Page 131 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

My hand slips up her top, and the insistent, hot arc of her skin spikes under my touch. She grinds harder, pinning my cock between us, her hips merciless.

I reach for the button on her jeans, swearing quietly when my hands shake. I want her out of them, want her every part. She must want it too because she pops the button herself, shoving her hips down so I can shimmy the denim over them, and cotton briefs follow.

Her thighs are slick hot where they straddle me, and she doesn’t bother with modesty.

She yanks my zipper down, not patient enough for much else, and the blunt, honest way she wants me almost hurts. It’s a punch line, an answered prayer, a heatstroke high. She opens me up, pulls me out, and then she’s wet and warm and raw against me before lowering herself onto me, blinding, unhurried, her inhale catching as I fill her.

She doesn’t close her eyes. She watches me, hunger and ache and wildness in her gaze, and the way she works herself down, the roll of her hips, finding the fit for a story only we know… it’s almost enough to make me come right there.

I want her closer, so I slide my hand up the back of her neck and pull her down, our foreheads pressed together, the sweat on her skin electric, every tiny shiver telegraphing into my bones. She’s tearing sounds out of me I didn’t know I could make; she’s shaking, and laughing, and then she’s gasping, forehead clapped to mine, both of us holding on as if we’re riding out a hard-won storm.

My vision goes white at the edges, and she fucks through my loss of words, riding out every snap of pleasure.

Her knuckles whiten on my shoulders. The air is thick and shallow, just ghosted breaths and the sticky slam of skin. Her voice starts as a whimper and ends as a wild, shattered moan, her body clenching, shaking all up and down, and I feel her come, my name scraped out of her throat and into my mouth, into the charged dark of this cab.

If there were any pieces of me left, any cells or spare atoms unspoken for, they disappear into the singularity of her wanting.

I clamp my mouth to her shoulder to keep from shouting, come hard, sudden, and near violent, and cling to her until the world narrows down to a pinpoint, her pulse jumping under my hand, the air full of every secret between us. My vision stutters. The truck tilts on its axis, the stars outside spinning a new orbit for us.

For a long time, neither of us speaks. She’s heavy on me, her skin damp and her hair wild. I hold her, feeling small aftershocks ripple through her thighs. She traces nonsense on my collarbone, her breath softening from hurricane to breeze.

Somewhere, Bolt loses patience and starts barking at the moon. I expect her to laugh. Instead, she tilts her face to me and, wonders of wonders, kisses my eyelids softly.

She sits up, careful with me, careful with herself, pulls her panties up, and tugs her jeans back on. I’m slower, a little hollowed out, a little rearranged.

I don’t move.

Not because I can’t, though that’s part of it, but because this is one of those moments you don’t rush without breaking something important.

She stays where she is, breathing evening air and me, her weight real. My hands rest at her waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded circles, keeping her close to me for as long as I can.

Out beyond the windshield, the valley shines. Quiet. Patient. It knows how to keep a secret.

Bolt barks again, louder this time, indignant and dramatic, reminding us that the world still exists and he is, apparently, its appointed guardian.

June lets out a soft laugh and rests her forehead against mine.

“Guess we should check on him,” she murmurs.

“Eventually,” I say.

She smiles at that and presses one last kiss to my mouth. Slow, powerful, full of everything we’re not putting into words yet.

But eventually, I know we’ll have to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

June

I have decided that productivity is a personality trait.

If I stay busy, I don’t spiral.

When I’m with Evan, it’s easier. He fills space without trying. He lives in the now. If he’s worried about anything, it’s whether dinosaurs could technically beat sharks in a fight.

“June,” he says one morning, solemn as a judge, “if a T. rex had roller skates, would that make him faster or would he just fall down?”

“Fall down,” I answer immediately, tying his shoelaces. “Tiny arms. Poor balance.”