Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 26

[Selene’s POV]

Axel's hand is on my face, and the weight of this moment feels like standing at the edge of something I can't take back.

I close the distance and kiss him.

Soft at first—testing, questioning, giving us both an out if we need it. But then his hand cups the back of my neck and the kiss deepens, turns into something hungry and inevitable, and I'm drowning in the taste of him.

When I pull back to breathe, Mateo's watching us with undisguised hunger. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown, and there's something raw in his expression that makes my stomach flip.

I turn to him and he kisses me differently—more urgent, his hand threading through my hair with desperate energy. Like he's been waiting for permission and now that he has it, he's going to make it count.

"You have no idea how much I've thought about this," Mateo breathes against my mouth between kisses. "Constantemente. Every single day."

Then Axel's mouth is on my neck, beard scraping sensitive skin, and I'm caught between them. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Hands wander. Axel's touch is careful and deliberate, finding every place that makes me gasp—the spot behind my ear, the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, the dip of my spine. Mateo's more exploratory, fingers tracing patterns on my thighs, my hips, mapping me like he's memorizing every reaction.

"Bedroom," I manage, standing on legs that aren't quite steady.

They follow me down the hall. My heart's pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, but I'm not scared. For the first time in two years, I'm not scared.

The door clicks shut behind us and Mateo's already reaching for my shirt, pulling it over my head with enthusiasm that makes me laugh.

"Eager much?"

"Sí. Extremely eager. Have been for more than two years, actually." He tosses my shirt somewhere and stares at me like I'm art. "Dios mío, you're gorgeous."

Axel's fingers find the clasp of my bra. "May I?"

The fact that he's asking—that they're both asking permission for everything—does something to my chest. Makes it tight in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with being seen.

"Yes."

Clothes disappear slowly. My bra, then their shirts—Mateo's revealing smooth tan skin and lean muscle, Axel's showing the full sleeve of Norse tattoos and shoulders that could support buildings. Then my jeans, their pants, until we're skin to skin and breathing hard.

The dynamic establishes naturally: Mateo's enthusiasm balanced by Axel's control, both focused entirely on me.

Mateo's mouth trails down my body—kissing my collarbone, my sternum, between my breasts—while Axel kisses me deeply, swallowing every sound I make. His hands pin my wrists gently above my head, not aggressive but commanding, giving me permission to just feel.

"Tell us what you want," Axel says against my mouth, voice rough.

"Both of you. Everything. Just—don't stop."

Mateo groans and his mouth moves lower, tongue circling my navel before continuing south with single-minded determination. When he reaches where I'm already aching, his first touch makes my hips buck involuntarily.

"Easy," Axel murmurs, releasing my wrists to stroke my face. "We've got you. Just let go."

Mateo's talking between kisses—rapid Spanish mixed with English praise that I only half understand but feel in every nerve ending. "Tan hermosa... so perfect... thought about this constantly..."

Then it's Axel's turn. He moves down my body with that deliberate control, beard scraping sensitive skin in ways that make me gasp. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and when his mouth replaces Mateo's, the contrast is devastating—slower, more measured, building tension with surgical precision.

Mateo's beside me now, watching with dark eyes while his fingers find my breast, rolling my nipple between thumb and forefinger. "You're so beautiful like this," he whispers in my ear. "Coming apart for us. Want to see you fall."

I do fall. Hard. Their names tangled on my tongue while my body shakes between them.

After, they hold me—tangled together in my sheets, skin to skin, heartbeats gradually slowing from sprint to something manageable. Mateo's half-asleep, arm flung across my waist, face buried in my neck. Axel's hand finds mine in the dark and squeezes once—grounding, certain, saying everything without words.

I float in the aftermath, feeling safer than I have in years. Like maybe I just got something back I didn't know I'd lost. Like maybe this—us, whatever we are—might actually work.

We fall asleep like that. Three people who decided that complicated is better than empty.

Morning comes with soft gray light filtering through curtains and the gentle weight of two men still wrapped around me.

I wake first, warm and content, marveling at how right this feels. Mateo's curls tickle my shoulder. Axel's breathing is steady against my back. For about thirty seconds, everything's perfect.

Then I hear it: one of the babies crying from the nursery. Sören, by the distinctive escalation pattern that says he's moved past "mildly inconvenienced" straight into "this is a crisis."

Mateo stirs. "I've got it," he mumbles, already moving. "Stay in bed."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." He's pulling on boxers, still half-asleep but determined. "You deserve five more minutes of horizontal peace."

Axel shifts, his arm tightening around me briefly before he extracts himself. "I'll help. Two-on-one odds are better."

"My heroes," I say, grinning despite the crying that's now reached operatic levels.

They leave, and I sink back into pillows that smell like us—complicated and messy and exactly where I want to be.

That's when I hear it.

Aggressive knocking on my front door. Not Naomi's friendly "I have keys but I'm being polite" knock. This is demanding. Insistent. The kind of knocking that says whoever's on the other side isn't taking no for an answer.

I frown, grabbing my robe from the floor. Not Naomi—she'd just let herself in with her copy of my keys. Not a neighbor asking to borrow sugar at six-thirty AM.

My stomach does something unpleasant.

I pad to the door, tying my robe securely, and check the peephole.

My blood runs cold.

Cassian.

In Seattle. At my apartment door. Looking like he flew overnight—slightly disheveled, tie loosened, but still wearing that entitled smile that used to make me feel special and now just makes me want to punch something.

I have no idea how he found my address. I've been careful—unlisted, private, all the security measures someone takes when they're trying to disappear from their past.

But here he is. Still knocking. Still assuming he has the right.

I take a breath. Make sure my robe is secured properly, that nothing's visible that shouldn't be. Open the door just enough to block his view inside—not letting him see the chaos of my living room, the evidence of three babies, the shoes by the door that definitely aren't mine.

"Selene." His smile widens like we're old friends running into each other at Starbucks instead of him showing up uninvited at my home at the absolute crack of dawn. "We need to talk."

Before I can respond, before I can tell him exactly where he can shove his "we need to talk," Cassian starts.