Page 18 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Caution is abandoned.

That dark dress fills my mind again. The way she entered the room like she already belonged. The small, satisfied curve of her mouth when Harrington reacted to her comment.

No slow approach this time.

I wrap my hand around my cock, grip firm. My thoughts go immediately filthy.

Her mouth sliding down the shaft—slow at first, lips stretching wide, tongue working the underside while those hazel eyes look up. Cheeks hollowing as she takes more, saliva slick and warm, head bobbing deeper until she hits the back of my throat. Perfect tits swaying with every stroke, nipples tight and flushed, as she works faster.

The image sharpens. Her straddling me, sinking down, tight wet heat gripping every inch while I pull her closer. The sounds she'd make—soft gasps turning into broken moans as she rides harder, pussy clenching, hips rolling desperately. My hands gripping her waist, holding her still just long enough to make her ask for it.

I stroke faster. Her riding hard, mouth open on a cry as she comes, inner walls tightening around me.

I come hard. Her name is the only thought left.

Afterward I stare at the ceiling. The problem hasn't changed.

The Harrington file remains open on the laptop.

It stays untouched.

Chapter eight

Chapter Eight—Riley

It takes me until midnight to admit I'm not going to sleep.

Eleven days. The ceiling and I have developed a relationship I never signed up for. Forty minutes of lying there, replaying everything this week has done to my brain—the Harrington dinner, the carafe moment, Ethan's hand over mine in the lobby, Andrew simply existing every morning like a problem I was supposed to have solved by now—and I finally give up.

I throw off the sheet and go hunting for champagne.

Connor keeps a bottle in the second wine fridge. I don't touch it.

Then I do.

The rooftop is one flight up, a private staircase off the far end of the balcony hidden behind the planter boxes. Liam discovered it on day two. I've only been up here once before, in the afternoon when everyone was out. Slate tile. Low lighting on a dimmer. A hot tub set into the deck right at the edge, the city dropping away below like someone sliced the world off.

Twenty minutes of hot water and zero men being quietly devastating in my vicinity sounds perfect. I change into my black swimsuit, wrap a towel around myself, and slip out.

The staircase is narrow. The night air is still warm, Vegas refusing to cool down properly. I ease into the hot tub at the edge, set the bottle on the ledge, and let the heat sink deep into my shoulders and neck—everywhere I've been holding tight for eleven days.

That's what this week has been. Things slowly breaking loose. Not just Andrew reappearing. Not just Liam on the balcony with that almost-moment. Not just Ethan refilling my glass without a word or the way his hand felt over mine after dinner.

All of it. Accumulated.

The part I can’t name is that none of it feels like a transaction. Ethan doesn’t want credit. Liam doesn’t want thanks. Even Andrew, who has every reason to be staging his apology tour, hasn’t asked me for anything. I’ve built my whole system around the cost of letting people in. These three aren’t charging.

I pour the champagne and take a long sip.

The rooftop is mine. Everyone is exactly where they're supposed to be.

For three glorious minutes, this is true.

Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.

Liam's head appears first above the roofline.

He takes in the scene—me, the hot tub, Connor's champagne—and his expression cycles through relief, amusement, then goes measured.