Page 118 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
On her other side, Ethan’s asleep on his stomach, one arm draped protectively over her waist, his hand resting possessively on her hip. His face, usually etched with the tension of command, is slack. Younger.
And at the foot of the bed, curled awkwardly but contentedly against her shins, is Owen.
We’re a knot—a tangle of limbs and heat in a bed that’s too small for one man, let alone three and a woman.
I should be claustrophobic. I require space. I require controlled temperatures. I require a sterile environment to function at optimal capacity.
But as I lie here, listening to the synchronized breathing of the only three people on this planet who matter right now, my pulse is completely steady.
Variable stabilized.
I close my eyes again, just for a moment, savoring the data.
Tessa.
She’s the anomaly. The glitch in the code that somehow fixed the entire operating system. Yesterday was… irrational. It was a statistical impossibility. The probability of the three of us—three men who’ve spent the last ten years building walls around our damaged psyches—agreeing to share a single woman we all love was less than 0.0001%.
And yet, here we are.
I shift slightly, trying to restore circulation to my arm without waking her.
She stirs. A small, distressed sound escapes her throat.
Her eyes fly open.
For a second, there’s confusion. Hazel irises darting around the room, trying to process the input. She sees the ceiling. She sees the cramped bedroom. She feels the weight of Ethan on her waist.
Then, she sees me.
And the panic hits.
It’s a visible wave. Her pupils dilate. Her breath hitches. Her body goes rigid against mine.
“Oh god,” she whispers.
She scrambles backward, pulling her leg off me, trying to sit up. But the bed’s a trap of bodies. She bumps into Ethan, who grunts but doesn’t wake. She kicks Owen by accident.
“Careful,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. “You’ll wake the beasts.”
“Asher,” she breathes, clutching the sheet to her chest. She looks wild. “Asher, what… what time is it?”
“Six eighteen,” I say.
“Six…” She rakes a hand through her hair, pulling the strands away from her face. “Oh god. Oh god, oh god.”
“Panic attack?” I ask. “Or regret?”
I watch her face. If she’s backing out, I need to know immediately. I’ve got to figure out how to untangle this before it blows up the company.
“No,” she says quickly. “No, not regret. Just… reality.”
She looks around the room, her eyes landing on the pile of discarded clothes in the corner. My suit jacket. Ethan’s tie. Her torn panties.
“We actually did it,” she whispers. “We actually… all of us.”
“We did.”
“Well, I’ve got work,” she says, her voice rising in pitch. “I have to go to work. We have to go to work. Together. In the same building.”
