The praise washes over me, heightening every sensation. Julian's thrusts grow more insistent, his hands gripping my hips with just enough pressure to remind me he's still in control. Between my legs, tension builds—a familiar coiling that signals I'm close.
Julian must sense it because his hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit. The added stimulation is almost too much. I whimper around Tristan's cock, my free hand clutching at Julian's arm.
"She's close," Julian tells Tristan, his voice strained with his own approaching release. "I can feel her tightening around me."
Tristan's thrusts grow more measured, careful not to overwhelm me. "Let go," he urges, his eyes locked on mine. "Let us see you come."
Julian's thumb circles my clit with perfect pressure, and the tension breaks. Pleasure crashes over me, radiating outward from where we're joined. I cry out around Tristan, my body arching off the bed. Julian follows almost immediately, his rhythm faltering as he presses deep and groans my name. The warmth of his release inside me prolongs my own pleasure, my inner muscles clenching around him in aftershocks.
Tristan pulls back slightly, allowing me to catch my breath. But I'm not done—not yet. I wrap my fingers around him again,guiding him back to my mouth. His eyes widen in surprise, then darken with renewed desire. I take him deep, working him with newfound determination. His thrusts grow erratic, his breathing ragged.
"Camille," he warns, his hand cupping my jaw. "I'm going to?—"
I don't pull away. Instead, I hollow my cheeks and look up at him, giving silent permission. He groans, his body tensing. Then the first pulse hits my tongue—salty, slightly bitter, nothing like I imagined. I always wondered what cum tastes like. Now I know.
I swallow without thinking, more focused on Tristan's expression—the vulnerability in his usually controlled features, the way his eyes stay locked on mine.
Julian shifts beside me, his hand finding mine and squeezing gently. I turn to find him watching us with a soft expression that makes my chest ache. No jealousy, no possessiveness—just warmth.
In this moment, sweaty and spent between these two men, I feel safe. Cared for. Like maybe, just maybe, I'm not facing the future alone after all.
Chapter 22
Camille
Iadjust the neckline of my dress, hyperaware of how it hugs the body that's now housing a secret. Julian's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin fabric. He leans close, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers something about the champagne being cheap despite the four-figure ticket price. I manage a smile, even though exhaustion pulls at me.
"You good?" Tristan appears at my other side, his voice low enough that only I can hear him. His hand brushes mine.
"Just tired," I murmur back. Pregnancy fatigue is real—a bone-deep weariness that no amount of sleeping seems to fix. "But I'm fine."
I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself. This is our first public appearance as... whatever we are. The three of us haven't put a label on it, but we're definitely something. Something that makes my heart race when I think about it.
Tristan looks unfairly good in his tailored suit, the dark gray bringing out the blue in his eyes. Julian, in classic black, has charm pouring off him like cologne. And here I am between them, trying desperately not to look like a woman who's carrying another man's child while sleeping with two best friends.
"You look beautiful tonight," Julian says, reading my insecurity like it's written across my forehead. "That color makes your eyes look like the ocean."
I roll those apparently oceanic eyes, but can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"
"Never," he protests, pressing a hand to his heart in mock offense. "I'm being completely honest. Ask Tristan."
Tristan's lips quirk up at the corners. "He's not wrong," he admits, his eyes doing a slow sweep down my body that makes me blush. "You're stunning."
It's still new, this—being the center of their attention. Sometimes it feels like too much, like I don't deserve it. But tonight, surrounded by Manhattan's elite raising money for children's cancer research, I'm selfishly glad to have them flanking me like gorgeous bookends.
Julian snags three champagne flutes from a passing waiter, then immediately looks stricken. "Shit, I'm sorry?—"
"It's fine," I say, taking one. "I'll just pretend." I bring the glass to my lips without drinking, the bubbles tickling my nose.
The evening unfolds in a blur of small talk and strategic mingling. Julian knows everyone, naturally, and introduces me around like I'm someone important. Tristan is quieter but no less commanding, offering sharp observations that make me hide my laughter behind my hand more than once.
For a little while, I almost forget about the fatigue, the morning sickness, the uncertainty of my future. I let myself just be a woman in a beautiful dress, standing between two handsome men who look at me like they can't quite believe their luck.
Julian leans in close, his lips brushing my temple. "That woman over there has been staring daggers at you for twenty minutes. I had a date with her once, years ago. Bit of a clinger."
I follow his gaze to a redhead in a green dress who quickly looks away. The absurdity of it—someone being jealous of my complicated mess of a life—makes me laugh. It feels good, the laughter bubbling up genuine and unexpected, and Julian's face lights up in response.
That's when I feel it—a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, the unmistakable weight of someone watching me. Not with curiosity or jealousy, but with something heavier.
