Page 117 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“And it can’t be a secret,” Owen adds, leaning back against the cushions. “I mean, we can’t tell the world. Not yet. The investors would have a stroke. But we can’t hide it from each other. No more secret lunches. No more deleted footage.”
“We operate as a unit,” Asher says, his voice calm and factual. “We share. We rotate. We balance. We prioritize your well-being above the code.”
“Is that what you want?” Ethan asks me directly. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Can you handle this? Can you handle us? Because we’re a lot. We’re demanding. We’re messy.”
I look at them. I look at Owen, who makes me laugh and makes me feel brave, who kissed me in the shower and makes me forget my name. I look at Asher, who sees me when I’m invisible and grounds me when I’m spinning, who touches me like I’m precious data. I look at Ethan, who challenges me and protects me and looks at me like I’m the only woman on earth, who breaks his own rules just to keep me.
And I realize I stopped running the moment they walked through my door.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s crazy. It’s complicated. And Harper is going to freak out.”
“We’ll handle Harper,” Owen promises. “We’ll grovel. We’ll buy her a pony. Whatever it takes.”
“And the contract? The investors? Markus Vance?” I ask Ethan.
“We’ll handle them too,” Ethan says. His voice is iron. “I told you. I protect what is mine. If Vance comes near you again, I will buy his company and dismantle it brick by brick.”
He stands up and walks over to the couch. He sits on the other side of me, sandwiching me between them.
“And make no mistake, Tessa,” he says, his hand cupping my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “You are mine. You are ours.”
I lean into his touch. I feel the warmth of Owen against my side, the weight of Asher’s hand on my leg.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m yours.”
Asher closes his laptop. He rests his head on my knee, looking up at me with a rare, small smile.
“Then the parameters are set,” Asher says contentedly.
“No more variables,” Owen agrees, kissing my shoulder.
“Just us,” Ethan finishes.
I close my eyes, surrounded by their warmth, their scent, their strength. A month ago, I sent a text to the wrong number asking for trouble. I found it.
And it’s the best mistake I ever made.
21
ASHER
We didn’t leave Tessa’s apartment yesterday. Abandoning the office for eighteen hours was a massive risk, but we had no choice.
We turned her living room into a command center. Ethan took investor calls from her balcony while Owen cooked dinner. I coded on her couch while she slept. We guarded the perimeter. We made sure the asset didn’t liquidate herself before dawn.
The data stream is usually constant. My brain doesn’t sleep; it idles. It runs background diagnostics on loop—code fragments, server load projections, the timing matrix of the traffic lights downtown. It’s a ceaseless, scrolling terminal of information I can’t turn off. It’s why I run until my lungs burn. It’s why I work until my eyes bleed. It’s why I exist in a state of perpetual, low-level static.
But this morning, the static is gone.
There’s silence. Total, absolute system silence.
I open my eyes. The room is dim, the gray light of dawn filtering through the cheap plastic blinds of Tessa’s bedroom window.Dust motes dance in the sliver of sun, suspended in the air like frozen pixels.
I don’t move. I’m pinned.
My left arm is numb, trapped beneath a weight heavier than it should be. I look down.
Tessa’s asleep on my chest. Her hair’s a tangled mess across my neck and shoulder, smelling like sweat and sex. Her mouth is slightly open, her breath puffing warm and rhythmic against my skin. One of her legs is thrown over my waist, pinning me to the mattress.
