Page 94 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

She’s still got that smug grin on her face. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I set a rhythm, slow at first, letting us both feel every inch, every friction, every hot slide. She doesn’t want careful, but I give her slow on purpose, to make her meet my eyes and take it all. She does, not breaking my gaze.

The connection is brutal, honest. I wouldn’t call it romantic, but there’s nothing clinical about it either. It’s animalistic, yes, but it’s also desperate. We don’t want to miss anything.

She rises to meet every thrust, breath coming in ragged staccato bursts, hands tangled in my hair now.

“I need you deeper, Fletcher. Get on the ground.”

She doesn't ask twice. She steps back, guides me down, and straddles my hips with a confidence that makes my heart punch the inside of my ribs. The ground's cold and mulch-stained, but June doesn't notice or care.

Her mouth finds mine again, demanding, and I answer it gladly. Her skirt rides up, her knees bracing on either side of me, and she lowers herself in one greedy, agonizingly slow descent. I almost black out at how tight, how perfect, how alive she is.

Neither of us moves. She stares down at me, ruffled hair softly framing her flushed face, lips moist and parted. The light from the alley catches the sharpness of her jaw, the constellation of freckles across her chest. My hands easily circle her waist.

She smiles, crooked and full of intent, then sinks her teeth into my collarbone. I feel it everywhere, hot sparks under my skin, blooming out in concentric rings. It pulls me apart.

She moves in a slow circle at first, her thighs flexed, the hard ridge of her calves bracing either side of my ribs. Her hands are on my chest, pushing me down, pinning me. Maybe she doesn't trust I'd stay otherwise.

She's in control now, and she knows it.

Her hips rock, slowly, carefully at first, as if she’s listening to some internal metronome, then faster, harder, her breath growing ragged. I realize I'm digging furrows into her waist and force my hands to soften, splay out, offer up whatever gentleness I can, given the fact that my entire skull is filling with white light.

"Stay," she says, shaking, "right there."

I do. I hold still, the pain-pleasure of her pressure locking me in place. My brain shorts out; all that’s left is pulse and friction. Her jaw tightens, a lock of dark hair falls over her forehead. She doesn’t shake it away, just grinds out every pulse, scraping herself raw against the world.

She comes with my name in her mouth, muffled against my collarbone, and the heat of it strips me bare. I let her ride it out, clutch her hips with both hands, give her the rhythm she wants. There’s no way I can hold out much longer.

But she’s greedy. She doesn’t let up. She works me with the aftershocks still shivering through her; I can feel the tremors in her thighs, the frantic race of her pulse. She wants every drop of me, and when she leans down to kiss me again, I lose it. It’s brutal, it’s messy, it’s so fucking honest and so fucking good, I’m almost laughing as the world blanks around the edges.

June collapses half onto my chest, head on my shoulder, arms thrown over me. It feels good, and I find myself running my fingers up and down her spine, slowly, the way you do with someone you never want to move.

Her hair smells of sunshine and sweat and brandy.

I pull in a deep lungful of air and let it out.

“You’re insane,” I say gently.

She hums against me, lazy and pleased. “You’re welcome.”

I laugh for real then, the kind that shakes both of us. She bites my neck again, softly this time, and nuzzles into me.

I should be thinking about what this means, but I’m honestly not. Not in this moment.

Because when she said my name like that, when she looked at me like I wasn’t just heat but choice, that didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like a beginning.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

June

I sneak back in through the front door, trying my best not to make a sound. It’s late… well, early, technically, but the last thing I need is to wake Wayne up. Or worse, have him hear the way too loud thudding of my heart from across the house.

I’m still wearing Fletcher’s jacket.

Great, just great.