their tracing. He took a breath, a slow intake that expanded his chest against her back. “Last night. We didn’t… use anything.” He let the statement hang, stark and unadorned. “No protection.”
The words landed in the quiet room with the weight of stones. Jamie’s breath caught, not in a gasp, but a sharp, sudden hitch. The pleasant ache in her body suddenly felt charged, significant. The warm, wet memory of their releases inside her took on a new, terrifying potential.
“Either time,” Marco added quietly, his voice muffled against her skin. He didn’t sound apologetic. He sounded scared. “It wasn’t… we weren’t thinking. I just wanted you. We just wanted you. It was a fuck-up. A big one.”
Jamie’s mind, usually so quick with words from her books, went blank and white. Then it raced. Dates. Cycles. The chaotic, overwhelmed weeks leading up to her decision to come here. She’d been so focused on them, on claiming her own desire, that the practicalities had seemed like distant, unimportant things. She’d read about this moment in a hundred novels. The panic. The whispered discussions. The fear.
But as the initial shockwave passed, something else rose in its place. A fierce, unexpected heat that started low in her belly and spread outward. It wasn’t fear. It was a shocking, profound longing. The image of Vincent, wild and undone, claiming her as his. Marco, holding her gaze as she took him. The feel of them marking her, filling her, breeding her. A filthy, beautiful thought she hadn’t dared articulate even to herself.
Her silence stretched too long.
“Jamie,” Vincent began, his voice tight. “We need to figure this out. If you’re not… if nothing happens, then we never make that mistake again. We’re careful. But if you are…”
“I’m not on anything,” she whispered, cutting him off. Her own voice sounded strange to her. Clear. “I’ve never… I didn’t need to be.”
A stifled curse from Marco. Vincent’s body went rigid against hers.
“Fuck,” Vincent breathed, the word full of self-loathing. “Jamie, I’m—”
“There were no other guys.”
The confession tumbled out, rushed and quiet, stopping his apology cold.
Vincent froze. Marco lifted his head from her neck.
“What?” Marco asked, his voice low.
Jamie turned in Vincent’s arms, facing him. In the dim light, she could just make out the hard planes of his face, the dark pools of his eyes watching her. Marco propped himself up on an elbow beside her.
Her face burned with humiliation and a strange, defiant pride. “Those stories. The ones I told you. About the college boyfriend. The barista. They were from books. They were… daydreams.” She swallowed, forcing herself to hold Vincent’s intense gaze. “I wanted you to think I could handle you. That I wasn’t just some innocent kid you had to be careful with. I’ve never… until last night. It was only ever you two. For years.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a world rearranging itself.
Marco made a sound, a choked-off thing that was half laugh, half groan. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder. “Holy shit.”
Vincent said nothing for a long moment. His hand came up, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. His expression was unreadable in the dark, but his touch was unbearably gentle. “All that fire,” he murmured, “all that brave talk about wanting to be ours… and you were giving us your first everything.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a awed realization.
The last shred of her pretense, her carefully constructed fantasy of experience, dissolved. She felt utterly naked, more exposed than she had been under their hungry stares. She waited for the disappointment, for the gentleness to turn to pity.
It didn’t.
Marco lifted his head. His blue eyes glittered in the half-light, no trace of mockery left. “You lied to us,” he said, but his voice was thick with something like reverence. “You walked in here, a virgin, and asked us to ruin you. And we fucking did.” He shook his head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face. “You crazy, beautiful, brave little liar.”
Then he crushed his mouth to hers.
This kiss was different. It wasn't about conquest or claiming. It was a raw, open-mouthed testament of awe. He kissed her like he was discovering her for the first time, his tongue sliding against hers with a desperate gratitude. She kissed him back, her hands coming up to tangle in his blonde hair, pouring all her fear and want into it.
When they broke apart, gasping, Vincent was watching them, his dark eyes burning. He took Jamie’s hand from Marco’s hair and brought it to his own chest, pressing her palm flat against the hard, warm muscle over his heart. It was hammering, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched her own.
“You feel that?” he growled, his voice ragged. “That’s yours. It’s been yours. And now…” His other hand slid down her body, under the blanket, his fingers combing through the damp curls at the junction of her thighs. He found her slick, swollen flesh, and a low, approving sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re already wet again. For us. After everything.”
He parted her folds with two fingers, sliding them through her wetness. The touch was deliberate, clinical almost, and it made her hips jerk off the couch.
“We made a mistake,” Vincent said, his eyes locked on hers as his fingers worked her, circling her clit with a rough, knowing pressure. “A potentially huge one. But this?” He pushed a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle, and she cried out, her back arching. “This was no mistake. You coming here. Giving yourself to us. That was a choice. The truest thing you’ve ever done.”
He withdrew his finger, bringing it to his lips and sucking it clean, his gaze never leaving hers. The obscenity of the act, the stark hunger on his face, made her core clench violently around nothing.
“Get up,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that domineering register that made her bones melt.
Marco was already moving, sliding off the couch. Vincent followed, standing tall and naked in the gloom. He held a hand out to her. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. The blanket fell away, pooling at her feet. The cool air pebbled her skin, her nipples hardening instantly.
Without a word, Vincent turned and led her by the hand, out of the lounge, through the darkened, empty club. Marco followed close behind, a warm, silent presence at her back. They moved past the polished bar, the silent stage, through a door marked ‘Private’ and down a short corridor to a spacious, marble-tiled bathroom.
Vincent flicked on a light. It was brutally bright after the dim lounge, illuminating the sleek gray marble, the massive glass shower, the deep soaking tub. He turned to face her, his body a masterpiece of shadows and sinew.
“You gave us your first time on a couch,” he stated, cupping her face. “You deserve better for your second.”
He leaned in and kissed her, deep and consuming. It was a kiss that tasted of ownership and a fierce, terrifying devotion. Behind her, Marco’s hands settled on her hips, his lips finding the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. He bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make her gasp into Vincent’s mouth.
Vincent broke the kiss, guiding her backwards until her calves hit the cool edge of the tub. “In,” he ordered, his voice rough.
She stepped over the high side, the marble cold under her feet. Marco climbed in behind her, his chest pressing against her back. Vincent stepped in facing her, crowding the large tub with his presence. He reached over and turned the faucets. Water, hot and steaming, began to cascade from a wide, ceiling-mounted showerhead, drenching them instantly.
The water sluiced over her skin, plastering her hair to her scalp, running in rivulets between her breasts. Marco’s hands slid around her waist, soap appearing in his palms. He lathered her stomach, her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Vincent took the soap from him and began to wash her shoulders, her arms, with a focused, almost ritualistic intensity.
This wasn’t foreplay. It was reconsecration. They were washing away the fear, the uncertainty, the remnants of the night before, to start anew. Their hands moved over her, slick and sure, worshiping every curve, every dip. She leaned back against Marco, her head on his shoulder, surrendering to their care.
Vincent’s soapy hand trailed lower, over her belly, through the thatch of curls, and between her legs. He didn’t tease. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against her mound, his fingers finding her clit through the slippery lather, and rubbed with a firm, insistent pressure.
“Look at me,” he commanded over the drumming water.
She opened her eyes, meeting his heated gaze. His other hand came up to grip her chin, holding her face steady.
“You want this?” he asked, his voice a low thrum under the shower’s noise. “You want us, knowing what could happen? Knowing the risk? There’s no going back from this, Jamie. Not for any of us.”
Marco’s hands stilled on her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, waiting.
She was laid bare, in every way. The water, their hands, his intense stare—it all stripped her to the core. The fear was there, a cold knot in her stomach. But it was dwarfed by the want, by the rightness of being here, between them. This was the adventure she’d craved. This was the terrifying, glorious reality beyond the pages of her books.
“Yes,” she said, the word clear and certain despite the water on her face. “I want you. I want all of it.”
A savage, triumphant smile cut across Vincent’s face. He dropped to his knees in the tub, the water cascading over his broad shoulders. He pushed her thighs apart, his hands rough on her skin.
“Then show me,” he growled, and buried his face between her legs.
There was no finesse. It was a raw, devouring claim. His tongue was thick and hot and relentless, licking a broad stripe through her folds before zeroing in on her clit. He sucked it into his mouth, worrying it with his lips and tongue, his nose pressed hard against her. The sensation was so intense, so bluntly carnal, that her legs buckled. Marco held her up, his arms locking around her torso, keeping her open and available for Vincent’s mouth.
“Oh god, Vinnie!” she screamed, her hands flying to his wet hair, not to push him away, but to hold him closer. He growled against her, the vibration shooting straight to her core. He fucked her with his tongue, plunging deep, then drawing back to circle and suck. His stubble scraped her sensitive inner thighs, a delicious abrasion.
Marco bent his head, biting her shoulder, his hands squeezing her breasts almost painfully. “That’s it, baby. Let him taste you,” he panted in her ear. “Let him eat that sweet cunt. It’s his. You’re his.”
She was coming apart, the orgasm building like a rogue wave, swift and devastating. Her cries echoed off the marble tiles, swallowed by the steam and the pounding water. Just as she tipped over the edge, Vincent pulled back.
She whimpered in protest, her body trembling on the precipice.
“Not yet,” Vincent said, standing up, water streaming down his face. His cock was a rigid, thick arch against his stomach. He grabbed her by the waist and turned her in Marco’s arms, so her back was to Vincent, her front pressed against Marco.
Marco captured her mouth in a searing kiss, his hands cradling her face. Behind her, Vincent’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging in. She felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against her entrance, still sensitive and slick from his mouth.
“You take him,” Marco breathed against her lips, his blue eyes dark with need. “Take every fucking inch.”
Vincent pushed forward.
The stretch was even more intense than the first time, her body still aching from the night before. She cried out into Marco’s mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders. Vincent didn’t stop. He kept pushing, his pelvis coming to rest flush against her ass, filling her so completely she felt split open, owned.
“Fuck, she’s tight,” Vincent grunted, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. He stayed there for a long moment, letting her adjust, his body trembling with restraint.
Then he moved. A slow, brutal withdrawal, followed by a deep, punishing thrust. He set a relentless rhythm, each drive punching a sharp, sweet gasp from her lungs. Marco devoured the sounds, kissing her deeply, his own erection trapped between their stomachs, rubbing against her with every one of Vincent’s thrusts.
The sensation was overwhelming. Vincent’s deep, claiming strokes from behind. Marco’s hard body against her front, his mouth on hers, his cock grinding against her clit. She was pinned between them, a vessel for their shared need. The water beat down on them, mixing with sweat and the scent of sex.
“Tell me,” Vincent snarled in her ear, his pace quickening, becoming less controlled. “Tell me whose cunt this is.”
“Yours!” she sobbed, the words torn from her. “Yours, Vinnie!”
“And who do you belong to?” Marco demanded, biting her lower lip.
“You! Both of you!”
It was the truth, screamed into the steam-filled air. It shattered the last of Vincent’s control. His thrusts became wild, erratic, his fingers bruising her hips. He was grunting with each drive, animalistic sounds of pure release.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a broken rasp. “Gonna fill you up again, Jamie. Mark you again.”
The crude promise sent her over the edge. Her orgasm exploded through her, a violent, racking convulsion that clamped down on Vincent’s cock. He shouted, a raw, guttural sound, and slammed into her one final time, holding deep as he pulsed inside her, his hot release flooding her already-stretched channel.
He stayed there for long seconds, panting, his body draped over hers. Then he carefully pulled out, a gush of fluid following him. He turned her in his arms, his kiss salty and spent.
Marco was there immediately, his hands urgent. He turned her again, pressing her back against the wet, cool marble wall of the shower. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, opening her up. She was loose, wet, utterly used. He didn’t ask. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed in with