Chapter 19
Claire
The morning starts with me pressed against the kitchen counter, Stuart's hands gently needing my shoulders. The granite is cool under my palms, grounding me as nausea hits again.
It's not just the queasiness making me dizzy—it's the way Stuart's thumb traces deliberate circles down my back through the thin fabric of his Harvard T-shirt that I often wear to bed.
It's how Jonathan's bare chest ripples with muscles.
It's how Dane watches us over his coffee mug, his dark eyes following every movement with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Feeling any better?" Stuart murmurs against my ear, his concern mixing with something deeper, darker. His breath is warm against my neck, and I can feel the restraint in how carefully he holds me—like he wants to do so much more but won't risk hurting me or the baby.
"A bit," I manage, surprised to feel my body responding to his proximity. Pregnancy hormones have made every nerve ending hypersensitive, every touch feels electric. I can feel the heat of Stuart's body through his pajama bottoms, the way his chest presses against my back when he breathes.
Jonathan abandons the eggs he's been whisking to press a cool cloth to my forehead, his other hand resting on my lower back. "Maybe we should get you back to bed. You need rest."
"I'm okay here," I breathe, caught between Stuart's warmth behind me and Jonathan's concerned blue eyes in front of me.
Dane sets down the book he’s reading and moves closer, his reading glasses still perched on his nose. "The nausea should pass soon. Second trimester is supposedly easier. Most women report increased energy and... other appetites."
The way he says 'other appetites' makes my mind wander.
"That's still weeks away," I groan, then gasp as Stuart's hands tighten on my hips, pulling me back against him. I can feel his response to our closeness, hard and insistent against my lower back, and it sends heat through me.
"We should take better care of you, baby," Jonathan says, his voice dropping to that tone that makes my stomach flip. His hand slides from my back to my side, fingers spanning my ribs just below my breasts. "Make sure all your needs are met."
"You take excellent care of me," I manage, my breath catching as Dane joins us, his hand gentle on my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"Not excellent enough if you're still feeling sick," he counters. "Maybe we need to be more... attentive."
The moment builds, four bodies drawing together like magnets. Stuart's lips find the spot where my neck meets my shoulder and Jonathan's hand slides higher.
Dane leans in close, his gaze holding mine.
Stuart’s hands are still at my hips, his thumbs moving in slow, claiming strokes that make it impossible to think about anything except how much I want all three of them. Jonathan’s breath catches—a sound that feels like approval, or hunger, or maybe both.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Dane’s hand slides to the back of my neck, guiding my head until my forehead rests against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and sure, and it steadies mine in return.
Jonathan’s fingers trace the hem of my shirt, skimming my bare skin. Stuart presses closer from behind, his chest a wall of warmth and safety. The three of them surround me completely—touching, not taking. Promising, not demanding.
When I lift my head, Dane’s lips are inches from mine, and for a moment, all I can think about is the way they’d taste—coffee and heat and temptation. But before I can find out, he draws back just enough to murmur, “You come first, Claire. Always.”
The words go straight to my core. It’s not about dominance or control—it’s about devotion, about three men who would burn the world to make sure I’m okay.
And that, somehow, is the most intoxicating thing of all.
"Claire," Stuart murmurs against my neck, his voice rough with restraint. "Tell us what you need."
The question hangs in the air, heavy with possibility. My hands find Jonathan's chest, feeling his heart race under my palms. "I need all of you," I whisper. "I need to feel alive, to forget about the stress, about Chad, about everything except us."
Dane's fingers tangle in my hair, gentle but firm. "Then let us take care of you."
They move in practiced harmony now, weeks of learning each other's rhythms paying off. Jonathan lifts me onto the counter, the cool granite a shock against my overheated skin. Stuart's hands skim up my thighs, bunching the hem of my shirt. Dane's mouth finds that sensitive spot just below my ear.
"Beautiful," Jonathan breathes, his hands reverent as they trace the slight swell of my belly. "Carrying our baby."
"Ours," Stuart agrees, and the possessiveness in his voice makes me shiver.
All of a sudden we hear footsteps and we all freeze immediately—me surrounded by three partially dressed men, all touching me, the sexual tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
My face flames with mortification as I take in what Aunt Lottie must be seeing: Jonathan shirtless from his morning workout, muscles on full display and glistening with a light sheen of sweat; Stuart in just pajama bottoms that hang dangerously low on his hips, revealing the V of his hip bones.
Dane in a robe that's barely tied and reveals his defined chest; and me in just Stuart's shirt, which barely covers my ass.
Aunt Lottie takes it all in with one sweeping glance, her perfectly penciled eyebrows rising toward her carefully styled silver hair.
"Good morning, darlings," Lottie says breezily, not fazed at all.
"Don't mind me, just dropping off more of those ginger chews for the nausea.
The organic ones from the health food store.
" She sets the bag on the far counter, pouring herself coffee.
"You really might want to move this to the bedroom though.
The counter can't be comfortable for a pregnant woman’s back. "
"Lottie," I groan.
"What? I'm being practical. Also, Stuart, that position will strain her lower back. You're a doctor, you should know better."
Stuart actually steps back, looking chagrined. "You’re absolutely right, Lottie."
"See? Helpful." Lottie winks. "Carry on. I'll see myself out."
But before she can leave, the doorbell rings. The unexpected sound makes us all tense these days.
"I'll get it," Jonathan huffs, reaching for his shirt, the muscles in his back flexing as he pulls it on. “Good lord, it’s Grand Central Station in here today.”
He returns with a woman I recognize immediately, though she's changed since I last saw her. Ella Miller, a former high school classmate, and the girl who made my senior year a living hell. She's dressed to the nines, from her perfectly blown-out blonde hair to her red-soled high heels.
"Ella?" Stuart's voice is shocked and I put two and two together. Stuart had mentioned before that he had a daughter, and they haven’t talked in years, but I had no idea it was Ella Miller. What are the fucking chances?
Her eyes—the same gray as Stuart's—find mine, and recognition flares with disgust. "Claire Pierce? You're the Claire my father's fucking?"
The temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. I feel all three men tense around me protectively, Jonathan actually stepping partially in front of me.
"Ella," Stuart warns, his voice taking on a warning tone.
"This is perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect." She laughs, but it's bitter. "Claire Pierce. The girl who thought she was better than everyone else. The one who reported me for cheating on the SATs."
Her eyes scan the other men, taking in their state of undress, their proximity to me, the obvious intimacy between us all. "And apparently the relationship isn’t even exclusive. How progressive. Or should I say, how slutty."
"Watch your mouth," Jonathan says.
"Or what? You'll defend your shared toy?
" She turns back to Stuart, her pretty face twisted with disgust. "She's my age, Dad.
My father's having a midlife crisis with my high school nemesis and her harem.
" She looks around the kitchen, taking in the domestic scene.
"So do you all take turns? Or is it more of a group situation? "
"That's enough," Stuart says sharply, but I can see how her words wound him, hitting every insecurity about our age gap.
Ella smirks, then looks at Jonathan with a calculating expression. "You're attractive. Very attractive actually." She moves closer to him, her walk deliberately seductive, hips swaying. "Sharing must get boring. I could help with that. I'm very... attentive."
She reaches out to touch him, red nails against his tanned skin, but Jonathan steps back. "Not interested."
"Why not?" She presses closer, voice dropping to a purr. "Claire has three of you. Surely one wouldn't be missed for an hour. I could show you what it's like to be with someone who isn't stretched between three different men. Someone who could focus entirely on you."
"You're Stuart's daughter, which makes you my family. And I love Claire." Jonathan says firmly.
Her face flushes slightly, pink spreading across her cheeks. She turns to Dane, changing her focus. "What about you?”
"Absolutely not,” Dane responds.
Frustrated that her advances aren't landing, she turns back to me with venom. "You always thought you were so perfect. So much better than the rest of us."
"I never thought that," I say honestly, finding strength in the guy's presence around me.
"I was lonely, Ella. I studied constantly because I had no friends.
I ate lunch in the library because I had nowhere else to go.
I reported you because it was the right thing to do, and yes, because I was angry that everything came easy for you. "
"Nothing came easy—"
"You had everything," I interrupt. "Money, popularity, any guy you wanted. You had every opportunity, every advantage, and you were still willing to cheat for more."
"I didn't get into Yale!"