“Are you sore?” Wes asks.
I fight the urge to gag at the way his voice goes all soft and boyfriendy.
“A little,” she admits, shifting her weight to one side. “I think I pulled a muscle.”
“Sure,” I snort. “Amuscle.”
Wes leans in like he’s going to examine her for signs of damage, and I’m two seconds from calling him on it when he pushes off from the table and stands up.
“Want some coffee?” he asks, already crossing to the counter for a mug.
Ava nods, rubbing her eyes. “Yes, please.”
He fills it for her, even adding the creamer she likes before handing her the mug and retaking his seat. She wraps her hands around the cup and takes a long, slow sip, exhaling a happy little sigh as she swallows. She looks exhausted, but also satisfied, a smug little smile curving at the edge of her mouth when she catches me staring.
“Aw, isn’t that sweet,” I croon. “You two gonna start holding hands now, or just braid each other’s hair?”
“Jealous?” Wes fires back, but he’s smiling too, the edge of tension he usually wears seeming duller.
Raf clears his throat, turning from the stove with a spatula in one hand. “Knock it off,” he growls, but even that has less bite than usual.
Fuck, this is soboring.
Ava looks to Raf. “What are you making?” she asks, and there’s something soft in her voice that makes all of us take notice.
Raf glances over his shoulder, then back at the pan. “French toast,” he mutters.
She straightens, eyes wide and hopeful. “You remembered?”
He freezes, just for a second. The muscles in his arms go rigid and the spatula hovers over the pan, unmoving.
I raise both brows, my gaze flicking between them. There’s something here, something I’m missing.
“Remembered what?” I ask, stretching my legs out under the table.
Ava shifts, her gaze dropping to the mug as a smile pulls at her lips. “French toast has always been my favorite breakfast food,” she replies quietly. “Me and Raf used to talk about it when we were kids.”
My head snaps toward Raf, who finally turns to face us, arms folded across his chest. He’s got that brooding, haunted look dialed up to eleven. “I don’t remember my childhood,” he says flatly. “Blocked it out. I only made French toast because we don’t have pancake mix.”
Ava’s face falls, shoulders curling in. “Oh,” she says, sagging like a puppet with its strings cut.
Raf shrugs, turning back to the stove, but I can smell his bullshit a mile away.
Both of my boys are falling under Ava’s spell, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t catching something, too. Not feelings, obviously, since I’m incapable of those, but there’s just something about her. Maybe the way she gives as good as she gets, or the way she doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what she is. It makes me want to ruin her in all new ways.
Last night was epic. Not just the fucking– though that was top tier– but the way she handled all three of us. The way she came apart for Raf, then let me use her mouth while Wes filmed. The way she took my cock after bleeding for Raf, clenching around me so tight it felt like I stuck my dick in a vacuum. The way she didn’t say no, not once, not even when she was so wrung out she could barely move.
I want her again. I want her alone. I want to see what she looks like when I take my time and push her to the absolute edge.
But for now, I’m content to sit back and watch while these idiots fall all over her.
“Hey Raf,” I call, tapping the table to get his attention. “Did you send the video from last night to Voss yet?”
He doesn’t turn, but his jaw flexes. “Yeah.”
Ava tenses, hands tightening around her coffee mug. She’s thinking about it– the fact that some sadistic stranger is going to see her get wrecked on camera, that her humiliation isn’t just a private thing anymore. For some reason, that knowledge makes my cock thicken.
“You think that’s gonna be enough?” she asks quietly.
