Page 94 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

Her second orgasm builds fast.

She makes a strangled sound and goes rigid, her body convulsing around me. I keep going, until I bury myself deep with one last stroke and come with a groan.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then I ease out slowly, discard the condom, and pull her into my chest. I kiss the top of her head and rest my chin there.

“You’re not doing this alone anymore,” I murmur.

“It’s all too much, Jude. I don’t know how much longer I can handle all this.”

“We’re here for you, baby. All of us. We’re not going anywhere.”

Chapter 29

Lola

Independence is overrated.

No one tells you that when you're young. They just clap when you tie your shoes by yourself and make a big deal when you start pouring your own cereal or doing your own laundry. Then one day you're an adult who thinks asking for help is failure and accepting comfort makes you weak.

I used to believe that if I didn't do everything on my own, it didn't count. I let Wes help with school because fighting him would've been pointless—he probably had the tuition check ready to go before I even filled out the application. Everything after that? I’ve clawed for it.

I mean, I got the startup money for the studio from Wes, but that was a loan. I made sure there was a written contract so he knew it wasn’t charity.

I’ve built my whole identity on doing things on my own. Alone.

And I regret it.

It’s not like there’s anything wrong with being a strong, independent woman. There’s just something to be said about letting your man take care of you—at least a little bit.

I’m perched on a stool at the kitchen counter at the guys’ house, wearing Reid’s jersey. Not the one Gigi tried to claim—an older one, soft from a million washes and given to me rather than stolen.

The eggs are cooked just right, the toast is perfectly golden, and I didn’t have to make either one. Jude just set the plate in front of me without saying a word, and now I’m pretending this is my new normal. It could be. Mornings like this could happen all the time. I could wake up in a cozy bed, pad into a kitchen where the coffee’s already brewing, and find three stupidly attractive men within arm’s reach every day.

Reid’s at the sink, pouring coffee into a mug. He’s not wearing a shirt, just gray joggers slung low on his hips. I can’t help but stare.

Miles is planted next to me on the island. His fingers are moving across his keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He hasn’t said much since I sat down. But his foot is nudging mine under the stool.

I can hear Jude singing off-key in the laundry room. I’m pretty sure it’s a Prince song but he’s butchering it so badly it’s hard to tell. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

I take a bite of toast and enjoy the peace.

God, I needed this.

Not just the food or the comfort of caffeine, but the stillness. The unspoken understanding that I can just...be here.

Reid glances over at me. His eyes flick down to my legs where the hem of his jersey is brushing the tops of my thighs. His gaze lingers before he turns away and mutters, “Is that what passes for an outfit these days?”

I shrug. “I’m comfy.”

He snorts. “Just saying—you own your own clothes.”

I take a bite of toast and chew slowly before I finally swallow. “And yet, here I am. In yours.”

Miles doesn’t look up, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. That counts as a laugh.

Jude reappears with a flourish and takes a bowl of sliced mango out of the fridge. “Your vitamin C situation needs some help,” he says, kissing the top of my head while he places the bowl in front of me. I lean into his kiss and then dig into the perfectly ripe mango.