Page 45 of Filthy Rich Daddies
After he pulls away, Dean unbuckles the belt and rolls her onto his hips, sitting up. Our essences spill out between them. Her hands are still tied, though. She braces them on his chest, thensinks onto his cock, breath catching now and then. He grabs her hips and rises to the occasion, lifting them both as he fucks her from underneath.
But she doesn’t have the strength today, so I line up behind her to help lighten the load by lifting for her. “Let me do the work, sweets.”
She does, giving herself over to our control completely. The back of my mind’s mainframe runs a sequence I can’t stop looping. A life like this. The three of us, showing her what her body can do. What life can be like. Raising a family together. All she has to do is say yes, and it’s hers.
I don’t know if that’s true for my brothers. But I’m willing to give it a shot.
She leans back against my chest. My cock hasn’t gone down since the first orgasm. If anything, I’m harder now. But I doubt their travel plans included packing lube. She murmurs, “I want you too.”
“Where?”
“In my ass.”
My cock leaks precum just from hearing that. “I don’t think you have lube?—”
“Never leave home without it,” Tic says as he tosses me a tube.
I have so much to learn from him. I lube up and she leans forward, letting Dean wrap her in his arms. The tightness is unparalleled. She moves ever so slightly to take us in deeper, and her gasps fill the air.
Tic takes care of that. Once I’m fully inside her ass, he takes her mouth for his own. We lead from there—in, out, up, down until none of us can see straight. She claws at Dean’s chest—he cries out, “Fuck, pet, I’m gonna have to declaw you!” She giggles around Tic’s cock, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. She must scratch Dean again, because the next thing I hear is his grunt of, “Fuck, yes, baby, right now!” His body jerks, meaning I have to be careful of his legs. But he holds her in place while me and Tic continue our work.
I spread her ass apart to watch my cock go in and out, and to intensify her pleasure. She trembles on me, our wet mess. I can’t get enough until it’s too much again. “You’re gonna make me come, sweets. Can you take it like a good girl?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, still taking Tic in her throat.
He growls, “Fuck, yes, right the fuck now!” He thrusts down her throat, holding her head in place as he comes.
I lose it then, unleashing myself on her ass until my balls are absolutely drained. All strength leaves my body, and I collapse onto her back, forcing Tic to release her head or risk a bite.
The four of us, gasping, sweating, cursing. This is how life should be.
17
THALASSA
I waketo the hush that happens right before dawn. No chalet-mates snoring, just the throb of my own pulse inside cotton batting. The boys—mybillionaireboys, my sudden, accidental, terrifying safety net—sleep around me in the blanket fort we built last night after sex. An illusion of safety, but as Colin put it, “The illusion can feel as good as the real thing.”
Tic sits propped against the bed, chin to chest, arms crossed like a medieval guardian. Dean is sprawled on the floor, one hand practically touching my ankle. Colin snores softly from the corner, hoodie pulled over his face.
Their presence should comfort me. Last night it did. But six hours of semi-concussed half-sleep after two hour-long sex sessions let every anxiety slip through the cracks. Now the fort feels like a nest of wires ready to implode.
A baby.
Ababy.
Each syllable is a kettledrum in my skull. Four weeks, give or take. Four weeks ago I was a broke virgin whose biggest plan wasto pass orgo and maybe Instagram a snow angel. Now? I can’t even list the variables.
Possible fathersplural, an entire family business orbiting me like Jupiter’s storm, my parents celebrating a prosthetic victory states away.
The thought of Dad’s face when I announce, “Surprise! Grandpa!” makes bile climb. I swallow hard, gently extract my foot from Dean’s half-open hand, and inch out of the fort. Tic shifts but doesn’t wake. My shin twinges from bruises, but adrenaline overrides pain.
I dress by phone glow. Jeans, hoodie. I pack hospital papers, two pregnancy tests, and the ginger-tea sachet Dean made, because I’m weirdly sentimental. Backpack zipped, boots on, phone silenced. My chalet-mates are asleep, nowhere in sight. Perfect. The chalet door clicks behind me with a soft magnetic latch. No one stirs.
Outside, the predawn cold slaps me awake like a bucket of iced Red Bull. Stars burn pinholes overhead. Breathing hurts my ribs. I crunch through fresh powder to the rental Jeep, keys where Arabella left them in the visor. The engine sputters alive. Heat fans across the windshield.
Destination letters flash on the GPS:DEN Airport.And I drive.
Headlights carve tunnels through snow mist, and gas-station coffee keeps my hands from shaking off the steering wheel. Driving in real snow is different than the dustings we get in Atlanta sometimes. I keep checking the rearview, half expecting Tic’s rental to materialize, headlights roaring judgment. Nothing but a FedEx truck.
