Keep Your Knees Tucked In

Wednesday morning. The Roosevelt Hotel, New Orleans. To the two of you— I’m sitting here at the small writing desk in my room, the kind of desk that was clearly designed for someone much more productive and much less hungover than I am. There is a sliver of Louisiana sun cutting through the heavy velvet curtains, hitting the mess of sheets on the bed where I spent the last three hours trying to convince my heart to return to its regular, boring rhythm. It’s not working. My skin still feels like it’s humming at a frequency only you two can hear. I shouldn’t be writing this. In my professional life—the one where I sell paperbacks to women who want to believe in forever—I’d tell the protagonist to take a cold shower and go find a nice, stable man who owns a golden retriever. But I’ve always been a terrible listener, especially to my own advice. I’m writing this because if I don’t put it on paper, I’m going to start believing I hallucinated the last fifteen hours between Charlotte and Union Passenger Terminal. I’m writing this to you, Julian, and to you, Elias. To the man who looked like he’d never missed a dry-cleaning deadline in his life, and the man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a humid, beautiful fever dream. *** THEN: The Crescent Line, 4:15 PM. It started with the rain in North Carolina. That heavy, grey curtain of water that makes the world feel smaller and more dangerous. I was dragging my suitcase down the narrow corridor of Car 19, cursing the fact that my flight had been canceled and the only available space on the train was a shared Viewliner sleeper. I was forty-two, divorced, and tired of small spaces. Then I opened the door to Compartment B. You were already there, Julian. You were sitting by the window, a leather-bound notebook on your lap, looking like a man who had never once in his life been flustered by a transit delay. You were wearing a charcoal grey sweater that cost more than my first car, and when you looked up, your eyes were the color of the Atlantic just before a storm. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I said, which is my default setting when I’m intimidated by a man who looks that put-together. “Unless you’re the conductor,” you said, your voice a deep, resonant hum that I felt in my molars, “I’m afraid we’re both the mistake. The booking system collapsed in the storm. We’re sharing.” You didn't move your feet to let me in. Not because you were rude, but because there was nowhere for them to go. The cabin was roughly the size of a walk-in closet in a house I can’t afford. I had to squeeze past you, my hip brushing your knee, the scent of your cologne—something like cedar and expensive gin—hitting me like a physical weight. “Camille,” I said, dropping my bag and trying to find a way to sit that didn't involve our limbs tangling. “Julian,” you replied. You closed your notebook, and for a second, the silence between us was so thick you could have carved it with a butter knife. *** NOW: 9:45 AM. My coffee is cold. There is a bruise on the inside of my thigh, right where the skin is thinnest, that looks a bit like a thumbprint. I find myself tracing it with my index finger, remembering the way the train lurched somewhere near Birmingham and how that lurch was the only excuse we needed. I keep thinking about the way I described desire in my last book. I called it a 'magnetic pull.' How embarrassing. What happened on that train wasn't magnetic. It was chemical. It was the way a match feels when it hits the strike pad—that split second of friction before the flame actually catches. I wonder if you’re both together right now. Or if you’re in your own separate hotel rooms, staring at the ceiling and wondering which one of us is going to be the first to pretend it didn't happen. *** THEN: 6:30 PM. We were two hours into the trip, and Julian, you had already managed to dismantle my professional distance. We were talking about Southern Gothic literature—of all things—and I was halfway through a rant about why Flannery O’Connor would have hated TikTok when the door slid open again. That was when we met Elias. He didn't knock. He just appeared, dripping wet, wearing a denim jacket that had seen better decades and carrying a duffel bag that smelled like woodsmoke. He was younger than us—maybe thirty-two—with hair that was too long and a smile that was too confident for a man who had just been told he was the third person in a two-person sleeper. “Well,” Elias said, leaning against the doorframe and looking from me to Julian with an expression that was dangerously close to a dare. “I hope y’all like company, because the coach cars are flooded and the porter told me this was the last available square inch of dry land.” Julian, you looked like you wanted to cite a specific clause in the Amtrak passenger agreement. I just looked at the way Elias’s t-shirt clung to his chest. He was built like a man who worked with his hands, all broad shoulders and lean muscle, a stark contrast to your polished, architectural stillness. “I’m Elias,” he said, sliding his bag under the lower bunk and sitting down on the edge of the seat opposite us. The cabin, which had felt cramped with two, now felt like a pressurized chamber. Elias’s knees were inches from mine. His presence was loud, earthy, and entirely uninvited. “Julian,” you said, your voice tightening. “Camille,” I added, feeling a flush creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the train’s lack of ventilation. Elias pulled a flask from his jacket pocket. “To a long night in tight quarters,” he said, offering it to me first. I took a swig. It was rye whiskey, cheap and biting, and it burned all the way down. When I handed it back, our fingers brushed. He didn't pull away immediately. He let his rough, warm skin linger against mine for a heartbeat too long, his eyes—dark and mischievous—locking onto mine. I looked at you, Julian. You weren't looking at the flask. You were looking at Elias’s hand on mine. And you weren't angry. You were watching with a kind of intense, clinical hunger that made my stomach flip. *** NOW: 10:15 AM. I just stood up to go to the bathroom and my legs felt heavy, like I’ve been running a marathon. I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, my mascara is smudged, and I look more alive than I have since my divorce was finalized three years ago. I remember the way the light in the cabin changed as the sun went down over the Georgia pines. It turned everything amber and gold, casting long shadows that blurred the lines between where one of us ended and the next began. Julian, you have this way of tilting your head when you’re thinking about something you want to consume. I saw it then, in the twilight. You were looking at me, but you were also looking at Elias. It wasn't the way men usually look at each other—with suspicion or competition. It was like you were recognizing a partner in a crime that hadn't been committed yet. *** THEN: 9:00 PM. By the time we hit the Alabama border, the flask was empty and Julian had produced a bottle of wine from his bag. The tension in the cabin had shifted from 'awkward' to 'stifling.' Every time the train swayed, one of us would bump into another. A shoulder against a chest. A knee sliding between two others. “You write romance?” Elias asked, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed. He was watching me with an intensity that made me feel like I was under a microscope. “Like, the stuff with the guys on the covers with no shirts?” “Something like that,” I said, trying to maintain my dignity while sitting on a narrow bunk between two men who looked like they’d been designed specifically to ruin my life. “It’s about the fantasy, Elias. The idea that everything can be perfect for a few hundred pages.” “I prefer reality,” Julian said quietly. He was sitting next to me now, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his thigh through his slacks. He reached out and took the wine glass from my hand, his fingers sliding over mine slowly, deliberately. “The messy parts. The things that happen when people stop pretending they don’t want what’s right in front of them.” He didn't give the glass back. He held it to my lips, his gaze never leaving mine. I drank, the wine tasting like blackberries and silk. “What about you, Elias?” I asked, my voice sounding breathier than I intended. “What do you prefer?” Elias didn't answer with words. He reached out and placed his hand on my knee. Not a tentative touch. It was a heavy, grounding weight. He began to slide his palm upward, his callouses catching slightly on the fabric of my skirt. “I like the moment right before,” Elias whispered, his voice dropping an octave. “The part where everyone realizes no one is going to say no.” Julian didn't move to stop him. Instead, he leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “And what do you think Camille wants, Elias?” “I think she wants to stop writing about it,” Elias said. His hand reached the hem of my skirt and didn't stop. He found the bare skin of my thigh, his thumb tracing the curve of my muscle with a slow, agonizing pressure. “I think she wants to see if we’re as good as the men in her books.” I should have stopped it. I should have made a joke, or gone to find a steward, or complained about the lack of personal space. But my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, and the heat in that tiny room was becoming unbearable. “Are you?” I whispered, looking from Elias’s dark, hungry grin to Julian’s sharp, focused stare. Julian reached out with his free hand—the one not holding the wine—and cupped my jaw. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, pulling it down just enough to expose my teeth. “Why don’t we find out?” He kissed me then. It wasn't a romance novel kiss. It wasn't gentle or poetic. It was a claim. He tasted like wine and authority, his tongue pushing into my mouth with a demanding rhythm that made me moan into his throat. At the same time, Elias’s hand moved higher, his fingers hooking into the lace of my underwear, his palm pressing firmly against the ache between my legs. I was caught between them—the refined, cold heat of Julian and the raw, unbridled hunger of Elias. The train roared beneath us, the tracks clattering in a frantic, syncopated beat, but all I could hear was the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears. Elias pulled back just enough to look at Julian. “You want to help me with this zipper, or am I on my own?” Julian’s grip on my jaw tightened, but his eyes were on Elias. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “Oh, I think I can manage to be helpful.” *** NOW: 10:45 AM. I’m trembling as I write this. I have to stop for a second because my hand is shaking too much to keep the pen steady. I can still feel the way the air in the cabin seemed to run out. The way the sound of the world outside—the wind, the rain, the occasional whistle of the engine—just vanished, replaced by the sound of three people breathing in a space meant for one. I remember the way Julian looked at you, Elias, as he reached for my skirt. There was no hesitation. No jealousy. Just a shared understanding of what was about to happen to me. I’m going to go get a glass of water. Or maybe another drink. My throat is dry just thinking about what came next. About the way you both looked at me when the lights finally flickered and died somewhere outside of Montgomery, leaving us in total, suffocating darkness, save for the rhythmic flash of the signal lights passing by. I told myself I’d never send this. And I won’t. But I have to finish it. I have to get it all out before I have to check out of this room and pretend I’m just another woman visiting New Orleans for a literary conference. Wait. I think I hear someone in the hallway. It’s probably just the maid. But my heart just skipped a beat, and for a second, I hoped it was the sound of a heavy denim jacket brushing against a charcoal wool sweater. It wasn't the maid. I’ve been holding my breath for so long my chest actually aches, a dull throb that reminds me of the way my ribs felt pressed against the edge of that lower bunk. I went to the door and looked through the peephole—a tiny, distorted circle of the hallway—and there was nothing but the patterned carpet and a stray room-service tray two doors down. My heart is a frantic thing, like a bird trapped in a chimney, and I’m beginning to realize that the person I’m most afraid of seeing is also the only person—the only two people—I want to walk through that door. I’m forty-four years old. I’ve been through a mortgage, a decade of "is it my turn to take the trash out," and a divorce that felt like being slowly unmade by a very polite seamstress. I shouldn't be jumping at shadows in a fancy hotel like a girl who just had her first glass of champagne. But then again, I’ve never been handled the way you handled me when the lights went out somewhere south of Birmingham. *** THEN: 11:15 PM. The darkness in that sleeper car wasn't just an absence of light; it was a physical weight. It felt like being submerged in warm, heavy ink. The only thing that broke it was the rhythmic, strobe-like flash of the crossing signals we passed—bright, artificial bursts of red that would illuminate the cabin for a fraction of a second, showing me a snapshot of a hand, a shoulder, a jawline, before plunging us back into the void. Julian, your hands were the first thing I felt in the dark. You were so precise, even when you couldn't see. You found the zipper at the back of my dress with the steady confidence of a man who’s spent his life mastering the mechanics of things. I felt the cold metal slide down my spine, a sharp contrast to the heat of your breath against the nape of my neck. “Don’t move,” you whispered. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command that settled right into the base of my brain, making my knees go weak in a way that would have made my mother pray for my soul. And Elias, you were right there in front of me. I couldn't see your face, but I could smell you—that intoxicating mix of rain-damp denim, rye whiskey, and the salt of your skin. You didn't wait for the dress to fall. You reached up, your hands sliding underneath the loosened fabric, your palms rough and hot as they cupped my ribcage. You pulled me toward you until my breasts were crushed against your chest, the denim of your jacket scratching against my sensitive skin through the thin lace of my bra. I was a sandwich of escalating heat. Julian’s chest was against my back, his hands now moving over my shoulders to slide the straps of my dress down, while your hands, Elias, were moving lower, finding the curve of my waist and squeezing with a possessiveness that made me gasp. The train lurched—a violent, sideways shimmy as we hit a rough patch of track—and we all stumbled. I felt the edge of the lower bunk hit the back of my thighs. “Careful,” Julian murmured, his voice vibrating against my shoulder blade. He didn't let go. He used the momentum to push me down, and suddenly I was sitting on the edge of the bunk, the dress pooled around my hips like a discarded skin. You knelt between my legs, Elias. I saw your silhouette against the next flash of a passing signal light—the wildness of your hair, the breadth of your shoulders. You didn't say a word. You just reached out and hooked your fingers into the waistband of my underwear. You didn't pull them down right away. You just held them there, the backs of your knuckles brushing against the hair of my mons, a slow, deliberate friction that had me arching my back and searching for something to hold onto. I found Julian’s hands. He was standing behind me, leaning over, his arms coming around my neck to cup my breasts. He wasn't being gentle anymore. He was kneeding me through the lace, his thumbs flicking over my nipples until they were hard enough to ache. “Look at him, Camille,” Julian whispered in my ear. “Even in the dark, I want you to look at where he’s touching you.” *** NOW: 11:30 AM. I’ve just poured myself a glass of water from the tap, and my hand is still shaking so badly that the rim of the glass is chattering against my teeth. I look at my bedside table and see a copy of my latest novel—*The Summer of Longing*. I want to throw it out the window. In that book, I wrote a three-page scene about a kiss in a gazebo that I thought was the height of erotic tension. I wrote about 'tender explorations' and 'souls intertwining.' What a load of absolute horseshit. Real desire isn't a gazebo. It’s a cramped, vibrating tin box on wheels. It’s the smell of diesel and the feeling of being completely outnumbered. It’s the realization that you are not a soul intertwining with anything; you are a body, a collection of nerve endings and fluids, being toyed with by two men who have decided, for whatever reason, that you are the most interesting thing they’ve ever seen. I remember the way the train’s whistle sounded in the distance—that long, lonely wail—while Elias’s mouth finally found the skin of my inner thigh. It was such a strange juxtaposition: the world outside going about its business, some cow standing in a field in Alabama, while inside this tiny room, I was being dismantled. I wonder if you’re thinking about the logistics, Julian. You seem like a man who appreciates logistics. The way three bodies fit into a space meant for one. The physics of it. The way you had to brace yourself against the upper bunk to keep your balance while you used your other hand to unzip your own fly. I can still hear the sound of that zipper. It was louder than the train. *** THEN: 11:45 PM. The dress was gone. My bra was gone. I was shivering, not because I was cold—the cabin was a goddamn furnace—but because the anticipation was vibrating through me like a tuning fork. Elias, you finally pulled the lace down. You did it slowly, dragging the fabric over my hips, your eyes never leaving mine even though it was so dark I could only see the whites of them. When I was finally bare, you didn't rush in. You stayed there, kneeling on the floor of the train, your hands resting on my knees, spreading them wide. “You’re so wet, Camille,” you said, and there was a note of genuine wonder in your voice. “I can smell you over the whiskey.” I should have been embarrassed. A woman of my age, a woman with a mortgage and a pension plan, should not be sitting on a train bunk with her legs spread for a stranger while another stranger holds her breasts. But all I felt was a soaring, terrifying sense of freedom. I reached back and grabbed Julian’s hair, pulling his head down until he was kissing me again. This time it was deeper, more desperate. I tasted the wine he’d been drinking, the sharp tang of his desire. His hand slid down my belly, his fingers diving into the slickness Elias had just described. He found my clit with a precision that made me cry out, his middle finger circling the small, swollen nub while his index and ring fingers pushed inside me. He was so thick, even just his fingers, and I was so ready that I felt my internal muscles clamp down on him immediately. “Oh, she’s a hungry one, isn't she?” Julian said against my lips, his voice thick with a dark sort of pride. Elias, you didn't wait any longer. You stood up, the denim of your jeans rustling, and I heard the heavy thud of your boots being kicked off. Then you were there, climbing onto the bunk, your weight pressing me back into the thin mattress. You were different than Julian. Julian was all sharp angles and controlled strength. You were a blunt force. You moved between my legs, your thighs tree-trunk thick and covered in coarse hair that felt like electricity against my skin. When your cock first brushed against me, I nearly jumped off the bed. It was huge—hot, heavy, and pulsing with a life of its own. “Hold on to me,” you growled, and I did. I wrapped my arms around your neck, burying my face in the crook of your shoulder, breathing in the scent of you. You didn't just slide in. You teased me. You rubbed the head of your dick against my opening, painting me with your own pre-come, until I was begging, actually begging, for you to just do it. “Please, Elias. Please.” “Please what, Camille?” Julian asked from behind us. He had moved to the side, his hand still busy between my legs, his thumb never stopping that agonizingly perfect rhythm on my clit. “Tell him what you want.” “I want him inside me,” I sobbed, my head tossing back against the pillow. “I want you both. Just... please.” Elias, you didn't need any more encouragement. You gripped my hips so hard I knew there would be bruises in the morning—the ones I’m looking at right now in the New Orleans sun—and you shoved. You were so big I felt like you were going to split me right up the middle. I let out a sound that wasn't a moan; it was a shriek of pure, unadulterated shock. You filled me completely, every inch of my vagina stretched to its absolute limit, and for a second, the world just stopped. The train stopped. The wind stopped. There was only the sensation of you, solid and unyielding, buried deep inside me. Julian didn't let the moment linger. He leaned over us, his hand reaching down to find where we were joined. He touched the place where your dark hair met mine, his fingers sliding over the seam of our bodies. “Look at how well she takes you,” Julian whispered, and I could hear the hunger in his voice, the way he was breathing in short, jagged bursts. “Look at how she’s shaking.” And I was. I was vibrating from the inside out. *** NOW: 12:15 PM. I’ve moved to the bed. I’m sitting cross-legged on the rumpled sheets, the laptop forgotten on the desk, this legal pad the only thing keeping me grounded. I can still feel you, Elias. That phantom fullness. It’s like my body has been permanently altered, like a piece of jewelry that’s been stretched to fit a larger finger. I keep shifting my weight, trying to find a position that doesn't remind me of the way you moved inside me. You weren't elegant. You were rhythmic and punishing, your hips slamming against mine with a force that made the bunk creak and groan. Every time you hit the back of my throat—or at least that’s what it felt like—Julian would lean in and kiss me, catching my moans in his mouth, his tongue mimicking the movement of your cock. I’m a writer. I’m supposed to be good with words. But there are no words for the way it felt to be the center of that much focused, male intent. It wasn't just sex. It was an occupation. I remember looking up at Julian in one of those flashes of red light. He was watching us, his eyes wide and dark, his hand moving frantically in his own lap. He looked like a man watching a masterpiece being painted, a man who couldn't wait to pick up the brush himself. I wonder what you said to each other after I finally passed out somewhere near the Louisiana border. Did you shake hands? Did you share a cigarette in the vestibule? Or did you just sit there in the dark, watching me sleep, wondering if I’d remember any of it? *** THEN: 1:30 AM. The friction was becoming unbearable in the best possible way. Elias, you were sweating now, the drops falling from your forehead onto my chest, and the sound of our skin slapping together was the only thing I could hear over the roar of the train. Julian, you couldn't stay on the sidelines anymore. You moved around to the head of the bunk, pushing aside the pillows. “Sit up,” you told me. With Elias still buried deep inside me, I struggled to sit, my muscles screaming at the effort. I leaned back against the wall of the cabin, my legs still wrapped tightly around Elias’s waist. He groaned, his face buried in my neck, his hands clutching my hair. You stood over us, Julian. You had stripped off your sweater and your shirt, and your body was lean and corded with muscle, the skin of your chest pale in the flickering light. You looked like a statue come to life, something cold and perfect that had suddenly caught fire. You reached out and took my face in both of your hands, forcing me to look up at you. “You’re doing so well, Camille,” you said, your voice low and melodic. “But I think Elias is getting a little too comfortable. Don't you?” Elias pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto yours. There was a challenge there, a momentary flash of that male competition I’d expected earlier. But then you reached down and gripped his shoulder, your fingers digging in, and the tension shifted. “Move back a little,” you told him. Elias obeyed, sliding out of me with a wet, sucking sound that made my entire body twitch in protest. I felt cold the second he was gone, the air hitting my wet skin like a slap. But I wasn't cold for long. Julian, you stepped onto the bunk, pushing Elias toward the foot of the bed. You didn't lie down. You stayed on your knees, looming over me, your cock—which was just as impressive as Elias’s but in a different, more sculpted way—inches from my face. “I’ve been waiting to do this since Charlotte,” you said. You didn't ask. You just took my hair in your hand again, not roughly, but with enough pressure to let me know who was in charge, and you guided me forward. I’ve never been particularly fond of giving head. It always felt like a chore, something to get through to get to the 'real' part. But as I took you into my mouth, Julian, I realized I’d just been practicing on the wrong men. You tasted like the wine we’d shared and something uniquely yours—something clean and sharp. I looked up at you as I sucked, my cheeks hollowing, my eyes watering slightly from the depth of you. You were looking down at me with an expression of such pure, unadulterated hunger that I felt a fresh wave of wetness drench my thighs. And then I felt Elias. He hadn't gone far. He moved behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his arms coming around to cup my breasts again. He began to kiss my shoulders, his tongue trailing fire across my skin, while his hand reached down to find my clit again. I was a tether between the two of you. One of you in my mouth, the other at my back, both of you working together to push me toward a ledge I wasn't sure I was ready to fall off of. “That’s it,” Julian groaned, his hips beginning to thrust rhythmically against my lips. “Take it all, Camille. Be a good girl and take it all.” *** NOW: 12:45 PM. I’m sitting here with my legs tucked in, my chin resting on my knees, staring at the phone. It’s a heavy, old-fashioned thing, the kind they only have in hotels that charge four hundred dollars a night. I keep thinking about the way Julian called me a 'good girl.' If a man had said that to me in my regular life, I would have laughed in his face or given him a lecture on the patriarchy. But on that train, in that darkness, it felt like the most honest thing anyone had ever said to me. I was a good girl. I did exactly what you both wanted. And the terrifying part—the part that’s making me want to pack my bags and flee back to Georgia—is how much I loved it. I keep looking at the door. I’m waiting for the knock. I’m waiting for the sound of Julian’s voice telling me to open up, or Elias’s laugh echoing in the hallway. I have three more hours before my first panel. Three hours to sit in this room and try to figure out how to go back to being a woman who writes about 'longing' instead of a woman who actually knows what it feels like to be consumed. I’m going to finish this. I have to. Because if I don’t write down what happened when Julian finally decided he wanted to be inside me too, I think I might actually combust. I can still feel the weight of you both. The way the bunk felt like it was going to collapse. The way the train seemed to pick up speed as we crossed the border, the wheels screaming on the tracks, mirroring the sound I was making. Wait. There’s a noise. Not in the hallway this time. It’s coming from the balcony. My heart is stopping. I’m not even kidding. I think I’m actually dying. I’m going to go look. I have to. If it’s not you, I’ll probably be relieved. But if it is... Lord help me, if it is you, I don’t think I’m ever going back to Georgia. I stepped out onto the narrow strip of stone, the humidity of New Orleans hitting me like a wet wool blanket. It’s that particular kind of heat that makes you feel like you’re breathing through a sponge, heavy with the scent of old stone and powdered sugar from the Quarter. And there you were, Elias, leaning against the railing of the balcony next to mine, looking like you’d spent the last hour deciding whether or not to jump the gap. You still had that denim jacket on, despite the ninety-percent humidity, and you were rolling a toothpick between your teeth. You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at me, your eyes taking in my messy hair and the way I was clutching this legal pad to my chest like a shield. Then you looked over your shoulder, back into your own room, and I saw a flicker of movement—the sharp, unmistakable line of a charcoal grey shoulder. Julian. The two of you didn't just share a train car. You shared a floor. Or maybe you shared a room. My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest, like a tire stuck in Georgia red mud. *** THEN: 2:00 AM. The train was screaming through the pines now, the rhythm of the wheels becoming a frantic, percussive roar that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. Julian, you had moved me. You weren't content with just having me on the bunk. You wanted me against the door, the cold, vibrating metal of the sliding panel a shock against my bare shoulder blades. “Turn around,” you said. Your voice was different now—stripped of that professional polish, reduced to something jagged and hungry. I obeyed. I pressed my palms against the door, feeling the rattle of the car through my wrists. I felt you behind me, Julian, the heat of your chest a solid wall. You didn't waste time. You reached around and grabbed my hips, pulling me back against you. I felt the length of you, hard and insistent, pressing right into the small of my back. Elias was right there, standing in the narrow gap between us and the bunk. He reached out and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, kicking them off with a grunt of effort. He was all thick muscle and dark hair, the kind of man who looked like he’d been carved out of a hickory stump. When he stepped toward me, I felt trapped in the best possible way. “You’re shaking, Camille,” Elias whispered. He reached out and grabbed my hair again, tilting my head back so I had to look at him. He didn’t kiss me this time. He just watched my face as Julian guided himself to my opening. Julian, you weren't as thick as Elias, but you were longer, and you hit a spot deep inside me that made my toes curl into the disgusting carpet of the train car. You pushed in slowly, agonizingly, your hands sliding up to grip my ribcage. Every inch you gained felt like a claim being staked. I let out a low, guttural moan that was lost in the whistle of the engine. “Tell me,” Julian breathed into my ear, his teeth grazing my lobe. “Tell me how it feels to have me inside you while he watches.” “It feels... heavy,” I gasped, my forehead dropping against the cold metal of the door. “It feels like I’m being filled up with something I can’t get rid of.” Elias didn’t stay a spectator for long. He moved in close, his chest pressing against my face. I could smell the salt on his skin, the raw, masculine scent of a man who’d been working and wanting. He reached down and guided his own cock toward my mouth. I took him in, my jaw aching as I tried to accommodate him while Julian was moving behind me. It was too much. It was a sensory overload that threatened to snap my brain in two. The sliding of Julian’s cock inside me, the stretch of Elias in my mouth, the rhythmic clatter of the train—it was a symphony of friction. I felt Elias’s hands on my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, guiding my rhythm. And behind me, Julian was picking up speed, his thrusts becoming more frantic, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches. “That’s it, Camille,” Julian groaned, his hands moving from my ribs to my breasts, squeezing them until it almost hurt. “Take us both. Be the woman you write about. Be the woman who doesn't say no.” *** NOW: 1:15 PM. I’m back inside my room, but the door to the balcony is wide open. You both walked in ten minutes ago without waiting for an invitation. Julian, you’re sitting in the velvet armchair by the window, looking exactly like the man I met in Charlotte, except for the way your eyes are tracking the movement of my throat every time I swallow. Elias, you’re pacing the room like a caged animal, your boots silent on the heavy carpet. Neither of you has touched me yet. There’s a bottle of bourbon on the desk now—Julian brought it—and the smell of it is making my head spin. I feel like I’m back on the train, the world outside moving too fast to catch, the three of us suspended in a bubble of our own making. “You’re still writing,” Julian said, gesturing to the legal pad I dropped on the bed. His voice is that same deep hum, the one that makes my molars ache. “Is it a happy ending, Camille? Or do you prefer the messy parts?” I looked at him, and for a second, I wasn't a forty-four-year-old novelist with a deadline. I was the woman against the door, the woman who had been used and discarded and cherished all at once. “I haven’t decided yet,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I think I need more research.” Elias stopped pacing. He stood at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “We can do that,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched into that dangerous grin. “We’re very dedicated to the craft.” *** THEN: 3:30 AM. The lights had come back on, but they were dim—a sickly, flickering yellow that made the cabin look like a scene from an old noir film. We were all on the lower bunk now, a tangle of limbs and damp skin. I was lying on my back, my legs draped over Elias’s shoulders as he worked his tongue over my clit with a terrifying, single-minded focus. Julian, you were sitting behind me, my head resting in your lap. You were stroking my hair, your fingers gentle, a stark contrast to the way you’d been handling me twenty minutes prior. “You’re beautiful when you’re coming apart,” you whispered. I was beyond words. I was just a series of pulses and gasps. Elias was using his thumbs to spread me even wider, his tongue moving in a way that made me feel like he was trying to taste my soul. I felt the first wave of the climax hit me—a sharp, electric jolt that started at the base of my spine and radiated outward until my fingers were clawing at the sheets. “Now,” Julian said, and it was a command. Elias pulled back, but only for a second. He moved up, his body shielding me from the dim light, and he slid back inside me. But this time, he didn't move. He just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead resting against mine. “Look at me, Camille,” he said. I opened my eyes. He looked tired, and raw, and more handsome than any man has a right to be. Behind us, I felt Julian move. He shifted my hips, tilting them up, and then I felt it—the slow, impossible pressure of a second entry. I didn't think it would fit. I thought my body would refuse, would snap shut like a trap. But Julian, you were patient. You used the slickness Elias had left behind, and you pushed, inch by agonizing inch, until you were both inside me. The pain was there, a sharp, bright line of it, but it was immediately drowned out by a sensation so intense I thought I might actually black out. I was stretched to the point of breaking, my internal walls straining against the combined weight of the two of you. “Breathe,” Julian whispered, his hand coming around to cover my mouth as I let out a silent scream. “Just breathe through it.” Elias began to move first—tiny, shallow thrusts that felt like they were vibrating through my entire pelvic floor. Then Julian joined in, his movement counteracting Elias’s, a slow, grinding friction that had me seeing stars. It was the most crowded I’ve ever felt in my life. It was the most occupied. I wasn't Camille the writer, or Camille the divorcee. I was just a vessel for the two of you, a place where your hungers met and exploded. I came so hard my vision went white. It wasn't the kind of orgasm I write about—the 'shattering' or the 'soaring.' It was a collapse. A total, structural failure of my nervous system. I felt the both of you go off inside me, the heat of your come a final, drowning weight, and then there was nothing but the sound of the train and the three of us trying to remember how to breathe. *** NOW: 1:45 PM. Elias is at the edge of the bed now. He’s reaching out, his hand hovering just inches from my knee. He’s waiting for me to say something, or to move, or to go back to my writing. Julian is still in the chair, watching us. He looks like he’s already written the next chapter in his head, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up. “The maid is going to come by eventually,” I say, though I don’t know why I’m worried about the maid. My life is currently a bonfire, and I’m worried about the housekeeping schedule. “Let her knock,” Julian says. He stands up, his movements fluid and precise, and walks toward the bed. He stops behind Elias, his hand resting on the younger man’s shoulder. It’s the same gesture from the train—that shared understanding, that quiet alliance. “We didn't come here to talk about the maid, Camille,” Elias says. He finally closes the gap, his hand landing on my thigh. His skin is just as rough as I remember, just as warm. “We didn't come here to talk at all.” I look at the legal pad. I look at the words I’ve written—the 'magnetic pulls' and the 'tender explorations'—and I realize I’m done with them. I don’t want to write about it anymore. I want the grease. I want the noise. I want the messy, impossible reality of the two of you. I reach out and take Elias’s hand, pulling it higher, until he’s touching the bruise he left on the train. I look at Julian, and I see the predatory smile I remember from the twilight in Alabama. “I’m not going back to Georgia,” I whisper. Julian leans down, his breath hot against my ear, just like it was when the lights went out. “I know,” he says. “You’re right where you’re supposed to be.” He reaches for the zipper of my dress, and the sound of it—that sharp, metallic slide—is the last thing I hear before the world disappears again. This time, there’s no train, no rain, no Grey curtains. There’s just the three of us, the New Orleans sun, and the realization that some stories don’t need an ending. They just need to keep going until there’s nothing left to say. I let the legal pad slide off the bed. It hits the floor with a dull thud, the pages fluttering for a second before settling into the carpet. I don't think I'll be needing it anymore.

Keep Your Knees Tucked In

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