Page 56 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
He reaches out slowly, giving me every chance to flinch away, but I don’t. His hand finds the back of my neck, thumb pressing into the tendon just below my hairline, and the contact is electric. My brain short-circuits, sends a thousand signals at once, but all I feel is the way his thumb rubs slow circles against my skin, gentle, patient, like he’s trying to heal something he can’t name.
“I don’t care,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on mine, soft at first, tasting. Testing. I freeze, breath caught high in my chest, but he doesn’t stop. He kisses me again, harder, his other hand bracing against the counter behind me, caging me in. The kiss is pure energy, crackling and bright, and it’s all I can do not to bite him, not to pull him inside out.
For a second, I resist, just to prove I can. I keep my hands at my sides, fingers digging into the hard edge of the sink, knucklesburning. I think about all the reasons this is wrong: the team, the press, the fact that I am supposed to be smarter than this, the fact that I’ve spent every day for months pretending I don’t want to taste his sweat, his tongue, his fucking name, the fact that I’m pregnant with what could be his babies but can’t tell him because he’d risk his whole career to put this first. But the second he slips his tongue between my lips, all the resistance melts out of me like ice on hot concrete.
I let go of the sink and grab his jacket, fist the soft fabric at his chest, and pull him closer. He groans into my mouth, low and guttural, and the sound makes something snap inside me. I bite his lower lip, just a little, just enough to make him gasp, then shove him back against the wall and pin him there with my whole body.
His hands are everywhere now, sliding up my arms, tracing the line of my jaw, tangling in my hair. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, spins us so my back hits the door, and kisses me again, deep and filthy. My brain is pure white noise, a series of static bursts punctuated by the heat of his hands and the hard line of his thigh pressed between mine.
I want to tell him to stop, to slow down, to give me a second to remember why we shouldn’t do this. But I can’t. I don’t want to. I want more. I want everything.
His hand finds my hip, slides under the hem of my hoodie, which he pulls off. Alarm bells ring in my mind as he drinks me in with his eyes, the sudden softness giving him pause. But it’s only just there, and not enough to invite inspection.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he slides his hand under the tank top, fingers hot and sure against my bare, softer skin. I moan, louder than I mean to, and he eats the sound, kisses me harder, faster, until I’m dizzy and shaking and clawing at his back like I need to dig my way under his skin.
He breaks the kiss, just for a second, and buries his face in my neck. His breath is ragged, desperate. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he says, and then he’s biting at my earlobe, nipping at the sensitive skin just below, making me shudder so hard my knees buckle.
I clutch at his shoulders to keep from collapsing, but he just laughs, soft and dirty, and presses his thigh harder between my legs. I grind against him, shameless, chasing the friction, the heat, the pulse that’s building faster and faster inside me.
“You want me,” he says, voice thick and dark. “I can feel it.”
I nod, because I can’t lie, not now. I want him so bad it’s making me shake.
He kisses me again, slower this time, dragging it out, making me beg for it. His hand travels up, up, until he cups my breast over the flimsy lace of my bra and squeezes, thumb circling my nipple through the fabric of my bra. I gasp, and he grins, loving it.
I reach down, fumbling with the waistband of his pants, and he groans when I find him, hard and aching under the thin cotton. I stroke him through the fabric, slow at first, then harder, and he bites down on my shoulder to keep from crying out.
“Fuck,” he says, “you’re gonna kill me.”
I want to tell him that’s the plan, but my mouth is too busy kissing him, biting him, tasting the salt of his skin.
He pushes my leggings down, then the boyshorts, and I step out of them. He finds me wet, so wet, and slides a finger in, slow and careful, then another. I moan into his mouth, grinding against his palm, and he whispers, “That’s it, Sage. Let go.”
I do. I come, hard and fast, clenching around his fingers, nails digging into his back. He holds me through it, mouth on my neck, hand steady and strong.
It takes a while for my vision to clear. I’m pressed between Beau and the door, my lips raw, my skin streaked with pinkwhere his stubble sandpapered the skin above my collar. I wait for him to pull away, to laugh it off, to say something snarky so we can both pretend it didn’t happen. Instead, he lifts his head, meets my eyes with a look so open it hurts, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Jesus Christ, Sage,” he says, voice hoarse. “You taste like a fucking sin.”
I snort, or try to, but it comes out shaky. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”
“Only when you’re in the room.” He grins, mouth swollen, then leans in for another kiss. This time it’s softer, exploratory, lips skimming mine like he’s afraid I might vanish. I want to push him away, but my arms are useless, heavy with the weight of wanting.
He tongues my bottom lip, slow and sweet, and then his hand is back inside my tank, moving with a confidence that makes my pulse spike. I let him. I want more. I want it to hurt. I want to see how far he’ll go before I break.
He backs me up, step by step, until my ass hits the counter. The space is narrow, the tile cold under my bare feet, but I barely notice. All I feel is his body, his hands, his mouth.
He peels my shirt over my head, dragging it slowly to savor every inch. The air stings my skin, makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. My bra is nothing, a thin scrap of black lace, and he reaches behind me, fingers fumbling for the clasp. I slap his hand away, just to be difficult, but he catches my wrist, brings it to his mouth, and bites down on the soft web between thumb and forefinger. Not hard, just a warning.
“Behave,” he says, and I almost shiver.
He pops the clasp with his other hand and the bra slips off, leaving me naked. I brace myself on the counter, elbows locked, and glare at him, daring him to comment. Instead, he just stares, jaw slack, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. He bends downand takes my nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, then tracing lazy circles with the tip of his tongue.
I make a sound—God knows what, somewhere between a gasp and a threat—and he grins around me, teeth scraping lightly at the peak before letting it go. He switches sides, gives the other nipple the same treatment, and now my hands are in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss.
“Easy,” he says, but he’s smiling.
He drops to his knees, tongue flicking over the inside of my thigh, then up, up, until he’s licking me open. The first pass is gentle, a tease, but the second is full contact, his mouth hot and greedy. He sucks my clit between his lips and hums, the vibration sending a bolt straight through my spine. I grip the edge of the counter, toes curling on the tile. He goes deeper, tongue fucking me, nose pressed hard against my mound, and I lose any hope of dignity. I arch my back, ride his face, grind until my muscles lock and I see stars.
