6. Vincent #2
Eric eases out of her carefully. Come—mine and his—drips down her thighs in a messy trail that shouldn't look as hot as it does. Jones tucks himself away first, then helps her straighten up.
Her dress falls back into place, wrinkled beyond saving. Her lips look thoroughly used, cheeks flushed deep pink.
I stand from my chair on unsteady legs. The three of us move almost in sync, drawn to her like magnets. Jones reaches her first. He cups her face with both hands and kisses her slow and deep, tasting himself on her tongue without hesitation. When he pulls back, his thumb traces her bottom lip once.
My turn. I step in close, slide one hand into her loose blonde hair, and kiss her with everything I held back during all those months of watching. Less controlled than Jones, more desperate. She melts into it, hands fisting my shirt like she needs the anchor.
Eric waits his turn with surprising patience. When I step aside, he gathers her against his broad chest. His kiss is softer, almost sweet, but his hand squeezes her ass possessively. He nips her bottom lip before pulling away.
"How about lunch?"
His question cuts through the heavy silence like a blade. Practical. Warm. So perfectly Eric that a huff of laughter escapes me before I can stop it.
Anya blinks at all three of us, looking thoroughly fucked and slightly dazed. Her blue eyes dart between us, lips parted like she's searching for the right response.
Her fingers smooth down the front of her dress in that familiar defensive gesture, but the blush staining her cheeks tells a different story.
I adjust my own clothes, tucking my spent cock away and fastening my belt.
The simple action grounds me somewhat. Jones moves to his usual spot by the window, arms crossed over his broad chest as he regards her with that intense blue stare.
Eric just grins, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
The three of us wait for her answer. The air still crackles with what we just did, but Eric's casual suggestion shifts something. Makes it real. Makes it ours.
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way of hers. The one that says she's not backing down even if her legs are still shaking. "Lunch," she repeats, voice hoarse but steady. "Yeah. I could eat."
The corner of my mouth twitches upward. Jones's beard hides most of his expression, but I catch the slight softening around his eyes. Eric's grin widens, the easy charmer once again in full force.
"Perfect," Eric says, already moving toward the door. "I'll order from that place with the ridiculous salads."
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at her with heat still banked in his green eyes. "Unless you need a minute to clean up first, sweetheart. We made quite a mess of you."
Anya's blush deepens, but she squares her shoulders like she's facing down a boardroom instead of three men who just took turns fucking her in an office. The sight does dangerous things to my control, even spent as I am.
I step closer again, unable to resist running my thumb along her jaw. "Take all the time you need. We're not going anywhere."
The words carry more weight than I intended. They hang there between us, a promise and a warning all at once. Her eyes meet mine, and for once she doesn't look away first. Something shifts in her expression, subtle but there. Acceptance, maybe. Or the start of it.
Jones clears his throat from across the room. "Conference room in fifteen. We'll eat there. Less chance of interruptions."
Practical as always. The eldest brother reasserting order after chaos. But his gaze lingers on the marks blooming on her neck—marks I put there—and the possessiveness in his stare matches the feeling still simmering in my own veins.
Anya nods once, sharp and decisive. She moves toward the small attached bathroom in my office with careful steps that suggest she's feeling every thrust we just gave her. The door clicks shut behind her.
The three of us remain in charged silence for a beat.
Eric breaks it first, of course. "Well. That escalated quickly."
His attempt at humor earns a low chuckle from me. Even Jones's mouth quirks in what might be the ghost of a smile.
I sink back into my desk chair, the surface still warm from where I had her bent over it.
My mind replays the last thirty minutes in vivid detail—the way she kissed me back, the sounds she made, how perfectly she took all three of us.
The way her body responded like it had been waiting for this exact combination of our hands, our mouths, our cocks.
Jones crosses to the desk and straightens a few of the scattered papers with deliberate movements. "She'll need time to process."
"She's stronger than you think," I counter, watching him closely. The dynamic between the three of us has always been fluid, but adding Anya changes everything. Makes it sharper. More real.
Eric drops into the chair across from me, stretching his long legs out. "Stop pretending we didn't just do what we've all been thinking about for a year."
His bluntness draws another rare smile from Jones. The tension in the room eases fractionally, settling into something closer to anticipation than uncertainty.
The bathroom door opens again. Anya steps out looking more composed, though her lips remain slightly puffy and a fresh mark peeks from under her collar. She meets each of our gazes in turn, chin high, shoulders back.
"Ready for that lunch," she says. The words come out steady, but her fingers twist together once before she catches herself and stops.
I stand, offering her my hand without thinking. She takes it after the briefest hesitation. Her palm feels small against mine, warm and slightly damp. The contact sends a fresh spark up my arm, surprising me with its intensity after what we just shared.
Eric falls into step beside her on the other side, his arm brushing hers deliberately. Jones brings up the rear, his presence solid and reassuring as we move toward the conference room down the hall.
This is just the beginning. The three months she agreed to work here stretch out ahead of us, full of possibility and friction and the kind of heat that changes everything. I intend to make every single day count.