Page 59 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I don’t last long. A sharp, glorious fracture of pleasure rips through me, hips bucking, breath catching in stuttered gasps as I bottom out in that delirious moment. My legs clamp around him, arching my back off the couch, and he shatters, too.

“Fuck, June…” he hisses, thrusts stammering in triumph. With one final, seismic push, he spills into me, growling my name against my throat…

The room stays hazy for a while after.

Not just from the golden light from the tilted lamp and the shadows, but from the aftermath of our coupling. I’m still caught up in it. Still vibrating. Still clinging to him like my body hasn’t figured out where to put all this heat.

Fletcher’s breath is rough against my neck, his forehead pressed to my shoulder for a long second like he’s trying to come back down to earth.

His hands slide up my arms, gentle now, thumbs stroking slow circles, checking in without making it a question.

“You okay?”

I swallow, throat dry in that way that makes words feel too big.

“Yeah,” I manage. “I’m… yeah.”

A quiet sound leaves him, half laugh, half exhale, and he shifts carefully, like he knows exactly how close my body is to tipping from pleasure into oversensitivity.

He eases back just enough to look at me.

His eyes are still dark, still heavy, but there’s more in them now than just lust.

Something almost… protective.

I bring my hand up, brushing my fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough edge of stubble there. It’s real. Not a dream. Not a mistake my brain can pretend didn’t happen.

His throat works as he swallows.

“June,” he says again, quieter this time, like my name is something he’s tasting.

My stomach flips.

“I should…” I start, because I should say something normal. Something that doesn’t sound like I’m about to fall apart.

But the truth is, my thoughts are scrambled.

All I can do is blink at him and breathe.

That was… insane.

Fletcher pushes himself up from the couch first, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching for the clothes scattered across the floor. My sweater is on the floor near the workbench. He reaches down and hands it to me. His hands are careful. Precise.

It makes me feel held.

He finds my underwear and hands it to me without a joke, without making it weird.

I sit up slowly, hair a mess, heart still doing impossible things in my chest.

The house is silent.

There’s no music, no bonfire crackling, no town watching.

Just us.

It hits me how different it feels being alone with someone in a space that isn’t public, where there are no expectations except the ones we make.

My eyes flick toward the door without meaning to.