Page 54 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

Wes grabs the platter of waffles, takes a couple and passes it. Miles is mid-sentence about task automation. I pour water into the closest glasses, half-listening as he walks Wes through the logic tree he rewrote last night. Lola reaches for the syrup and I pass it to her without comment.

Jude chimes in with something about trigger delays, and Wes nods through a bite of food. I throw in a few comments here and there, but my attention keeps drifting to Lola beside me.

So I notice immediately when Jude leans in toward her to say something. She turns slightly to hear him better. I hate how intimate their postures are. She’s never that relaxed with me. Whatever he says makes her smile and let loose a soft laugh. I clench my fingers around my fork.

While she’s still smiling, he reaches down to touch her thigh under the table.

It’s subtle. I’m sure Wes and Miles don’t even notice, but I do. I see every fucking detail—the curl of his fingers and the flush that creeps up her neck.

I didn’t need confirmation that Jude was the one in her bed this morning, but having it? I want to punch him.

The anger burrows into me and sits there festering. I can feel it burning through my veins.

Jude’s touch lingers, his thumb moving slightly against her leg, and she doesn’t flinch. Eventually he pulls it back and the two of them pretend it never happened.

So, I decide to remind her who the fuck I am.

While the others keep talking, I shift in my seat and drop my hand beneath the table. I take a cue from Jude’s book and slide it to Lola’s thigh. Her fork pauses midair but she doesn’t grab my wrist or give me a look. I take that as permission.

My fingers trail along the inside of her leg, just above the bend of her knee. She keeps her gaze forward, nodding at something Miles says about the new interface. Her body moves a fraction to the right. I press my palm more firmly against her, dragging it higher up her leg.

I slide beneath the edge of her shirt and find the hem of her shorts. My fingertips move just under the cuff, grazing bare skin. She straightens her back and takes a sip from her glass. I inch further, feeling the muscles in her thigh tighten beneath my palm.

The others are deep in conversation, thank fuck, and are paying no attention to what I’m doing.

I slide higher until I reach her panties. I pause, but she still doesn’t stop me. There's not a single bit of resistance.

So I slip under the elastic. My knuckles skim the crease of her thigh as I angle my fingers to press against her pussy. She’s soaked. Absolutely fucking dripping.

I keep my voice neutral as I toss out some comment about backend logic, but my fingers move lower, until I find the spot that makes her hips give a traitorous little jerk. She takes a quick sip of water and nods at something Miles says, pretending like I don’t have two fingers brushing up against her.

I draw slow, torturous circles with my middle finger, barely applying pressure. Her hand clenches around her fork. She doesn’t drop it, but the tension in her grip makes the metal scrape against her plate.

I dip one finger inside her. Her legs move apart and I slide another finger in and feel the pulse of her walls. Her pussy clenches hard around me, and my jaw tightens at the feel of it. She’s so wet I slide in without resistance.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Aside from the flush at her neck, you’d never know I was knuckle-deep inside her. She shifts in her chair again, but this time it’s not to get away. Her legs part just enough to let me in deeper.

I keep moving my fingers, fucking her slowly while the table buzzes with conversation. I watch her carefully, tracking every small reaction. She bites her bottom lip. She is working so hard to keep herself together.

My thumb finds her clit and touches it gently. Then I press a little harder to make her gasp. Jude glances her way, and she covers with a cough. I don’t stop.

She’s trying not to give anything away, but her body is betraying her. Every breath she takes is shallower than the last. Her chest is rising faster now, and she’s stopped even pretending to eat.

Wes asks something about server loads. I know the answer so I give it.

I lean in a little until my mouth is closer to Lola’s ear. I pitch my voice low so it doesn’t carry and give us away.

“You’re going to come for me at the table, aren’t you?”

Her fingers dig into the fabric of her napkin. I slide my fingers in deeper, pushing the rhythm just a little harder. I feel her inner walls clench.

She’s close—so fucking close—and still doing everything she can not to give herself away.

A soft sound escapes her—half gasp, half whimper—but she coughs again to cover it.

Miles glances at her. “You alright?”

Lola clears her throat and nods. “Just swallowed wrong,” she says, voice strained.