Page 44 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

A shard of panic lances me. “Stop—are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She exhales, taking more of my length in a delicious, hot slide. “Just…haven’t had it this much, this often.”

“We will fix that,” I vow, thrusting into her. I curse the men she’s had before for not giving it to her as much as she likes. How dare they not give her what she needs?

I hold her hips and watch as she rides me with the sunlight streaming at the edges of her wavy brown hair. The woman is a goddess of the dawn with a crown of morning. The most astounding thing I have ever seen. Or felt.

When she leans forward, her tits rest against my bare chest, heavy velvet on my skin. I cup her ass, pulling her up and down my length. Her breath shudders as she closes in, cheeks going pink.

“That’s it, baby, do it. Come for me. Make all the noise you want.”

At first, she’s shy, biting her lip. But then something erupts in her, all shyness a mere memory as she cries out my name, startling the birds from the trees. She milks my cock with her orgasm, bringing me along with her. She trembles in my arms, head buried in my shoulder, and I cling to her like a drowning man to driftwood.

Afterward, I tuck her beneath my chin, the world slowly sharpening back into focus. Sunlight has risen fully, throwing gold through the trees. She traces lazy circles on my chest.

“I like your terrible idea,” she murmurs, lips brushing my collarbone.

A laugh shakes out of me, rough with relief and impending dread. “Likewise.”

In the silence that follows, reality presses in. Calvin, the broken SUV, Castle Beach—all waiting. And beneath that, the truth: I am hopelessly enamored of the woman curled against me, and when this journey ends, my heart may not survive the fallout. Yet as she snuggles deeper into my embrace, blanket warm around us, I can’t seem to care.

19

HUNTER

The cabin’skitchen smells like scorched sugar and optimism gone wrong. My fault—I’m the one who decided to “toast” frozen waffles directly over a gas flame because the relic of a toaster in this place keeps belching smoke like a dragon with heartburn. Theo supervises with his usual surgical calm, sliding each waffle onto a plate like he’s presenting petit fours at a charity gala.

He’s a chef stuck in the body of a boardroom-bound stuffed shirt. Tragic.

We set up brunch on the coffee table in front of the crackling fireplace: golden waffles—okay, some are charcoal black on the edges—a Mason jar of homemade strawberry jam left by the owner, and coffee so strong it could strip paint. Theo discovered ground beans in the freezer and brewed a pot that smells like jet fuel because caffeine is the only acceptable drug before ninea.m. Allegedly.

“Bonappétit,” Theo says, handing me my plate with a little flourish.

“Oh, très fancy,” I reply, giving my waffle a mock inspection. “Burnt on the outside, frozen in the middle—Michelin-star cuisine, right here.”

Theo’s lips twitch. He sits cross-legged on the rug, straight-backed as if he’s worried slouching might dent his reputation. I flop onto a cushion beside him and drip jam like crimson paint across my plate.

We dig in, and the sugar hit is immediate. I needed this after last night—that girl wore me out. Warmth from the fire seeps into my muscles. For ten sweet minutes, reality stays outside—no broken SUV, no Calvin, no worries. Just two brothers and caffeine-fueled sugar rushes.

I lean back against the sofa. “Remember those Fourth of Julys at the estate? The humongous barbecue pit, the cousins shooting bottle rockets at each other?—”

“And you,” Theo interjects, wiping jam from his knuckles, “attempting to deep-fry marshmallows by skewering them on actual Roman candles. I believe your eyebrows were singed for months.”

“Worth it,” I say, grinning. “Gave me that rakish, half-brow look all the girls love.”

Theo snorts. “You looked like a startled goat.”

I goose-honk a laugh and swallow coffee, letting it scorch away the sugar coating my tongue. “Didn’t Mom try to host a ‘civilized’ picnic one year? Gingham tablecloths and cucumber sandwiches?”

“And the second Gage lit the first firecracker,” Theo supplies, “the ladies fled inside, stilettos stuck in the turf. That was theyear Cousin Miles launched a cake of mortars sideways across the croquet lawn.”

“Ah, family bonding,” I sigh, mock-wistful.

The cabin door swings open, admitting a gust of brisk mountain air and two people who very much look like they’ve spent their dawn hours violating zoning ordinances of public decency. Gage’s silver hair is tousled, pajama shirt mis-buttoned. Anya’s cheeks glow pink, eyes sparkling. There’s a softness to her expression I’ve never seen on her before—like she’s drunk on secrets she’s happy to keep. She’s wearing only her sleep shirt and a blanket draped loosely on her shoulders.

And weirdly, I don’t feel an ounce of jealousy. Not a single stab. My chest does a weird littleawwflutter instead. Guess sharing isn’t so bad when it’s the right person with the right people. Besides, we’ve always been a team. The three oldest outcasts of the family versus the world. Been that way since we were kids.

Sunlight knifes in behind her, catching hints of gold in her wavy brown hair. She brushes a stray strand behind her ear. My heart heaves a happy sigh at the sight. Anya is no dainty porcelain doll—she’s sturdy, curves that sayhug me, trust me, there’s warmth here.Blue eyes bright, a spray of freckles across her nose. I think she usually hides those with makeup, and that should be a crime per the Geneva Convention. They’re fucking adorable, just like the rest of her. And those lips, slightly swollen from kissing, curve into a shy smile that could launch a thousand regrettable text messages if I let it.