Page 107 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

My thighs clamp on his head, and I don’t care if I bruise him. I want to mark him, claim him, make him taste this on his mouth all day tomorrow and the one after that.

I come, so intense I nearly black out, my voice hoarse and lost somewhere in the room, and he doesn’t slow until I’m clawing his scalp, begging him to let up. He draws back, and when I meet his gaze, he’s smiling like he’s just won the lottery, like every fucked up thing we’ve ever done was just training for how to make me feel this much.

He pulls his hand away and, for one obscene, perfect second, sucks my taste from his own fingers. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.

“You,” he says, and it sounds almost like an accusation. “What am I going to do with you?”

I slip off the couch, my knees hitting his carpet, my hands on his thighs, and my mouth at the tip of his cock, shameless.

I want him to say my name again, to say it right as I swallow him whole. I want to know how he tastes, the rough catch of his breath in my hair, I want his hands twisted in my skull so I know for sure what he craves from me.

My own heartbeat's so loud it nearly drowns the wet, obscene sound of him filling my mouth, but not quite.

Every inch of him is the answer to a question I never dared ask.

Ethan’s hands are so big, fingers threading into my hair, tugging in just enough to sting as I take him deeper.

My jaw aches with the stretch, but that hurt's as addictive as the taste of him, the salt and fire slick of his skin, the way his thighs tremble under my palms.

He starts to thrust, shallow at first, testing, then deeper as he gives up control.

His hips jack, nearly choking me, and it’s almost funny how fast his bravado dissolves into desperate need.

Above me, I hear him cursing, voice raw.

I dig my nails into his legs, letting him know he can use me, that I want to be taken.

He bucks into my face, louder now, some animal restraint barely holding at the leash. I lick him from base to tip, tasting what feels like years of loneliness, all of it poured into the thick pulse in my mouth.

I gag when he hits the back of my throat but keep going, keep going, keep going, because I'm addicted to the way he shudders, the way he goes slack and tender at the end, the way the muscles of his thighs tremble under my palms, the way his hands clutch my hair in white-knuckled desperation.

I make a mental note: this was always the real me, the version that’s hungry and fearless and impossible to shame.

He comes with my name in his mouth.

Guttural and broken, pleasure curling it into something almost unrecognizable except by us, in this moment. And I swallow him, every drop, and if the world burns away around us, it’s fine because I'm so fucking incandescent I can’t imagine ever living inside a normal light again.

After, we collapse. I'm sprawled across his chest, hair everywhere, sweat cooling between us, and everything goes quiet.

The city hums faintly beyond the windows, lights reflecting off the glass. The apartment feels smaller somehow, like the space has shifted around what just happened and hasn’t quite settled yet.

I lie against him, my head resting near his shoulder, my fingers still loosely curled against his chest like I forgot to move them. My brain is currently offline, completely. I stare at the ceiling.

“Okay,” I say eventually.

His hand stills slightly where it had been tracing absent patterns along my arm.

“Okay,” he echoes.

“That was…” I trail off.

“Yes.”

“Right.”

A pause. “We should probably not do that again, right?”

There it is.