Page 71 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says against my lips.

“I don't.”

He sheds his clothes quickly then settles between my thighs again, the blunt heat of his cock nudging against my entrance. He doesn't push in right away. Instead, he rocks against me, sliding through my wetness, teasing us both until I'm aching for him.

When he finally sinks inside, it's inch by slow inch. We both groan at the stretch, the perfect fullness. He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “I'm right here.”

Then he starts to move—long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside me. The pace is unhurried but intense. Skin against skin. The wet sound of him moving inside me. His weight, his heat, the way his hands grip my hips like he never wants to let go.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper. He drops his head to my neck, kissing and sucking softly as his rhythm builds. Every thrust feels like a promise. Every breath against my skin feels like an apology and a vow at the same time.

When I come again, it's with his name on my lips and his body pressed tight to mine. He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he shudders through his release, murmuring my name like it's the only word he knows.

Afterward, he doesn't pull out right away. He stays inside me, holding me close, one hand stroking slow circles over my lower belly.

I don’t move.

Not because I’m tired.

Because this feels too much like something permanent.

Too much like something I could start believing in.

We lie there in the growing gold light, breathing together.

“I haven't forgiven you,” I say softly.

He doesn't tense. Doesn't argue.

“I know.”

I turn my head. He's already looking at me, those dark eyes calm and steady.

“Andrew—”

“You might, though.”

It's not pressure. Just quiet truth.

He doesn't push.

The light keeps coming in.

Chapter twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-Six—Ethan

I'm already at the table when they arrive, nursing a black coffee and watching the brunch crowd.

Andrew is four minutes late. Liam is seven. Typical timing.

The rooftop is loud in the best way. Mimosas clink, laughter rolls across tables, music under the midday sun. Perfect. Noise like this lets three men talk about heavy things without anyone overhearing.

I booked the spot last night for exactly that reason. Somewhere away from the apartment. Somewhere Riley has no reason to appear.

I chose this particular table out of habit. Good sight lines. Enough distance from the next group. Controllable variables.