Page 54 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

So I don't stop.

I kiss her before either of us can think better of it—slow at first. Then deeper, letting her mouth adjust to the fact that I'm not stopping.

Her hands push under my shirt, palms spreading against my chest and stomach. Whatever control we had starts giving way. She's still in last night's shirt and I slide my hand up under it, flat against her ribs, feeling each breath. She makes a small sound against my mouth.

She filed the 1987 story. Every other person at that Harrington dinner, including me, had it under ambient noise by round two. She came prepared. Months of watching her, and it's still the thing I come back to—not her appearance but her precision. The way she points her attention at exactly what matters. I've been wanting her to point it at me.

She pulls back enough to look at me. The composed version of her—the one that keeps everything locked down—is gone. This version isn't managing anything.

She reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head. I follow, and then there's nothing left between us. I lower her back against the pillows and go slow—slow is the only way I know how to do anything—hands moving down her sides, cataloguing what makes her go still and what makes her pull at my shoulders. I work down her body with the same attention I give everything—unhurried, exact. My mouth finds the hollow of her throat, the racing pulse under her jaw, the soft skin at the inside of her arm where she never lets anyone linger. She's the one who breaks first, her hands pushing at my shoulders, urging me lower—and for once I let her set the pace, settling between her thighs as she goes taut with anticipation. I part her with my thumbs and look for a second longer than she expects—learning her, the way I learn everything—before I lower my mouth to her. She's wet and warm, and the first slow drag of my tongue pulls a sound out of her I fully intend to hear again. I work her with the same focus I give anything that matters, steady and unhurried, reading every shift of her hips and every catch in her breath, adjusting until I find the exact rhythm that makes her stop thinking. Two fingers slide inside her, curling, and she comes apart against my mouth, thighs trembling around my head. The composed version of her is gone completely.

She's still catching her breath when she pulls me up.

“Hi,” she says, like it surprised her.

That's the line that finishes it.

I shift and press forward, entering her slowly, watching her face the whole way until I'm fully inside. We stay still for a heartbeat, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. The feeling of her around me is almost too much—tight, hot, real in a way that makes my chest ache.

I begin to move, measured at first, deep and controlled, noting every sound she makes and every way her body answers mine. Then her hands grip my back, one sliding down to pull me harder against her, and the last of my restraint goes. I give up the control I've held for weeks and take her the way I've wanted to since that first night in the kitchen—harder, deeper, every measured thing about me finally coming apart, until she’s clutching at my shoulders with nothing held back. She tightens around me, her climax breaking with a cry, and it drags me over with her. I bury my face in her neck as release crashes through me, hips stuttering before I go still, buried as deep as I can get.

Neither of us moves. Just breath and heat, and the realization that we crossed a line neither of us can pretend didn't happen.

Afterward she stays tucked against my side, her breathing slow and even. I look at the ceiling in the full morning light. Too awake to pretend this didn't change anything.

Her head lifts.

“I have to tell Liam and Andrew,” she says quietly.

The words sit between us, necessary and unavoidable.

I meet her eyes.

“They deserve to know.” My thumb moves once across her knuckles. “After that, you're not alone in any of it.”

Her eyes close.

“Okay,” she says.

Not relieved. Resolved.

Like she knows nothing stays hidden after today.

Chapter nineteen

Chapter Nineteen—Riley

Iease out from under his arm carefully. He doesn't stir.

Our clothes lie on the floor where they fell. For a moment I stand there looking at him, jaw slack, brow relaxed, one hand open on the pillow where I was. I've been living alongside this man for months. I didn't know he could look this unguarded, mouth soft in a way I've never seen.

The door clicks shut behind me with barely a sound as I slip back to my own room.

I feel good. That's the part I don't know what to do with.

I almost texted Jules. She’d be equal parts thrilled and horrified. The same way she was when I first told her Andrew was back in my life. But I couldn’t bring myself to type the words yet.

My thighs are still a little sore. A low ache lingers, tender and undeniable. Then my stomach gives its familiar warning roll, the same one that's ruled my mornings for weeks. Pleasure and nausea tangled together in the same body. Nothing about this is simple anymore.