I didn’t have to do anything else. Jackson’s breath started coming in short, harsh bursts against my neck as he stroked deeper and deeper. Declan worked his erection until it was almost ready to explode, then pressed the head into my open, waiting mouth.
There were hands again everywhere, and I closed my eyes. Hands pulling my hair, hands pinching my waist, fingers flicking my clit back and forth. Declan filled my mouth and throat while Jackson filled me from behind. They worked in a smooth, strong rhythm, somehow in sync. I submitted entirely, allowing them to take over every void, to make me feel as stuffed and complete as possible.
My belly burned bright, brighter, impossibly white and full. The fruit ripened as Jackson and Declan’s rhythm quickened. Jackson’s ardent fingers rubbed my clit in furious circles and I ground my hips against him. Declan’s fingers began pulling my hair, cutting off the breath from my lungs.
Then suddenly, simultaneously, we all began to come. The fruit split in my mind just as Declan groaned and began to spurt down my throat. Jackson’s fingers dug into my hip as he buried himself in me up to the hilt, holding me immobile against spasm after spasm.
The fruit burst white, juices rushing out in a torrent, sweetness flooding my whole body. We three were like one, all connected, all joined in passion, all complete.
For long moments after we remained attached, then slowly began to disassemble the unit we had formed. Declan crawled down and kissed my forehead and cheeks over and over. Jackson pressed his face to my back and breathed in short, panting gasps, shuddering and thrusting every few moments as aftershocks wracked him.
I sighed, totally content. During my orgasm I had seen a painting in my mind. Huge, white, and so important. I saw all the lines and shapes, and how to make it all work. I held the image in my thoughts and marvelled at it. This was a gift from my men. It was so beautiful, I wanted to weep.
***
After my heart stopped pounding, I realized how thirsty I was. Even better, the image of the painting I had envisioned was still vivid and urgent in my mind.
Declan’s eyes were half-translucent in sleep, and Jackson snored lightly behind me. We were all so sticky, I wasn’t sure how I could ever get up again. Carefully, I pushed up on my elbow, then scooted to the end of the bed.
They looked so adorable laying there together, napping, I wanted to snap a picture and send it to Bridget. Only the remaining sliver of sanity in my head kept me from doing it.
Back in my shorts and tank top, I tried to remember if I had a linen panel the right size for the painting. I could probably get to the studio and sketch it out before it faded. It seemed like the best one yet, and I didn’t want it to slip away before I had time to get down the important bits.
My hair looked crazy, I could tell, and I pushed it around with my hands. But after being pulled on and thoroughly mussed, it was going to take some work. I padded to the kitchen, my bare feet slapping quietly against the slate tiles.
The dishes were still out from lunch. I grabbed them and stacked them, pushing them to the other side of the counter by the sink. Something white caught my eye, and I spotted my panties on the floor. Chuckling, I dove and snatched them up, stuffing them into my pocket. When I stood, Declan was leaning against the stainless steel fridge.
“Hey, I thought you were sleeping,” I said, rinsing my hands under the tap. “I just had the best idea… something awesome. I want to get it down before I lose it.”
“I just had the best idea too,” he said.
Putting the zucchini and tomatoes back in their bags, I motioned him aside so I could get in the fridge.
“Can’t you give a girl a little time to recover?” I teased.
“Come to Amsterdam,” he said abruptly.
I stopped in my tracks and looked at him.
“Why would I do that?” I said cautiously.
“Because I know people… People who should know you… I think you would do very well there.”
He crossed his arms over his pecs in that Powerful Billionaire stance I had seen him do a few times. I knew he was making me an offer.
The light from the garden lit him all up from behind, casting him in a silhouette. I couldn’t entirely read his expression, but I knew it wasn’t the same tender outpouring of emotion that Jackson had shared with me earlier.
This was a business deal. He was offering to buy me.
“Declan, I don’t--”
“Now, think about it,” he interrupted. “The career you always wanted. The respect, the prestige… A real presence in the best markets in Europe. I can do that. Just say the word.”
“But, this is my home.”
He shrugged. “Keep it. It will be here if you ever want to come back.”