Page 148 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I want to bite him. I want to throw him onto the floor and rip the buttons off his shirt with my teeth.

Instead, I wrap my legs around his hips and try to grind myself against him, but he’s already a step ahead.

Ethan pins me, his hands gliding back up my sides in between the dinner plates, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the bottom edge of my bra, and I shiver reflexively, needy and wrecked but somehow still dignified, at least in my own head.

I try for a witty comeback, but my mouth is useless, hijacked by the way he kneads the swell of my hips, mapping me, conquering me.

He drags his hands up and under my shirt, palms flat, then slides his thumbs beneath the wire of my bra and pulls until the elastic gives a little snap, teasing.

I want to make some indignant protest, but my voice betrays me, comes out plaintive and high, and he grins, cocky and delighted by his own effect.

Then he ducks his head, burying his face in the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and bites, and a sound escapes me before I can stop it.

Ethan’s hand comes over my mouth immediately, half laughing, half wrecked himself.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against my throat, voice rough. “Oliver’s asleep.”

The plates rattle sharply against the wood, and both of us freeze for half a second.

Ethan exhales a curse under his breath.

“We need to be quieter,” he says, though the words dissolve when I drag him back down to kiss me.

I answer by curling my fingers in his hair, yanking him closer. There's no inch of me that isn’t awake, electric. My thighs are locked around his waist, and the contact's too much and not enough, and the entire axis of my body tilts towards his.

He grinds back, a low sound vibrating in his chest, and the friction is catastrophic. I arch into him, and a sharp and starry explosion explodes all the way up my spine.

“Oh,” I say, or maybe I just think it, because he’s kissing me again and my mouth is already otherwise occupied. “Fucking hell, Ethan, that feels so good.”

His hand is warm, then hot, then gently brutal on the outside of my thigh, and he doesn’t so much as peel my shorts down as demand them off, rucking them halfway to my knees before I can even pretend to protest.

The brutal exposure's intoxicating, the way air hits my skin, the way his stubble draws little fiery lines across my chest, my stomach, my everything.

My shirt’s somewhere around my elbows, but I couldn’t be bothered to care. He presses me back down and kisses me so hard it’s like he’s trying to drag the breath from my lungs.

He lifts me, adjusts, and moves me up the table with the precision of someone who’s never failed a physics exam in his life.

The plates and forks are gone, and I’m more or less naked except for my bra and the dignity he’s about to ravage from me.

He glances down for permission, and I’m so gone I barely nod before he’s got my thighs spread open and his mouth is everywhere, so gentle it verges on cruel.

I want to thank him and curse him and slap him for being so methodical.

I want to be devoured messily.

When he finally slides his tongue against me, it’s expert, greedy, and just uncoordinated enough to be honest. I feel my hips writhe without permission, my hands gripping the edge of the table, my whole body trying to outrun the nerves sparking under my skin.

He goes goddamn slow, and I wish I could be angry about it, like I might actually die if he doesn’t hurry up, but the truth is I love it, the torture, the way he puts me back together every time he tears me open.

I swear I can feel his smile against my thigh. He’s almost smug about how easy it is to get me to beg, and I want to claw at him, drag him up and kiss away the self-congratulation, but I just moan again, and he redoubles his efforts, determined now, relentless.

When I look down, Ethan’s face is tilted up to watch me unravel, dark eyes fixed on mine, locked in, like he’s challenging me, or maybe daring me to look away.

I can’t, not even when pleasure tightens in my chest, and I lose track of what my body is even doing.

It's humiliating and addictive to be watched with that kind of focus, as if every flicker in my face is a secret he’s dying to unlock.

A pressure builds, not just in my thighs but in my ribs, between my ears, in my lungs.