Page 50 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

Her eyes close as she nods, her hips waving side to side, up and down.

“Tell me what you want.”

“To come.”

I thrust a finger in, pressing against her G-spot while she works her clit. Her eyes go wide, and her cry is a mangled thing. I work my fingertip there, stirring against it as she shakes. “If you’re very good, I’ll give you something bigger to come on.”

“Oh god, please,” she whimpers as her body clamps on that finger.

I work her G-spot in time with her throbs, and just as her body locks onto me, I replace my finger with my cock. Her back arcsoff the bed as she comes on me again, random sounds bursting out of her throat. It’s too good—she’stoo good—and I’m losing control. This girl is an animal.

And for too long, she was locked in a cage.

The moment I know her orgasm is slowing, I can’t stop my own. I pull out, shooting onto her tits, her belly, her thighs. I need to see her covered in me.

But I don’t see it coming when she grabs my spurting cock and pulls me to her mouth as she sits up. She sucks me down just as I’m starting to soften, and the sensation sends sparks through my balls until I have to pull away with a popping sound. Her impish smile is too fucking much.

Truly, she will be the death of me. “That’s enough, doll.”

She lies back, relaxation hooding her eyelids. When I lie next to her, she nuzzles into the crook of my arm, equal parts languid and bright. Her hair is still damp, and now cool strands tickle my shoulder. Morning light filters through curtains, striping her bare skin.

Right now, the rest of the world can hang. There is nothing but the woman in my arms. Reality will come crashing in soon enough—for now, I’ll take the companionable silence that comes after an orgasm like that.

But Anya is not so peaceful. “Sometimes, I’m scared about what all of this means.”

“It means no more than you let it.”

“I guess so.”

I shake my head. “No guessing to it. Sex, kink, all of it means only what you let it mean to you. When you’re with me, Anya, you’re free.”

She takes a deep breath, smiles, and sighs, nuzzling against me until her body goes loose. It’s not long before her breathing falls into a steady pattern, and only seconds later, a faint snore vibrates in her talented throat.

Gage and Hunter will return soon. There will be strategy, logistics, talk of jobs and apartments. I will be rational and competent, the adult in a room of children again…until night falls and Anya’s smile unravels my composure all over again.

21

ANYA

Magnolia Avenue curvesthrough Castle Beach like the lazy tail of a seahorse, its hot asphalt shimmering in late-morning sun. Our SUV noses past landmarks I haven’t seen in years. Pelican Palace Mini Golf with sun-bleached windmills stuck mid-spin. Weird—I thought for sure they’d be open for the holiday week. Summers are hot in Castle Beach which drives tourists away, but with all the families coming to visit, most businesses capitalize on the holidays.

Riverview Creamery’s sign promising “World-Famous Fudge Sticks” with bright pink flags sticking out almost into the road. Salty air curls through the open windows, carrying fry oil from Shrimp Shack and the metallic tang of the Atlantic. I inhale so deeply it pinches—every scent a memory, every memory a small tug of dread.

Or a big one.

Hunter’s nose is glued to the glass. “This town is pure cotton candy,” he says, pointing at a row of turquoise mailboxes shaped like fish. “I’m getting a cavity just looking at it.”

“It’s colorful,” I murmur, though my pulse flutters. Yes, it’s colorful. It’s quaint and full of Americana, but that’s not what has me on edge. Castle Beach is also famously talkative. Folks here catalog new information faster than any gossip blog.

Theo drives at a measured crawl, eyeing pedestrians wandering the street without glancing up from their sweet teas. Gage rides shotgun, sunglasses reflecting the glimmering sea. Even he can’t hide from how picturesque it is. Pastel cottages trimmed in white lattice haunt the tiny roads, their porch swings rocking lazily, cheerful bunting strung between lamp posts for tomorrow’s parade. It’s sure to be nothing compared to Boston’s festivities, but that’s okay. We aren’t here for the parade.

We turn onto Peach Tree Lane—the heart of downtown Castle Beach. Blossom & Vine sits dead center, its sea-foam clapboard exterior freshly painted, window boxes spilling with petunias. I’m hit with the sensory flash of the waxy feel of corsage leaves on my prom dress. Then, it’s Miss Jolene’s laugh as she let me hand-tie Mom’s Mother’s Day bouquet. I worked there for pocket change on random weekends in high school when I dated her son. The place means more than I was prepared to think of, and my throat tightens.

“Flowers first,” Gage reminds gently. He remembers everything, even Mom’s preference for stargazer lilies.

The bell above the florist’s door tinkles—soundtrack of so many teenage milestones. Cool humidity envelops us, dense with rose petals, eucalyptus, and damp oasis foam. Buckets line the walls holding scarlet gerberas, sunflower faces following imaginary sun—the artificial lighting in the place—and ivory stock so fragrant it feels like sugar on the tongue.

Behind the counter, Billy Street trims thorns from coral roses, sleeves rolled to reveal freckled forearms dusted with pollen. Time has broadened his shoulders, but his boyish cowlick still flips at the exact same spot. He looks up—blinks like a porch light flickering on—and breaks into a slow, practiced grin.