Page 173 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

The words tumble out of me, desperate and raw, as if dragged up from somewhere low and animal that’s been caged most of my adult life.

Ethan’s hand tenses, fingers unconsciously digging into my back, as if the force of his restraint is the only thing keeping him from shattering on the spot. His lips, already bruised from my gracelessness, part on an inhale so sharp it cuts me, and we hover there, radiating pure need like some obscene battery.

“Addy,” he growls, my name already broken down to its bones, as if speaking it costs him.

I slide off the stool and kneel between his legs. There’s something specifically intoxicating about this setup: Ethan flushed and rigid against the island, braced by his own granite arms, like every ounce of willpower has been reluctantly reassigned to holding back.

I press my cheek to the inside of his knee, inhaling the absurd cleanness of his cologne; he smells like dark blue and ozone and cardamom, and I swear, if I ever get to do this again, I’ll bottle it and huff it like a creep.

The suit pants are stretched obscenely over his thigh, but it’s the tension in his hand, white-knuckling the edge of the counter, that undoes me. Nobody has ever wanted me this much… not even close.

He must sense the rubber band snap in my head, because his fingers find my hair in a slow, hungry tangle. It’s not possessive, more like a permission slip. I mouth the fabric. He’s burning under it even through the wool.

“Ethan,” I say, looking up through my lashes.

I don’t recognize my voice. I sound like I’m getting away with something. Like I’m gleefully, sinfully about to ruin him.

He swallows, jaw flexing, pupils full dark now. The look in his eyes is so explicit that I want to fold in half, to become small enough to hide from desire this big.

But I don’t.

I press my lips to the straining outline of his cock, still caged in his pants, and I love the way he twitches like I’ve shocked him with a live wire.

There’s nothing graceful about the way I fumble with his belt and button, hands shaking so badly I miss twice, which would be embarrassing if he weren’t watching so intently, like every second is foreplay.

By the time I get the zipper down, his breathing is fucked, ragged and uneven, like he’s been running sprints with a collapsed lung.

Ethan’s cock is thick, flushed, and weeping at the tip, and the expression on his face is so fucking desperate that it’s almost pained.

I take him in my hand, thumb already slick, and stroke once, slow, just to see what it does to him. The answer: he bites down so hard on his lip I think he might draw blood.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits, hovering at the edge, making me burn for it. It’s unfair, honestly, how patient this man is. Like he wants to see exactly what I’ll do when nobody gives me instructions.

I lick the taste of him off my thumb, and he makes a noise, soft, involuntary, astonished. Like nobody’s ever done that before. I want to laugh, or maybe cry, because I want the devastation. I want the power. I want to know I can unmake him with a flick of my tongue.

So I do.

One long, slow lick up the underside of his cock, then I circle the head, tasting salt and pre-come and something uniquely his; expensive and electric and impossibly soft under my tongue.

I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, as far as I can in one go, hands braced on his thighs for leverage. Ethan chokes on a curse, all the careful composure burned to ash as his hips buck once, helpless.

I look up again, and I wish I had the bandwidth to process the way he’s watching me, head thrown back, throat exposed, eyes glassy as if he’s been stunned.

I almost doubt I’m doing this right; then his palm fists in my hair, gentle but definite, and I realize that I am absolutely destroying him.

I move slow at first. Savoring. Letting the salt and vibration of his need fill my mouth like I’m dying of thirst, like if I can just make him come undone, I’ll finally fix the ache in my own chest.

The need to please him is a more urgent hunger than anything food ever solved for me. In this moment, Ethan is the only planet in my solar system, and I want to orbit closer, to burn up in his gravity.

“Jeez, Addy,” he grinds out.

He’s the one bracing now, his knees and thighs clenching as if he can’t decide whether to pull away or fuck my face until I’m ruined for every other man on earth.

The thought makes me wetter.

“Touch yourself, Addy. I want to see you.”

His voice shouldn’t work on me, but it does. My hand is between my legs instantly, shoving aside cotton and heat and every last ounce of self-respect I’d been hoarding for an emergency.