Four Steps (Four)

“I’ll wear it how I want,” I say. To emphasize my point, I tug at the bottom of the t-shirt, making the neckline dip lower on my chest.

Barrett’s voice is a low growl as he moves in line with his brother. “Do it again, Caroline, and we can’t promise we’ll be able to control ourselves.”

I stare at the two of them, their identical pairs of eyes hard like the stone of their name, but also blazing with fire. Their bodies are tense but still, in a calm-before-the-storm kind of way.

To each side of Barrett and Bronson, the younger twins are on alert, waiting to see how I’ll respond.

I’ve moved past simply being defiant. I want to find out how far I can push them. I need to know what will happen.

Very purposefully, I give the hem of my shirt another tug, exposing not only the lace that trims my bra, but a good portion of the satiny cups. My nipples have gone hard, but the thick black t-shirt hides that fact from them.

Bare skin swells above the bra and my heart is pounding as I meet their gaze to check their reactions. Barrett’s eyes are on my chest; Bronson is looking at my lips before his eyes flicker to mine.

They’re holding themselves back, not wanting to make good on their threat. I’ve orchestrated a win-win situation. If they back down, I’ll win a battle of wills. If they don’t back down … well, I don’t think I want them to back down.

With their nonverbal twin communication, Barrett and Bronson seem to make their decisions at the same time and move toward me in unison. Barrett cups my jaw as Bronson grips my hip, their big hands making me feel like something tiny, which I’m not.

There’s barely an inch between us, and maybe I should feel threatened by the way they’re surrounding me, but I don’t, not at all.

For a long moment, none of us move. They’re breathing in my scent, and I do the same, taking in the woodsy notes of their cologne and the smell of their breath, their mouths so close to mine. I’d feel confident betting that Bronson drank bourbon tonight, and that Barrett’s had gin. The combination is intoxicating.

His hand still on my jaw, Barrett trembles. It’s almost imperceptible, but I catch it. With slow control, he releases a deep breath that tickles the skin on my cheek.

“What are you doing?” I ask them.

Bronson’s fingers press insistently into the flesh on my side in a way that might hurt if it didn’t feel so good. “We need to teach you a lesson.”

12

I don’t want to resist

My next breath catches in my throat and all I can do is give a single nod, my chin brushing against the palm of Barrett’s hand.

Bronson’s strong grip on me loosens to a caress that glides up my side and then down my back, his hand sliding over my jeans to cup my ass like it belongs to him. “If you want us to stop, just tell us.”

I’ve been asking the four of them to stop so many things since they’ve come back to town — stop worrying about me, stop trying to take care of me, stop telling me what to do — and they haven’t listened to me once. Despite all that, I get the strong sense that they would stop now if I asked them to.

But I don’t want them to stop.

I meet their eyes, first Barrett’s, then Bronson’s. I recognize something familiar there, but more so, I find a blend of desire and longing so potent that it nearly knocks me backward.

Desire.

I know I shouldn’t want them, but I can’t resist. I don’t want to resist.

“You need to learn to let us take care of you, Caz,” Barrett says. He emphasizes the nickname I chose for myself in the years they’ve been away, as if to say that the girl I used to be, Caroline, let them take care of her, and I need to learn to let them do so again.

“I don’t need you,” I say with only the smallest fraction of conviction.

“I think you’ll find that you like how we can take care of you.”

Bronson’s words make me lightheaded with need. It’s been a while since I’ve been “taken care of” in the way that he means, and my body is suddenly desperate for more of their touch.

Barrett turns my face toward his, tilting my jaw to find the perfect angle to kiss me. I gasp at how satisfying it feels when our mouths meet, like the first bite of bread when you’re starving, or a sip of wine after a particularly long work week.

After taking a brief sample, his lips press into mine with amplified heat and longing. I feel his need all the way down to my toes. His fingers grip my jaw like it’s the most important thing he’s ever held in his hand, and his mouth tells me I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.