Page 123 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
That’s enough for me. That’s more than I ever thought we’d get. And now, tonight, for the first time in a year, I have a house to myself.
With three gorgeous men.
No diapers. No spit-up. No bedtime tantrums. Just four adults, one enormous bed, and the promise of hours ahead without a single interruption.
I might cry from happiness.
I don’t realize how quiet the house really is until the lights dim and Jack cues the playlist we haven’t touched since Lucy was born. It starts low, slow—one of Gavin’s favorites, some moody jazz remix. I’m about to pour a glass of wine when I feel Harrison’s hand at the small of my back.
“You look like you’re already thinking about what’s going to happen next,” he says, voice pitched low, amused.
“I’ve been thinking about it since this morning,” I murmur.
That was when Jack changed a diaper one-handed while shirtless and sipping coffee, muttering about how he deserved a medal. The man has three Celtic tattoos, two of them vaguely threatening, and somehow still managed to look like a dad pinup from a calendar no one’s brave enough to print. And he wasn’t even trying.
The guys don’t know it yet, but I’ve had plans.
Plans that involve the softest silk robe I own, the good body oil tucked away in the top drawer, and absolutely no thoughtsof sleep. For once, this night isn’t going to be about navigating who’s on bottle duty or who’s folding the endless pile of baby laundry.
Tonight is for us.
Jack walks in carrying four glasses—neat bourbon for Harrison, red wine for Gavin and me, and a flute of something bubbly for himself, because of course he thinks champagne makes him the fun one. He hands me my wine with a grin, his thumb brushing the side of my palm.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now.
“Better than okay.”
Gavin’s already seated on the sectional, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, one arm draped along the backrest like he’s waiting for someone to crawl into his lap and take what’s theirs.
That someone is me. But I want to make them work for it.
I let Harrison lead me toward the couch, but I don’t sit. I sip my wine slowly, turning so my robe slips just enough at the shoulder to show skin.
It’s been months since I had the chance to simply feel wanted. Not in passing. Not in sleepy half-murmurs during midnight feedings. I want to be craved. Touched. Worshiped. They all watch me now, tuned in to the same frequency, like I’ve flipped a switch in the room.
Gavin is the first to move. He sets his drink aside and rises with that confident elegance he always carries. His fingers reach for my waist, and when they land, I sigh into the warmth of them. “I missed you,” he says.
“I was here the whole time,” I tease.
“Not like this,” he murmurs, tilting my chin. “Not to ourselves.”
His kiss is soft, deliberate, and meant to light every nerve ending I’ve spent the last year suppressing. I melt into it, letting my arms slip around his neck as Harrison presses closer behind me, his palms anchoring at my hips.
Jack whistles from the couch. “If someone doesn’t take that robe off soon, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Be patient,” Gavin says over my shoulder.
“I’ve been patient,” Jack counters. “I’ve been patient for eight months. And a week. And four days.” He stands and closes the distance in three steps. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”
I let the robe slip. It hits the floor with a whisper, and I’m bare underneath—no lingerie, no pretense. Just me.
Gavin strokes a hand up my spine. Jack’s fingers trace the swell of my hip. Harrison steps around to cup my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones like I might break.
“You’re everything,” he murmurs, and I feel it in my bones.
There’s no rush. No awkward choreography. Just hands, mouths, skin, breath. They take their time undressing, and by the time Gavin lifts me into his arms, I’m already shaking with need.
He carries me to the bedroom. Jack and Harrison follow close behind, and somewhere between the laughter and the kissing and the slow unraveling of months of restraint, I realize I’m crying. From the impossible, overwhelming sense that thismoment—this night—this family—is everything I never dared to dream for.
