Page 141 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Confirming something.”

“That feels ominous.”

“It isn’t.”

Liar.

He steps closer and crashes his lips to mine.

It’s not sweet, at least not at first. He kisses me like there’s no way he could possibly wait another minute, like he broke the second he saw me in this dress, and he’s only just now letting go of whatever thread he was holding onto to keep himself together.

We’re still in the dressing room, but I don’t even care. There’s only Ethan, his hands on my hips, the both of us pressed up against the mirror, breath fogging the glass and lips locked together like we’ve forgotten how to be apart.

He runs his hands over my waist, up my sides, then back down, like he can’t get enough. My pulse hammers in my neck, wild and uneven, and I have to actually remind myself to breathe.

“I think we need to get this dress off you,” he murmurs. “So I can buy it for you.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out as this croaked little gasp, full of static and need. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

He ghosts his mouth along the edge of my jaw, and his hands cradle my ribcage like the two halves of me might fly apart. “You said I should have opinions. That’s mine.”

“You can’t…” I choke as his thumb traces the path down to the small of my back. “You can’t just…”

“Why not?”

I can’t answer because he’s kissing me again, and this time I let myself fold into it.

There’s nowhere else, nothing else, only the too shallow breath I manage between kisses and the awkward, unfamiliar rustle of the dress as he lifts it to his hands.

My back thumps against the mirror. My heart's a strobe light in my chest.

There’s no air, but I don’t care.

He’s everything, the only thing, he’s Ethan, and he’s saying my name against my skin. I didn’t know being wanted could feel like this, like a secret I get to keep long after we’re finished, like something I get to wear under my clothes forever.

The zipper peels down my spine, inch by slow inch, and I make a desperate sound in the back of my throat.

He slides the fabric off my shoulders, palms hot and rough compared to the silk.

I should stop him.

This isn't a place for what we are doing, and nothing about this is right. But at the same time, it's the only thing that has everbeen right in my entire life. He laughs into my mouth when I try to shush him, because I'm not very good at saying no to him, and we both know it.

He’s only just managed to get the dress down to my hips when I realize I’m standing here in borrowed shoes and the most expensive piece of clothing I’ve ever touched, and I’m about to let him undress me in a place with mood lighting and a tiny bench that’s apparently just big enough to sit on while someone kisses you breathless. Isabelle is probably still outside.

None of it matters.

His mouth drifts down to my collarbone, then lower, and I think I’m going to combust.

He kneels at my feet and looks up at me. I can’t breathe. He doesn’t rush. He just finds the hem and drags it down, his thumbs trailing heat along my thighs.

My knees wobble. I catch the mirror edge with my palm before I fall.

His lips hover just above my knee like he’s waiting for permission, then he nudges them up my thigh, a fraction too slow to be accidental.

This is criminal. This is insanity. This is the greatest fantasy I never knew I was allowed to have.