Page 112 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Ethan,” she gasps, her arms instinctively wrapping around my neck as I carry her toward her bedroom.
“We’re done talking,” I growl against her ear. “I’m going to show you exactly what it means to be claimed by us.”
I kick her bedroom door open wider and step inside.
It’s even messier than the living room. Clothes are piled on the chair. The bed is unmade and rumpled.
I set her down next to the mattress. She’s standing in a simple cotton bra and panties. She crosses her arms over her chest,suddenly self-conscious under the weight of three men staring at her.
“Don’t hide,” Asher says. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, watching her. He hasn’t touched her yet, but his gaze is a physical caress. “We’ve all seen you. We’ve all memorized you.”
“It’s different,” she says, her voice shaking. “All of you… at once. It’s intimidating.”
“Good,” I say. “Be intimidated.”
I shrug out of my suit jacket, tossing it onto a box of books. I rip the tie from my neck, letting it fall, and then unbutton my dress shirt, shucking it off completely.
I want her to see me. I want her to see the muscle I built carrying the weight of this family. I want her to see that I’m not just a suit.
“Get on the bed,” I say.
She climbs onto the mattress, backing up until she hits the headboard. She pulls her knees to her chest, curling into a ball.
I crawl onto the bed after her. The mattress dips under my weight. Then Owen joins, crawling up the other side.
Asher stands at the end, stripping off his shirt with efficient, jerky movements. He reveals the tattoo on his left shoulder—the coordinates of the extraction point where we survived.
Owen has the same one on his bicep. I have it on my ribs.
We’re marked by our history. And now, we’re going to mark her.
The bed suddenly feels small. The air is sucked out of the room, replaced by testosterone and heat.
I reach out and grab her ankle, pulling her legs down.
“Open for us,” I say.
She hesitates for a split second, looking from me to Owen to Asher. Then, slowly, she relaxes her legs. Her knees fall apart.
I move between them.
“This is going to be intense,” I warn her, placing my hands on her thighs. My thumbs press into the soft flesh. “We aren’t going to be gentle. We’ve been holding back for weeks. We’ve been pretending for about a month. And now the dam is breaking.”
“I don’t want to be gentle,” she whispers, looking me dead in the eye.
That spark. That defiance. It’s what made me crave her. It’s what makes her worthy of us.
“Good girl,” I growl.
I lean forward and kiss her.
I kiss her hard, biting her lip, forcing her mouth open. I feel Owen’s hands move over her body. He kisses her neck, his hands roaming over her breasts, unhooking her bra.
I feel the mattress shift as Asher moves closer.
I break the kiss, pulling back to look at her.
Her bra is gone. Her chest is heaving. Her eyes are rolled back slightly, overwhelmed by the sensation of four hands on her skin at once—my grip on her thighs, Owen’s hands kneading her breasts.
