Page 270 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

For a woman that’s been told she’stoo much, hearing this is wonderful.

“I want you, Ethan.”

Then he’s kissing my jaw, my throat, his breath hitching against my skin like I might disappear if he stops.

I’m drowning, and I don’t even want to breathe.

We stumble, somehow, to Ethan’s bedroom. The door barely closes before he lifts me onto the dresser. My knees part automatically, and he’s between them, one hand at the back of my neck, the other braced tight against my hip like he’s holding himself back from breaking me.

He’s shaking just a little.

He keeps kissing me, everywhere, like I’m the only thing left in the room, in the city, maybe on earth. And then he pulls away just enough to look at me, his hands framing my face.

Then he kisses me, hard. Everything else falls away.

He’s practically frantic, dragging the hem of my stolen Northwestern sweatshirt up and over my head, nearly tangling us both in the process because my arms are suddenly made of pool noodles and laughter. He’s apologizing into my mouth even as he strips me bare, saying, “Sorry, fuck, sorry, you okay?” between kisses and curses, and I want to bite him.

“Stop apologizing,” I snarl into his mouth, literally, and it makes him smile this wild, open, animal smile I’ve never seen before.

He shoves down my sweatpants with a single, decisive motion. I’m embarrassingly ready, my whole body prickling with anticipation, nerves lit up like a Christmas circuit.

His hands are warm on my thighs, like he’s afraid squeezing too tight will break me, and the truth is I want him to.

He pushes the soggy cotton of my underwear aside and sinks to his knees in front of the dresser, in front of me, just like that.

I’m slick and open, and he licks me once, up the seam, obscene and slow, and then… Damn. The way he eats pussy is like a man starved, a man whose last meal is me.

He’s slow, at first, savoring, and then rougher, clever tongue dancing side to side, then flattening broad and hard, then flicking with a precision that borders on criminal.

I clutch the edge of the dresser so hard I might leave claw marks. He’s relentless. He doesn’t even pause to breathe, just hooks his arms around my hips and hauls me closer until I’m practically wrapped around his head, thighs shaking, toes curled, dignity in absolute shambles.

“Oh fuck,” I mumble, because words are the only thing left in my grasp, and even they’re slippery. “Fuck, Ethan, please…”

He groans, and somehow that sends vibrations straight through me, molten and ragged and right on the edge of too much.

He knows what he’s doing. He’s catalogued every button in my body by now, and he pushes all of them, then buries his face deeper and circles me with his hands until I’m a goner.

There’s no hope.

I come so hard I see blue, shivering from scalp to heel. He holds me through it. Every time I try to squirm away, he pulls me closer, tongue greedy, lips soft, until the aftershocks dissolve me to jelly and I’m actually afraid my knees might not work ever again.

When I finally manage to open my eyes, he’s looking up, face smeared with me, and for a split second, I’m totally, fully wrecked by how much I want this man.

He stands, hands big and urgent on my thighs as if checking to see if I survived, and kisses me. I taste myself on his tongue, and I’m already getting lightheaded again. He’s shaking, still, and I realize he hasn’t even touched himself. He’s almost vibrating with restraint.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” I tell him.

He does, ripping the sweatshirt and T-shirt over his head at once with a violence that does unprintable things to my insides.

He’s beautiful and wild, chest heaving, a little scar at his collarbone catching the light. I want to bite it.

He fumbles with his belt and pants, and for a horrifying second, I think he’s going to pass out from the speed and effort, but then he’s bare and pressed between my legs, and all of the world’s sadness is an afterthought.

He’s ready, so ready, and he doesn’t hesitate, just lines himself up and pushes in with one slow motion that makes me arch off the dresser and wrap my legs around his hips like a vice. I make a noise that’s half sob and half animal snarl.

He shudders.

“Jeez,” he whispers, and maybe he means it as a prayer because he says it again, rougher and closer to a growl, and then he’s moving.