Chapter Three—Riley
First night with the guys in the penthouse, and I make it to midnight on water and spite.
The spite gives out first, but the water does its job. I sit on the edge of the bed listening to the penthouse settle—everyone in their rooms, no one about to ambush me in the kitchen. Probably.
I press my ear to the door. Strategic assessment, not paranoia. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices.
My stomach growls. Loudly. The universe clearly has opinions.
I crack the door and slip out.
The penthouse is dark and I make it to the kitchen and pull the cracker box from the cabinet before I notice the faint blue-white glow at the table.
Ethan is sitting there.
Laptop open. Glasses on. Button-down still buttoned at midnight. He looks up, takes in the crackers and peanut butter, and doesn’t comment.
“There’s actual food,” he says, nodding toward the fridge. “If you want it.”
He turns back to his screen. “Pasta. Salad. Soup.”
There is, in fact, very good pasta. I heat some up and eat it standing at the counter because sitting across from him feels like admitting something I’m not ready to admit. He goes back to typing. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable.
“What kind of design?” he asks after a while, not looking up.
“Sorry?”
“Connor mentioned graphic design. What kind.”
“Branding, mostly. Some UX. Whatever pays the bills.”
He nods. “Good UX is invisible. You only notice it when it fails.”
I set my fork down. “You have opinions about UX.”
“Most people design for ideal behavior.” He closes a tab. “People don’t behave ideally. The gap between what we expect and what actually happens—that’s where everything breaks.”
I blink. “That’s… accurate.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I expected 'nice colors.' Not a philosophy.”
“I don't have opinions about colors,” he says. “Only about what breaks.”
“Same problem in medicine,” he continues. “You build systems for the textbook cases. The textbook cases don’t show up.”
“You were a doctor.”
“ER. Eight years.”
I wait for more. He doesn’t offer it.
“What happened?” I ask, because apparently I’m getting chatty over reheated pasta now.
He pauses, hand stilling on the keyboard. “I got tired of losing people.”
A simple fact, delivered without drama. He carries it the same way he carries everything else—quietly, close to the chest.
I don’t push.
The kitchen settles again. He refills my water glass without a word when he gets up for his own. Doesn’t make a thing of it. Just does it and sits back down.
I stare at the glass for a second too long.
The people I’ve let close always wanted something in return.
Credit. Gratitude. Proof I was worth the effort.
Ethan didn’t even look up when he poured it.
Jules is the only other person who’s ever done it without keeping score.
My college roommate, the one who dragged me out of my dorm after Andrew disappeared and made me eat real food instead of just spite and sadness.
She still texts me unhinged voice memos at 2 a.m. when she knows I’m spiraling.
Connor has been the same way since I was sixteen and we were both sitting in our parents’ house in Connecticut trying to figure out how to live in a house that suddenly had too much room in it.
I don’t let many other people past a certain point.
Those two are the exceptions, and it took years to trust even them.
That does something strange and unwelcome to my chest.
Not the glasses or the precise way he takes up space. It's not even the clean jaw or the shirt still buttoned at midnight. It’s the way he listens—actually listens, like he’s weighing what I say before answering.
I am not going to make this into anything.
But I notice.
“Goodnight,” he says eventually. Laptop closed, glasses folded. He stands.
The hall is behind me, so he has to pass close.
He stops just short of me. His eyes drop to my face and hold. Not the clinical scan from earlier. Slower. Heavier. Something unnamed passes between us.
For one long second, neither of us moves.
Too close.
Close enough that I feel the shift in his breathing.
He steps back first.
“Goodnight,” I manage.
He disappears down the hall.
I stand there a moment longer, then head back to my room telling myself Ethan Cole is just a logistical roommate and I am absolutely not making this into anything.
*
The dream doesn’t knock. It slides in hot and uninvited, pulling me under before I can fight it.
It starts with the brush of Ethan’s shoulder in the hallway—that half-second of contact—and then the dream rewrites everything.
Liam appears first. His low laugh vibrates against my ear as strong arms pull me back against a solid chest. “Been waiting to get my hands on you properly,” he murmurs, voice warm and filthy.
His palms slide under my shirt, rough and sure, thumbs circling my nipples until they tighten into aching peaks.
Heat floods through me as he grinds slowly against my ass, hard and insistent, letting me feel exactly what I do to him.
Then Andrew is there, right at my other side, his breath hot against my neck.
“God, I missed this… missed you,” he breathes, the words raw and edged with regret.
His hands grip my hips, possessive and familiar, pulling me closer like he’s trying to erase every mistake he ever made.
“Let me make it right, baby. Let me show you how much I still want you.”
Ethan steps in front of me, silent and intense.
His fingers tilt my chin up and he kisses me—deep, focused, claiming.
His tongue strokes mine with deliberate control that makes my knees weak.
One hand palms my breast while the other rests at my throat, thumb brushing my pulse like he’s measuring how fast he can make it race.
They move together like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Clothes disappear slowly. Andrew drops his head, sucking one tight peak into his mouth, tongue flicking hard while his hands knead my ass. Ethan takes the other, more methodical, sucking with steady pressure that sends sparks straight between my legs.
I’m trembling, caught between them, skin burning everywhere they touch.
Liam’s hands slide lower, hooking into my shorts and dragging them down my legs along with my panties. When I step out, completely bare, all three of them pause. Their eyes rake over me—hungry, reverent, almost possessive.
“Fuck, look at her,” Liam breathes. “So beautiful. Been dying to touch you like this.”
Andrew turns me gently, pressing open-mouthed kisses down my spine before dropping to his knees behind me. His hand at my hip urges me to lean forward. Then his tongue drags hot through my folds, circling my clit with filthy precision, licking me open like he’s memorizing every reaction.
Liam stays in front, holding me steady, one hand kneading my breast while the other teases my nipple. “That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear. “Let him eat you. You look so fucking hot riding his tongue.”
Ethan cups my jaw again and kisses me deep, swallowing every sound I make while Andrew works me with his mouth—slow licks turning faster, two fingers teasing at my entrance without pushing inside, just stroking, promising.
The pleasure coils tighter, hotter. Too many hands. Too much heat. Andrew groans against me, the vibration shooting straight to my core. “So sweet… so wet for us. This is mine. Always was.”
Liam’s fingers join Andrew’s mouth, sliding through my slickness. “She’s dripping,” he growls. “Come on, beautiful. Let us hear how good it feels.”
Ethan breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper against my lips, “Come for us. Let me feel it.”
That’s all it takes.
I shatter hard, crying out into Ethan’s mouth as my thighs tremble around Andrew’s face.
Waves of pleasure crash through me while all three of them hold me through it—Andrew licking me gently through every pulse, Liam’s grip tight on my hips, Ethan’s thumb stroking my throat as I come undone between them.
*
I wake up gasping, heart hammering, face flushed hot.
The room is dark. My body is still buzzing, thighs pressed tight together, skin oversensitive.
Okay.
So that happened.
I press the back of my hand to my cheek and stare at the ceiling, mortified and still half-aroused.
There is a man in my doorway.
I sit up fast.
The door is half-open. Liam is leaning against the frame in a t-shirt and low-slung shorts, arms crossed, looking far too awake.
“Your door was open,” he says casually.
I glance at it. It definitely should be closed.
“I heard noise,” he continues. “Knocked first. You didn’t answer.”
“I’m fine,” I say, aiming for steady and missing badly.
“Sure.” His green eyes sparkle with quiet amusement. “Didn’t sound like a bad dream.”
“It was,” I insist. “Very bad. Terrifying, even.”
His mouth curves into that slow, knowing grin. “If you say so.”
He straightens, pulls the door closed behind him with a soft click, and leaves me alone with my racing heart and extremely unhelpful imagination.
I flop back onto the pillows and stare at the ceiling.
These men are not my problem.
This is rapidly becoming a problem.
I am so deeply, catastrophically screwed.