Page 181 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“More,” I beg, my head tossing back against Owen’s shoulder. “Please, more.”
“Take it all,” Ethan demands, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise the skin. “Take everything we have.”
The second climax builds more slowly, deeper. It feels heavy, rolling through my body like a storm. I’m crying again, but this time they’re tears of pure, unadulterated joy. I’m pregnant. I’m terrified. We’re at war.
But right now, I’ve never felt more invincible.
“Come on, Tess,” Owen urges, biting my neck. “Let go.”
“Together,” Asher whispers, kissing my throat.
“Mine,” Ethan growls.
I break apart, my body arching like a bow, my voice shattering on their names. I feel Owen shudder against my back as he finds his own release in his jeans. I feel Ethan pour into me again. I feel Asher’s breath catch as he watches me come apart.
We collapse into a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing. Asher reaches over, pulling the sheet up over my shoulders, while Ethan’s grip on my hip tightens, grounding me as the night closes in.
32
ASHER
Order is restored.
The server architecture is stable, the breach has been sealed, and for the first time in weeks, the Unit is functioning at optimal capacity.
It’s been three weeks since the night Ethan knelt on the rug and we declared war on the world. We have spent the last three weeks in a cold war. I spent forty-eight hours dissecting Nebula’s servers. The payment trail from Markus Vance to Greg is fully documented. The corporate espionage strategy documents are secured on my hard drive. We have the data to destroy him, but Ethan ordered me to hold the payload.
We are waiting for Vance to make a mistake, to step out of the shadows so we can sever his network permanently.
Until then, the perimeter is secure. This leaves only one variable undefined.
“We’re going to be late,” Ethan says, checking his watch for the third time in thirty seconds.
He’s pacing the entryway of the penthouse, wearing a bespoke suit, yet he looks like he’s about to face a firing squad.
“We aren’t late,” I correct him, checking the traffic data on my phone. “The clinic is twelve minutes away. Traffic density is light. We’ll arrive with four minutes to spare.”
“Do you have the bag?” Owen asks, coming out of the kitchen with a green smoothie smelling strongly of spinach and ginger. He hands it to Tessa. “Drink. Folic acid. Asher’s orders.”
Tessa takes the cup, wrinkling her nose, but she drinks it. She looks radiant. The pallor of the first trimester is fading, replaced by a glow defying standard biological fatigue. She’s wearing a loose sundress and a denim jacket, trying to look casual, but the slight tremor in her hands gives her away.
“I have the bag,” I confirm, adjusting the leather satchel over my shoulder. It contains her medical file, insurance documents registered under a shell LLC to protect her privacy, and three water bottles.
“Let’s move,” Ethan commands, opening the door. “Service elevator. I don’t want the doorman seeing us leave together in the middle of a workday.”
Moving as a unit, we flank her—Ethan in front, Owen behind, me at her side. A phalanx.
We take the service exit to the garage and pile into Ethan’s black SUV, relying on the tinted windows and reinforced panels. I drive. My reaction times are faster than Ethan’s aggression or Owen’s distraction.
“Are you nervous?” Owen asks from the backseat, his hand resting on Tessa’s knee.
“Terrified,” Tessa admits. “What if something is wrong? What if the stress from the hack hurt the baby?”
“The probability is incredibly low,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “Your vitals have been optimal for fourteen days. You’re sleeping seven hours a night. You’re eating. The data is sound.”
“Thanks, Ash,” she says softly. “But data isn’t everything.”
I reach over the center console and squeeze her hand. Her skin is warm. Her pulse is steady.
