9. Thalassa
THALASSA
I’m sprawled across a velvet sectional roughly the size of my entire dorm lounge, clutching a double-shot cappuccino that Atticus just pulled from the penthouse’s copper espresso machine. The man knows his espresso.
The guys—Atticus, Dean, Colin—are arranged around me like a very stylish solar system.
Tic on a leather armchair, polishing his reading glasses, Dean perched on the piano bench and scrolling stock tickers, and Colin cross-legged on the rug, installing a firmware patch on some gadget I don’t recognize.
My phone buzzes. Arabella is on her third check-in of the morning:
Arabella: Status or I call in the Navy.
Me: Alive, caffeinated, oddly blissed.
Arabella: Bliss? Details.
Me: Will debrief later. TL;DR the trio are respectful, hilarious, and v effective at recreational biology.
Arabella: Recrea—Oh. Good. If you need an exit, I’m ten minutes out, day or night.
Me: You’re the best menace a girl could ask for.
Arabella: Obviously. Use the code word if things get red-flag.
Me: Will do.
“Everything okay?” Colin asks without looking up. He’s using a jeweler’s screwdriver on something that glints like a futuristic Game Boy.
“My friend is staging a SWAT team outside in case you turn out to be super villains.”
Dean’s mouth quirks. “Understandable. What percent villain are we ranking this morning?”
“Sitting at three percent mild mischief, and zero percent axe murderer,” I report. “Margin of error plus-minus fluffy pancakes.”
Tic chuckles, sets the glasses aside. “I’ll endeavor not to raise the number.”
It’s wild how comfortable I feel after less than twenty-four hours with these guys. Maybe it’s the afterglow talking (okay, yes, it definitely is), but each brother occupies a different set of vibes and somehow they don’t clash.
Atticus is calm authority—CEO energy even in retirement—yet he talks to me like a professor who legitimately likes student questions.
Dean is precision, steel edges, textbook RBF, but there’s a stealth tenderness in the way he threads conversation to me, not around me.
Colin is kinetic, cracking code jokes, barefoot regardless of five-star carpet, handing me chargers before my phone drops below half.
Collectively, they’re a balanced equation I didn’t know I’d enjoy.
I can feel my perpetually half-coiled nervous system unspool hour by hour.
Self-preservation also notes these are still billionaire strangers, but I’m not worried about it.
My gut—which the biopsych nerd in me reminds is basically a second brain—gives a happy little burble, aided by cappuccino and a pancake mountain.
I’m mid-sip when my phone lights again, this time Mom. Crap. I forgot we scheduled a quick call to finalize Thanksgiving details. “Back in a sec,” I tell the brothers, waving the phone. They don’t pry, leaving me room to climb off the seat and dart to my room.
It’s all buttery linen and a view that would win desktop-wallpaper awards. I close the door, plop on the bed, and answer. “Hey, Mom!”
“Hey, T.” Mom’s voice is bright, but I sense the undertone—there’s always an undertone when we’ve been apart too long. “Are you eating enough? You sound thin.”
“I currently have a pancake baby in my gut,” I say truthfully. “How’s Dad?”
“He’s in the workshop filing the edge of the prosthetic hook again. Says the hinge squeaks.” She makes a clucking sound. “The man would polish a cereal spoon if you called it gear.”
This is good. Dad fussing equals Dad okay, not Dad in depression again. “Tell him to video me the modifications later. I miss the workshop.”
“I will. So flights—there’s still a seat on the red-eye. I can cover tickets with my emergency stash.”
Guilt punches me square between the ribs. This trip with the Copelands is funding my entire ski dream, and then some. Plane tickets are peanuts now, but telling her why I suddenly have spending money is not on the menu.
“I appreciate it,” I say carefully, “but the organic chem final is two days after break, and I need the campus library. You know how I am with distractions.”
Mom sighs—soft, resigned. “Your father bet me a coconut flan you’d say that. Guess I’m baking one for Christmas.”
Ugh. My guilt doubles. I’m going to be on the slopes at Christmas, and I haven’t mentioned that to her because I wasn’t sure if I’d back out of the sugar baby arrangement.
I have just postponed family time for sex and hot chocolate. Guess I’m growing up.
“How are you doing, Mom?”
She sighs. “Oh, you know me. Looking forward to the holidays with my family.”
Her way of guilting me and dodging the question. A twofer. It’d be impressive if the guilt wasn’t trying to eat at my soul. “Sorry about Thanksgiving. I need to get back to studying?—”
“Right, right. Well, we love you. Study hard. And don’t forget to sleep.”
“Yeah, you too. Love you, love to Dad.”
We hang up. I pace, rub the ache in my sternum, remind myself that it’s okay to choose my own adventure once in a while. The money I’m earning will help them too—Dad still wants a better prosthesis, despite his bravado. Maybe I can send him some of the extra funds after my trip.
I step back into the living area. Dean stands, offers fresh coffee like he teleports caffeine. Tic’s reading a hardcover on leadership psychology but sets it down.
“That looked heavy,” Tic says.
I shrug, slide onto sofa. “Mom’s bummed I’m missing Thanksgiving. I deployed the ‘finals’ excuse.”
Colin’s head pops up from behind his mystery device. “Technically true. Finals are always around the corner.”
We settle into an easy chat. Atticus asks what classes I’m eyeing next semester. Colin wants to see my data set on population growth curves. Dean listens, interjects with clarifying questions like a venture-capital shark.
It’s odd. I’m used to guys’ eyes glazing over when I talk about my work. But they’re not performing interest. They actually enjoy the nerd shit. It’s intoxicating to feel valued beyond being “the hot virgin,” though they definitely appreciate that too, judging by last night.
A text pings—Arabella again.
Arabella: Still alive?
Me: Thriving. Can’t go into detail, family room.
Arabella: Condoms. Lube. Hydrate. Send gossip later.
I send the ok-hand emoji and pocket the phone.
While the guys debate whether 3-D printed steak will ever taste right—Dean says not unless you print cow gut microbes, but Colin claims flavor chemistry can hack it—I do a quick systems check on myself.
I am deliciously sore in a zillion new places.
No complaints on that score. My head is surprisingly clear.
Usually, new situations trigger my classic fight-flight treadmill.
Instead, I feel anchored. My wallet is soon to be very happy.
Last night was my first time having sex with anyone , and I did it with three wickedly experienced men who tag-teamed my body like an improv troupe showing off.
I want more. Not just the sex—though, yes—but the banter, the comfort, the sense that these men see me.
That part’s addictive. Which is ironic, because sugar arrangements are designed to avoid strings.
I’m supposed to enjoy the spoiling, clock out, and return to everyday life.
Except “everyday life” now feels grayscale compared to this IMAX.
I’m going to crash hard after this. I know it. The high is too high not to crash. Arabella will be the perfect person to help me come down safely.
We pivot to planning the rest of the long weekend. Tic suggests a private museum tour, Dean floats the idea of hiring the test kitchen for a molecular-gastronomy demo, and Colin is looking up obscure diners for tomorrow’s breakfast.
“Tomorrow evening I need a three-hour block to study,” I say, surprising myself with the responsible voice. “If I bomb O-chem my GPA tanks.”
Dean nods approval. “We can set you up in the library nook. Flashcards incoming.”
Atticus raises a brow. “Our job, then, is to relax you sufficiently so the enzyme pathways stick.”
My cheeks warm. “Pretty sure last night set a high bar.”
Colin grins. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
The energy in the room changes, and their eyes are on me. It’s strange—almost as if there’s a pulse in here that we all feel, but can’t see. Their eyes go predatory, like a jungle cat ready to pounce.
My heart speeds up, and my body aches for them. I’m sore, there’s no way around that. But a little pain has never stopped me before. There’s really only one thing left to say.
“Show me.”
Colin stands, taking my hands in his. He guides me to the room with the big bed, the other two stripping as they follow. When we reach the edge, he kisses me and bites my bottom lip before playfully shoving me onto the bed.
I roll across it, searching for the middle, but Dean is there, naked, his bare cock against my ass as he spoons me on my side. He grinds on my cheek as if seeking release, like last night on the balcony. He murmurs in my ear, “So soft.”
Tic climbs on the bed in front of me, all day-long stubble lips and hands everywhere. It’s a hell of a sandwich to be in. His hands travel between my thighs, fingers too deft on my clit already. I can’t help but grind against him, searching for pressure, for pleasure.
That’s when Dean’s fingers sneak into my pussy from behind.
Having the two of them go at me like this makes me rock back and forth. I can’t tell which I’m searching for more—something on my clit or something deep inside. I’m slippery and swollen and so sensitive I might die.
Tic wriggles down the bed and lifts my thigh up to replace his fingers with his tongue.
It’s enough to make me explode, and I’m so close.
And so exposed. I don’t know what it is about that last part that gets me.
I’m not body shy, but being fully exposed to these men turns me on in ways I don’t understand.