I set the remaining bag on the counter and turn to find Matthew leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, watching me with that same expression. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of Trenton closing the front door behind us. The deadbolt clicks. The chain follows.
"Okay," I say slowly, looking between them. "What's going on?"
Trenton sets the bags down and turns to face me. "Charlie's at school until two."
"I'm aware."
"Your parents aren't coming by until dinner."
"Also aware."
Matthew pushes off the refrigerator. "Caiden canceled."
"He did?"
"Texted ten minutes ago that something came up at the clubhouse."
I look between them again. They're standing close now with Trenton to my left and Matthew to my right, and the kitchen that felt spacious a second ago has suddenly gotten very small.
"And Carter?" I ask.
"Garage shift. Until eight."
"So." I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms to mirror Matthew's posture. The corner of my mouth wants to turn up, and I let it. "What you're telling me is that we have the house to ourselves for…"
"Four hours," Trenton finishes. He moves closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the soap from his shower mixing with warmer notes underneath. "Minimum."
"Four hours," I repeat.
Matthew's hand finds my back. His thumb presses into the muscle just above my waistband, and the touch sends a wave of heat through me that starts low and spreads fast.
"We haven't had four hours alone since the night at the cabin," he says. His voice has dropped to that register, the one he uses when it's just us, when the walls are up and the world is locked out. "Not without planning it. Not without checking the perimeter first."
He's right. We haven't. The past month has been Charlie and therapy and security systems and adoption paperwork and club meetings and the slow, careful work of building a life together while the ghost of what almost happened still lingers in the corners. We've had moments, quick and stolen, behind closed doors while Charlie watches cartoons in the living room, or in the shower at five in the morning before anyone else is awake. But not this. Not time.
Trenton's hand cups my jaw. His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath catches.
"You don't have to say yes," he says quietly. "If you're tired, or if you have things to do."
"Shut up," I tell him, and I'm already pulling him down by the front of his shirt.
His mouth meets mine and the kiss is immediate and deep, no preamble, no gentle buildup. His tongue finds mine and his hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and the sound I make against his mouth is not the sound of a woman who's tired or has things to do.
Matthew's hands find my hips from behind, pulling me back against him. I feel the hard length of him pressing into the curve of my lower back, and the dual sensation—Trenton's mouth on mine, Matthew's body behind me—makes my knees go weak in a way that's embarrassing and perfect and exactly what I need.
"Bedroom," I manage between kisses.
"No." Trenton's mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck, his teeth grazing the tendon where my pulse is hammering. "Here."
"Here?"
"Here," Matthew confirms. His hands are already under my shirt, sliding up my ribs, his palms warm and calloused against my skin. "I've been thinking about this counter since we installed it."
I laugh, breathless, and the sound turns into a gasp as Matthew's thumbs find the underside of my breasts and Trenton's hand slides down to the button of my jeans.
They move with the coordination of men who have done this before, who know each other's rhythms and timing, who understand without speaking how to share the space of my body between them. Trenton gets the button. Matthew gets the zipper. My jeans are off my hips and down my legs before I've fully processed that we're doing this in the kitchen, in the morning, with the blinds open?—
"The blinds?—"