Page 96 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
One orgasm isn’t enough, though, and we continue moving around the room, changing positions so that I’m able to feel each of them deep inside me over and over again.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve come by the time they each release inside me. We end up sprawled together on the living room floor, limbs tangled, all of us breathless, laughing softly as we bask in the afterglow, in the warmth and comfort of our new home.
Chapter thirty-nine
ETHAN
The mornings are my favorite.
There’s a hush to them that feels like ours alone—before phones start buzzing and the real world starts pulling at the edges. Just soft light, sleepy bodies, and the gentle hum of a house that still feels like it’s stretching awake.
The house smells like coffee and toast. It’s warm, comforting, and feels like home.
The scent drifts from the kitchen, where Liam’s dressed in a crisp white tee and pajama pants, newspaper spread out in front of him at the table like it’s the 1950s. There’s a yellow highlighter next to his plate, because apparently grocery deals are serious business.
Jake’s perched on the edge of the counter, bare-chested in his flannel pajama bottoms, peeling a banana. He’s already declared he doesn’t want breakfast. Which means he’ll eat half of mine.
And then there’s Maya. God, Maya.
She’s leaning against the far counter, tea mug clutched between both hands, steam curling up and brushing her cheek. Her oversized sleep shirt is slipping off one shoulder, and her hair’s a messy halo, wild from sleep.
She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, blinking toward the sunlight pouring through the window. The golden beams catch her face just right, making her look like something out of a painting.
She catches me staring and gives me a slow, sleepy smile over the rim of her mug.
That’s when it hits me—like it does every morning.
Welivehere. Together. In this slightly-too-big house with its creaky stairs and unpredictable plumbing and the back door that sticks when it rains.
A house where someone always leaves a cabinet open and someone else always stubs their toe on the edge of the coffee table.
It’s perfect.
We fought over the rooms when we first moved in—Jake wanted the one with the most windows, swearing it was “optimal for morning vibes,” until Liam, ever practical, pointed out that he’s usually up past midnight playing poker or watching late-night sports reruns.
He gave it up begrudgingly, but only after securing the right to choose our bed frame.
Unpacking took three days, a dozen takeout boxes, and at least one minor argument over whose idea it was to bring a broken lamp.
That first night, we collapsed on the living room floor—boxes still everywhere, Maya tucked under Jake’s arm, her head in my lap, Liam’s legs sprawled out.She fell asleep with one hand resting on her belly. Even though she’s not showing yet, she’s already so protective of our little one.
I remember thinking,I could live like this forever.
We’ve fallen into this strange, beautiful rhythm. No two days look the same, but somehow it works.
Liam makes lists no one asked for—there’s a whiteboard on the fridge covered in color-coded notes.Appointments. Trash pickup. Vitamin reminders.It’s infuriating and weirdly comforting.
He’s always the first to refill the paper towels, the one who knows when Maya’s prenatal checkup is without looking at a calendar.
Jake, on the other hand, is complete chaos. Organized chaos, I guess. He’ll spend a morning fixing a leaky faucet without instructions, but leave a trail of wet towels and cereal bowls behind him like some human tornado.
He claims he doesn’t care about the house aesthetic—but there are suddenly throw pillows on every couch, including one that says“Home is where the snacks are.”
Maya rolls her eyes at him constantly, but never without smiling.
I do most of the cooking, though it’s a team effort when Maya feels up to it. When she doesn’t—when the nausea hits or her body just saysnope—she sits on the stool at the island, chin propped in her hand, and hums while I stir something on the stove.
Sometimes it’s aimless, sometimes it’s a lullaby she swears she doesn’t remember learning. She’ll sneak bites of whatever I’m making when she thinks I’m not looking.
