Page 78 of The Unexpected

Dirty talk flows, relentless. Hunter tells me I’m his naughty little whore, his trophy slut, that my holes belong to him, that he’s going to come so deep in my ass that I’ll taste his come in my throat. Lachlan tells me I’m sacred and filthy at the same time, that he’d burn down the world for me, that he’s never wanted anything as much as he wants my vag right now.

I lose track of everything except the feeling of both of them inside me, the stretch and the fullness and the way every thrust makes my whole body shake.

“Oooh,” I grunt. “Yes, fuck me, fuck me, it feels so good!”

They obey, fucking me slow at first, then faster, the sound of skin on skin mixing with their breathing and my own sobbing moans. I come, hard, around Lachlan’s cock, my cunt gripping him so tight he almost loses it. Hunter’s hand is on my clit, working it until I see white. I scream, I really do, and don’t care if the neighbors hear.

“Oh god!” I shriek. “Mmmph!”

They keep going, relentless, fucking me through the aftershocks until I’m shaking, barely able to speak.

Hunter grunts, voice raw: “You’re going to take every drop. Understand?”

I nod, drool on my chin.

“Good girl,” he says, and slams in one last time. I feel the hot rush of his cum flooding my ass, and I clench around him, milking it out with the walls of my ass.

“Fuuuuuck,” he moans. “Oh shit!”

Lachlan pulls out, strokes his cock over my pelvis, and comes in thick, hot ropes across my pussy, watching as my clit’s covered in his semen.

“Goddamn,” he pants. “Shit shit shit.”

We collapse in a sweaty heap, the sheets a tangle, the rose petals stuck to our bodies and each other. There’s sperm all over, exactly the way I like.

They bracket me, one on either side, and Hunter pulls the duvet up, wraps all three of us in it. Lachlan’s hand is on my thigh, slow and soothing, and Hunter kisses my neck, soft this time.

I look at the nightstand, at the two rings gleaming in the low light, and smile.

“Happy?” Hunter asks, voice lazy, sated.

I nod, too tired for words.

Lachlan kisses my cheek. “You were incredible, star girl.”

I drift, their bodies heavy against mine, the scent of sex and candle wax and flowers all around.

Because if this is what forever feels like, I never want to wake up.

“I love you,” I murmur, dropping off to sleep. And as my lashes close, I hear the words that mean so much to me.

“We love you, Stella. Always.”

With that, the promise of our future together begins.

EPILOGUE: PARADISE FOUND

Stella

Tahitian sunlight is a brand of gold they don’t have back in the Twin Cities. Here, every photon is perfumed with salt and the electric green of palm fronds, and it sinks through skin so deep you feel it all the way to the root of your spine. We have been on this beach—our beach—for a week, and I am, for the first time in my adult life, totally at peace.

We’re three months into the endless honeymoon. Six since the commitment ceremony, which was written up in at least two local lifestyle rags as “a bold, possibly illegal, reimagining of the modern triad partnership.” I have no idea how these magazines even heard of our wedding, or why they decided to cover it, but I clipped them both, and I kept the second one for posterity because the photo editor selected a shot where you can see me beaming at both of my handsome grooms, radiating happiness. Hunter framed it in the upstairs hallway, and I love that it occupies a place of honor in our home.

But now we’re on vacation, and it’s utter heaven. The cabana itself is barely a structure—just four whitewashed beams, a roof of woven fronds, and a tangle of navy linen cushions pillowed across two sunken loungers and a low, sand-dusted table. The ocean starts maybe thirty feet away, the tide line an always-moving zipper, slow and unrushed. The sound is constant, like God’s own white noise machine, only more expensive. It’s hot, but not Minnesota hot, which is always a flavor of punishment. Here, the air strokes your skin, makes you want to stretch and sleep and then stretch again.

Hunter is in full animal mode, which means linen shorts and nothing else. His hair is a little too long now, curling damp at the neck, and there’s a stripe of pink on his chest where he missed a spot with the spray-on sunscreen. His tan is unfair because the man is a bronzed god, complete with broad shoulders and rippling muscle. He sits beside me on the lounger, left ankle slung across his right knee, a hand on my bare thigh. Not just touching—owning. The bottle of champagne between us sweats in the heat, and every now and then he drags a single, cold drop from the glass and lets it fall on my skin, just to watch me shiver.

Lachlan, across from us, is the mirror of every sun god myth ever written. I don’t know how a body can be so solid and yet look like it’s never done a single thing in anger. His torso is gold, his trunks a faded blue, and his hair sun-bleached and almost white-gold at this point. He holds his glass with his thumb and two fingers, turning it slow, like he’s remembering how it got there. When he looks at me, which is often, it’s with this combination of hunger and awe that still, after all these months, has the power to make me blush.