“Language,” Rhys snaps, tossing a blanket over me like I’m a toddler who just tantrumed through naptime.
Benji curls in behind me, arm draped around my waist, face pressed into my neck. “Love you,” he whispers. It’s not new. But it still makes everything in me go quiet and soft and pink.
Rhys smooths a thumb between my brows. “You are mine.”
“You wish,” Jett says from the other side of the bed. His voice is low and lazy and still a little ragged. “I got next.”
“You got her mouth,” Rhys says primly.
“I got her first,” Benji says into my shoulder, not even opening his eyes. “And she came so sweet for me.”
“Can we not,” I say, half-asleep, “count orgasms like trading cards?”
Rhys leans down, kisses my temple. “Sleep. We’ll fight over you in the morning.”
“Again?” I sigh, already slipping under.
Benji kisses my hairline. “Always.”
And with that, the room falls into the kind of silence that only happens when a girl’s got three oversexed lunatics wrapped around her body and no more fucks left to give. Warm limbs. Sticky chests. Someone’s foot is on my calf and I don’t care.
Mine, mine, mine.
I sleep like a queen.
Chapter Sixty
Delilah
A Few Weeks Later
It’s weird not journaling anymore.
Not in the obsessive, stalker scrapbook, googly-eyes-and-daggers way. Not even in the court-mandated reflect on your actions before someone else does it for you way. Just… not at all. My hands miss it. My brain itches. I talk too much now to fill the gap, and all three of them let me.
I gave them their journals. The real ones. The ones with glittery ink and chaotic stickers and loose candy wrappers folded inside like bookmarks. Secrets and confessions and paint smudges from all the nights I bled out on the page about them.
Benji read his with me. He cried. He thanked me, like I’d gifted him a sweater instead of every feral, filthy, starry-eyed thought I’ve ever had about him. He keeps it in his nightstand.
He wrote me back. Whole damn journal full of his big, soft, syrupy heart. I had to read it in the bathtub so no one would see me sob and accuse me of having human emotions.
I found Jett’s in his t-shirt drawer while I was hunting the next shirt to steal. (I’m up to five now. He’s stopped pretending to care.) The cover’s worn down already. He’s definitely read it. Possibly more than once. It smells like me. I think he holds it. I think if I asked him, he’d deny it. If I asked him nicely, he’d fold like wet cardboard and ask for more.
Rhys’s lives in his home office. I bet he annotates it. I bet he color codes. I bet he reads it before group therapy sessions just to remember exactly how deep in the trenches he’s fallen. Hehasn’t said a word about it, but he’s quieter when I bring up my past now. Gentle. Less clinical. More mine.
They’re still learning to share.
Not just me, though, yes, I am the main dish they all want to hoard and hand-feed and rail senseless, but each other too. Rhys and Jett text now. About sports. Benji and Jett spot each other at the gym. Rhys and Benji meet up for wine nights and “quiet conversation,” which I’m 95% sure is code for “sobbing into each other’s arms about how emotionally unwell they are.”
It’s… beautiful.
When I’m not sandwiched between them like some kind of slutty neapolitan ice cream bar, they’re like best friends. It kills me. It heals me. I’m annoying about it.
They have their rhythm now. The gym. The sports bar. Nude drawing class, which I still pose for, obviously, because my tits are masterpieces and my thighs deserve applause.
And when I’m not the model? Benji is. Which, excuse me, was my idea and remains the best decision I’ve ever made. He’s a class favorite. He blushes the whole time but holds still and does those little flexes on accident that make people gasp. I watch in the corner like a proud and slightly horny stage mom.
Jett drew a stick figure of him. With a massive cock.
