Page 61 of Bad Men's Good Girl

Across the room, barely visible through my blurred, pleasure-drunk vision, Atticus leans lazily against the armchair, his long fingers wrapped around his own cock in slow, deliberate strokes. his eyes are dark with hunger, tracking every movement—the way Max's powerful thighs flex with each deep thrust, the possessive curl of Amos's fingers in my hair, the helpless arch of my spine when Max hits that perfect, devastating spot inside me.

"Fuck," Atticus exhales, the word rough and breathless, his grip tightening around himself. His gaze lingers on the flush spreading across my chest, the way my lips stretch around Amos, the way my breasts bounce and my body trembles between them. "You look perfect like this—completely wrecked,completely ours." His voice is thick with want, and the heat in his stare sends another shudder through me.

Max's pace quickens, each snap of his hips driving me forward, forcing Amos deeper into my mouth. Pleasure coils tight in my belly, sparks racing up my spine. I can't think, can't do anything butfeel—the stretch, the heat, the way Amos's breath hitches when I hollow my cheeks.

Amos pulls back just enough to let me gasp for air, his thumb swiping over my swollen lower lip. "Good girl," he rasps. "Now take it all."

I do.

Amos’s fingers tighten in my hair, his hips stuttering forward as he groans—a deep, ragged sound that vibrates through my core. The first hot pulse of his release hits my tongue, salty and thick, and I swallow greedily, my own pleasure cresting again as Max’s thrusts turn erratic behind me. His grip on my hips is bruising now, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

"Fuck—Baleigh—" Max’s voice is raw, and then he’s coming too, his cock twitching inside me as he spills deep, his forehead dropping between my shoulder blades.

The aftershocks ripple through me, leaving me trembling, my lips still wrapped around Amos as he softens in my mouth. He pulls back with a shudder, his thumb swiping over my bottom lip, his eyes dark and hazy with satisfaction.

Across the room, Atticus is still stroking himself, his gaze locked on the mess of us—Max panting against my back, Amos’s come glistening on my lips. He licks his own, slow and deliberate, before pushing off the chair.

"Turn her over," he murmurs, and Max eases out of me with a groan, his hands guiding me onto my back before he collapses onto the blankets beside me, spent but still watching. Amos follows, his fingers tracing idle patterns over my stomach as Atticus kneels between my thighs.

"Now you're really gonna get it," he smiles wickedly, his grin disappearing beneath the thick thatch of blonde hair at the apex of my thighs.

His tongue is relentless—broad, wet strokes that have me arching off the rumpled blankets within seconds, my back bowing as pleasure sparks through me like wildfire. My fingers instinctively tangle in his thick dark hair, gripping tight as if he might vanish if I let go, but he just chuckles against my skin, the vibration sending another shudder through me. With one strong hand splayed across my hipbone, he pins me firmly in place, his mouth working me with a precision that borders on cruel—each flick of his tongue, each slow, deliberate suck dragging me closer to the edge until my thighs tremble violently around his head, the muscles quivering with the effort to hold still.

Just as I’m about to tip over, my breath hitching in warning, he pulls back with agonizing slowness, leaving me gasping and empty. His lips are slick and swollen from his efforts, glistening under the dim light, and he grins up at me with wicked satisfaction. "Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, before pulling me toward him effortlessly, like I weigh nothing at all. My legs are dragged over his broad shoulders before I can protest, and then—god—his cock replaces his tongue in one smooth, devastating thrust, filling me so completely I cry out, the stretch delicious, the angle deeper than before, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur at the edges.

Max’s mouth finds mine then, his kiss lazy and possessive, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that contrasts sharply with the relentless pace Atticus sets between my thighs. Amos’s hand skims up my ribs, calloused fingers teasing my nipples into tight, aching peaks, his touch featherlight yet maddening. And Atticus—god, Atticus—drives into me with a rhythm that steals my breath, his hips rolling in perfect, punishing strokes, his eyes locked on mine like he’s memorizingevery twitch of my expression, every bitten-off moan I can’t suppress. The room is thick with the sounds of skin against skin, of ragged breaths and whispered encouragements, and I’m lost in it, in them, in this moment where nothing exists but pleasure and heat and the three men determined to unravel me completely.

"Come with me this time, Baleigh," he growls against my lips, the rough command and the way his fingers tighten on my hips sending an electric jolt straight through me. My body arches instinctively, nails biting into the solid muscle of his forearms as the climax tears through me with brutal intensity, leaving me trembling and breathless. I feel Atticus's groan rumble through his chest as he surrenders to his own release, his forehead coming to rest heavily against mine while his hips jerk erratically, spilling deep inside me with ragged, unsteady thrusts that leave us both shaky and wrecked.

For one endless moment we stay like that—hot flesh pressed together, breathing each other’s air, sweaty and sated and still intertwined. Then, with a soft curse, Atticus finally pulls away, his absence leaving me strangely hollow before Max’s lips find the sensitive skin just below my ear, his lazy kisses already rekindling a low simmer of want in my belly. Meanwhile, Amos’s clever fingers trace teasing spirals along my inner thigh, drifting dangerously close to where I’m still slick and sensitive, his chuckle warm against my shoulder when I gasp at the contact.

The way they move together, so in sync—tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t nearly over yet. They’re just getting started. And God help me, so am I.

40

AMOS

The first heat of summer rolls over Florence like a heavy, golden blanket, smelling of toasted stone and exhaust. Below the institute terrace, the piazza is a sea of oversized backpacks and rattling suitcase wheels. A new cohort of students navigates the ancient cobblestones, their faces tilted upward, mouths agape at the Duomo’s marble facade. It’s the same wide-eyed terror and awe I’ve witnessed a hundred times, but today, the sight doesn't make me itch for a passport stamp or a one-way ticket to a different time zone.

I lean against the wrought-iron railing, the ceramic espresso cup warm in my palm. A year ago, this view was a backdrop to a life lived in transit—a beautiful, temporary set piece before the next city, the next crisis, the next flight. Now, the cracks in the pavement and the specific chime of the nearby bells are the geography of my life. I’m not scanning the horizon for the exit. My feet are heavy in the best way possible. I’m already home.

The institute hums behind me, a living thing. We’ve doubled the enrollment since last summer, sprawling into new partnerships from Prague to Lisbon. It’s a logistical circus that would have buried a lesser man, but I thrive in the midst of it. Iset my coffee down and check my watch, catching my reflection in the terrace glass. The frantic, lonely edge that used to sharpen my features has softened.

"Amos! The bus from the airport is ten minutes out and the welcome packets are still in the basement!"

One of the new interns scurries past, breathless and pale. I catch him by the shoulder, offering a slow, steady smile.

"Take a breath, Leo. The basement isn't going anywhere, and neither is the bus. We’ve got this."

I head inside, moving through the organized chaos of orientation prep. Papers fly, phones ring, and the air is thick with the nervous energy of seventy teenagers about to have their lives changed. In the past, I was just the guy who kept the engine running until it was time to park the car. Now, I’m building the road. Every decision, every partnership, every solved disaster feels like a brick in a foundation I finally intend to stand on. I’m not chasing the next thing. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Baleigh stands in the courtyard, a bright anchor in the swirling chaos of luggage and frantic questions. Sunlight catches the golden highlights in her hair as she leans down to listen to a girl who looks like she’s two seconds away from a panic attack. Last year, that girl was Baleigh—clutching her phone and looking for a familiar face in a sea of strangers. Now, she places a steady hand on the student’s arm, her laughter cutting through the humidity.

She navigates the crowd with a fluid grace, pointing out the best gelato spots and explaining the transit system as if she were born on these streets. There’s no trace of that North Carolina girl who let fear dictate her itinerary. She carries herself with the quiet authority of a woman who isn’t asking for permission anymore. Seeing her mentor these girls, who arrive with the same small-town weights on their shoulders she once carried, makes my chest ache with a fierce, possessive pride. She isn'tjust surviving the transition; she’s the one leading the way. Choosing this life—choosing us—wasn't just a romantic whim. It was her coming alive.

By late afternoon, the initial rush ebbs into a dull roar. I’m crossing the lobby when Max emerges from his office, his arms piled high with leather-bound journals and a stack of fresh research notes. His tie is loosened, a few salt-and-pepper strands of hair falling over his forehead as he adjusts his wire-rim glasses.

"The early manuscripts out of the Laurentian Library are revealing even more than we suspected, Amos," he says, voice energized, lacking the weary weight of the man I first met. He doesn't wait for a reply before launching into a dense, rapid-fire explanation of a new publication he’s spearheading.