Filthy Rich Santas

25. Lana

25

LANA

I’m more relaxed than I can remember being in ages when I finally emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy robe, my hair still damp. I don’t actually realize I’m hungry until the scent of food hits me, though.

I smile as my stomach growls, quickly changing into soft lounging clothes before heading out to join the guys in the front room of the suite.

“Perfect timing.” Ryder grins, gesturing to a truly impressive spread they’ve laid out. “Beckett insisted on getting you some actual food, not just room service. We found a place that claims to specialize in comfort food.”

“And delivers,” Tristan adds, leaning against the back of the couch with a takeout container in one hand and a fork in the other. He gives me a sheepish look, raising the fork. “Just taste testing.”

I laugh softly, my heart doing a little flip. “It all looks delicious.”

And Beckett was the one who insisted. For me.

“Thank you,” I murmur as he finishes arranging the rest of the steaming containers on the table, buffet style. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Beckett grunts, not meeting my eyes. “You need real nutrients, not overpriced hotel crap.”

I smile at his gruff concern.

“Why don’t you get comfortable on the couch,” Ryder suggests. “I’ll make you a plate, and we can eat there.”

They’re treating me a bit like I’m made of glass, and although I don’t want my diagnosis of lupus to change anything, the truth is, it has. And right now, it feels good to be pampered a little.

“Okay,” I agree, settling into the soft cushions. “Does this mean another Christmas movie marathon?”

“Whatever you want,” Tristan agrees, settling down next to me as Ryder follows through on his promise and brings me a plate.

Beckett takes the seat on the other side of me, and they fire up It’s a Wonderful Life while we eat.

Halfway through the movie, Beckett surprises me by silently pulling out his knitting supplies, and I can’t stop myself from reaching out to stroke the soft yarn he’s using. It’s the dark green of a winter forest, the same green as his eyes, and the sight of his thick, tattooed fingers manipulating the thin needles so gracefully is almost mesmerizing.

He adds a couple of inches to what seems to be another scarf, then looks up at me with an almost imperceptible smile.

“Want to learn?”

I nod eagerly, feeling a little thrill as Beckett shifts closer, his warmth radiating against my side. I really am interested, but more than that, it feels like an olive branch. Like he’s opening up to me, even if it’s not with words.

He hands me a spare set of needles and a ball of soft, cream-colored yarn.

“You ever tried this before?”

I shake my head.

“Okay,” he rumbles, his deep voice oddly soothing. “First, you need to learn to cast on. Watch me.”

He creates a neat row of loops on his needle, then nods toward the supplies he handed me.

“Give it a try.”

My first attempt is clumsy, the yarn tangling around my fingers.

“Oh, shoot.” I laugh at myself as I hold up the disaster. “How did you make it look so easy?”

Beckett grunts, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Everyone starts somewhere. Here, let me help.”

His hands envelop mine, guiding my movements and sending a rush of butterflies cascading through my stomach.

Ryder chuckles, getting to his feet as Beckett demonstrates the technique again. “Hot chocolate?”

“I’ve created a monster,” I tease him.

He grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s always a yes,” I murmur, most of my attention on copying the movements Beckett showed me.

“That’s it,” he says once I’ve finally made it through a complete row. “I knew you could do it.”

His praise sends a wave of warmth through me. As Beckett continues his patient instruction, being sweeter than I ever would have guessed he could be in his own reserved way, the atmosphere between all four of us is relaxed and cozy.

It’s a low-key sort of fun that has nothing whatsoever to do with keeping up the kind of appearances that are so important to my family. With the four of us chatting and laughing as one of my favorite movies plays softly in the background, I’m struck by how comfortable this all feels. How right.

My hands may still be clumsy with the needles, but here, nestled between these three men, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be… and it would be everything I want right now if a small part of me didn’t also feel that the night, one of the very few I have with them, is also being wasted.

I sigh. I don’t mean to. But even though I’m enjoying this time with them, I also feel a twinge of disappointment.

“Everything okay there, freckles?” Tristan asks.

I hesitate for just a second before replying, but then nod.

I love hanging out with them like this. Getting to know them more deeply has only made me care for them more, which makes it feels selfish to admit that I feel like I’m missing out right now.

We agreed to a road trip full of kinky exploration, of pushing boundaries and indulging desires, but ever since leaving the hospital, none of them have made any moves to touch me beyond the most innocent of contact. Even the intimacy I felt with Tristan in the bath was more about comfort than sex.

But I hold my tongue, because I know what happened earlier scared them, and I really do appreciate the overwhelming sense from all three of just how much they care for me.

I only make it through three inches of my own scarf—three incredibly clumsy-looking inches—by the time I start yawning, and I don’t complain at all when the guys insist we all head to bed.

Especially since they mean, once again, all of us in the same bed.

This time, Beckett insists on being next to me, radiating a protectiveness that I really don’t hate, even if the three of them being so careful with me all night has left me feeling a bit broken and untouchable.

But sleeping between Ryder and Beckett, with Tristan in bed with us too? I will never complain about that.

“Good night, love,” Ryder says softly, giving me the world’s most platonic peck on the lips as Tristan kills the lights.

“Good night,” I reply as Beckett drapes an arm over me, pulling me back against him.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear and his breath warm on my neck.

I nod, snuggling back against him. “I really am. Thanks for being such a great teacher.”

He makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, his arm tightening slightly.

Warmth blooms in my chest again, my eyelids getting heavy. But as I drift off, I can’t quite shake the feeling of disappointment from earlier.

Our time on this trip is limited, and as wholesome and cozy as the evening was, what I really want is for these three to teach me other things.

While we still have time.

The next morning, the tiny kernel of disappointment I went to sleep with starts to grow. I fight it, because they’re still being ridiculously sweet—making sure I eat enough before we leave, asking how I rested, insisting on carrying all the bags when we check out and head to the SUV again. But once we finally get on the road, the easy banter from previous days is absent.

As we settle into the drive, silence falls over the car and lasts through the full day of driving. The men rotate behind the wheel each time we stop, and whenever they’re not driving, they’re each absorbed in their phones.

Not that they’re ignoring me, exactly. They respond if I speak up, but the easy banter is gone.

After getting yet another distracted response when I point out some of the holiday decorations we’re passing, I give up. Glancing around at the three of them, that sense of loss I started to feel last night hits me hard. Our time together is almost over.

All three of them woke up in the typical male state, but none of them suggested doing anything about their morning hard ons, and none of them have touched me all day today, either.

I pull out my sketchbook, my pencil moving restlessly across the page as I try to quell the growing unease in my chest. But my mind starts to wander, doubt creeping in like an unwelcome shadow.

Are they losing interest now that they know the truth about my illness? I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the perfect daughter, the ideal girlfriend, always put-together and pleasing until I finally decided to live on my own terms. And they seemed to like that version of me. The real one. The one I’m still discovering for myself.

But now they’ve seen me vulnerable, sickly.

And they don’t seem interested in this version of me at all. Well, not sexually. They still care. In fact, every time we stop, their attentiveness is almost overwhelming.

“Lana, drink some water.”

“Are you hungry? We should get you something to eat.”

“Don’t push yourself. I’ve got that.”

And I appreciate it, I do. But I’m feeling so much better now, which only highlights how carefully they’re treating me. Like I’m fragile. Breakable.

As we pull into yet another rest stop, Ryder hands me a bottle of water with a gentle smile. “Here, love. Stay hydrated.”

I take it, forcing a smile. “Thanks. You guys don’t have to keep fussing over me, though.”

Tristan looks up from his phone, pushing his glasses up. “We’re just looking out for you.”

“I know, and I appreciate it, but…” I trail off, not sure how to express the jumble of emotions swirling inside me.

Beckett grunts from the driver’s seat. “But nothing. We’re not taking any chances.”

“Thanks,” I say with a tight smile as we pull back onto the highway.

Ryder and Tristan both immediately get distracted by their phones again, Beckett apparently lost in thought, and it doesn’t get much better when we finally stop for the night.

The hotel is another nice one, but as we settle into our room, a small suite consisting of a single bedroom, bathroom, and a sitting area with a loveseat, low coffee table, and a few plush chairs, the now familiar routine of unpacking and ordering dinner feels almost stifling given the short, distracted answers they give to anything I bring up. It’s like they’re both hyper aware of me and also completely distracted. Each of them hovers a bit in his own way, treating me with kid gloves, but I can feel my frustration building with each passing moment.

Finally, as we’re gathered around the low coffee table, Beckett and I on the loveseat and Tristan and Ryder across from us, finishing up our meal, I can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, enough!” I burst out, setting my plate down with more force than necessary.

They all freeze, exchanging glances.

“I thought you liked orange chicken,” Tristan says cautiously. “If you want to switch for the Moo Shu pork?—”

I wave him off. “Why haven’t any of you touched me since I collapsed?”

Tristan blinks at me, adjusting his glasses, while Beckett and Ryder both stare.

“We… have,” Ryder says after a moment. “We literally all slept together last night. But we’re definitely not going to push you, especially after that.”

“Is that it, then?” I ask , trying and failing not to let my voice tremble. “Is our agreement over just because I’m sick? Do you… do you not want me anymore? None of you?”

The shock on their faces would be almost comical if I wasn’t so disappointed.

Tristan is the first one to speak. “That’s not it at all,” he says, his voice soft.

Ryder nods, leaning forward in the seat he took on the other side of the low coffee table our food is set out on. “We just want to be careful.”

“It’s not about not wanting you,” Beckett says gruffly. “But we’re not going to go in blind and trigger a bad reaction. No Dom would be okay with that.”

“No decent person would,” Ryder adds, his eyes flashing with a ferocity that belies his usual laid-back demeanor.

I chew on my lip for a moment, frustration and relief warring inside me. “Thank you,” I finally say, “But I’m not made of glass, you know. If you guys really do still want me, I won’t break.”

“We know that,” Beckett says, turning toward me to tug my lip out from between my teeth. He keeps a grip on my chin, staring at me intensely. “But none of us have any real knowledge about lupus. Or we didn’t. We’ve been researching it all day.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Researching?”

He nods. “We need to know what can trigger flare-ups and how to help when one happens. There’s no way we’re going to let you get to the point of rushing to the emergency room again. Not if we can help it. But that’s why we need to understand what kind of support you might need.”

I look between them, stunned. All day, I thought they were pulling away, losing interest.

But instead…

“You’ve spent the day doing all of that… for me?” I whisper, my chest tight with emotion.

I don’t wait for an answer. I can see by the earnest looks on their faces that it’s true.

Before I can overthink it, I launch myself at Beckett.

“Thank you,” I murmur against his lips before pressing mine against his.

He stiffens for a moment, clearly surprised, but then his arms come around me and he’s kissing me back. No, he’s doing more than that. He’s taking control of the kiss, pulling me closer and manhandling me onto his lap, leaving no room between us at all.

“Fuck, Lana,” he groans, adjusting the angle of my head.

Then he dips down to claim my mouth again, the end-of-day scruff on his jaw scratching my skin lightly.

I cling to him, melting against him. He kisses me just as hard and forcefully as he does everything else, and it’s everything I need to quash the last of my doubts.

He tightens his arms around me, and I moan, giving myself over completely. If I’m honest with myself, I’m already starting to fall—for all three of them.

It’s not smart, but I can’t help it. All I can do right now is enjoy it.

Every last minute of it that I can get.