I hated myself for that sound.
Coffee’s brewing now. I’m trying to keep it together. I nod at Mr. Wriggles on the counter, because yeah, apparently he missed me and I’ve been instructed to acknowledge him like a gentleman.
She’s too fucking precious for this world. She’s gonna break me in half with kindness and chaos and her whole terrifying heart.
I bite into a donut. One she brought. Pink icing. Sprinkles. It tastes like her, sweet, filthy, unhinged. I swear it moans in my mouth like she does when I grip her hips. Now I’m picturing her perched on the kitchen counter, covered in frosting and need.
I head back to the room, pulling on clothes slowly, too aware of her in my space. My bed. My life.
That’s when I see the note on the nightstand.
The message is filthy. Unapologetically her. My cock responds aggressively. Demands I let her know, awake, asleep,or unconscious and bleeding out you can always use me however you need to.
I stare at the note while trying to think of a proper response.
I don’t even know what part to respond to first. Do I thank her? Apologize? Offer my body as tribute? Draft a counter-note that says “Wake me up next time, I beg you”? That sounds like the opposite of consent. But also, fuck, yes.
“Thanks for breakfast and packing my lunch! Yes you can mount me at will! Also does this mean I can do the same when you sneak into my bed and I find you unconscious and naked?”
Nope. That sounds awful. But… No. She wouldn’t sleep through that. Even with permission, it’d wake her up and she’s so peaceful right now. That usual edge of bite-me-before-I-bite-you energy isn’t there.
I lean down and kiss her forehead, soft and careful, and try not to fall to pieces when she sighs like she knows I’m there.
And then stand there for way too long looking at how tiny she is in my giant bed. Delicate.
I’ll write her back when I can think like the sweet man she believes she’s found, not the one hard enough to fuck her through the mattress just from looking at how small she is in my sheets.
I leave, like a normal adult with a job. Barely. But I can’t stop thinking about that note.
Once I’m at work, I pull out my phone, still half-hard, and type the only thing that even comes close to what I’m feeling.
Me: Consent granted in advance until the heat death of the universe. Mount me at will. Ride me into hell. I’ll bring donuts and a ring.
Me: PS. Please keep leaving notes. I might frame this one. Or laminate it. For reasons.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Delilah
This day is going to be perfect. Planetary-alignment, thighs-quivering, spontaneous-orgasm perfect. I mean, I woke up in Benji’s bed, naked and fully smug, to a note from him basically saying, “make yourself at home and mount me anytime, unconsciousness be damned.” Sir, yes, sir.
And now I get to go to therapy, which I usually hate, because consequences, but today I get to be in the same goddamn building as all three of my men. The soft one, the stoic one, the professional boundary I keep humping with my mind. They don’t even have to be in the same room. Just breathing the same filtered air could trigger a holy-ghost-style climax.
I’m not saying I’m going to come in public, but my panties are wearing a goddamn floatie and whispering prayers to Saint Clitilda.
I round the corner toward Rhys’s office, smug and glowing and there he is. Benji. In the hallway. Guarding or waiting just to see me. Yes, baby. Yes.
His whole face lights up like a golden retriever just saw a squirrel made of boobs. I don’t even think, we both step in, his hands catch my waist, and suddenly I’m airborne, lifted straight into a kiss that says you wrecked me and I’d let you do it again on the floor of this government building.
Not a chaste hello. Not a quick peck. This is a deep-tongue, dick-first hallucination kiss. I make a sound that would get me banned from network TV. He tastes like sugar and orgasms.
And then a throat clears. Not polite. Not awkward. A threat.
Benji sets me down like I’m precious, but also like he’s preparing to throw hands.
I don’t have to turn. I already feel the rage-glow that belongs to one man only.
Jett.
