Page 101 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Grey grunts, unimpressed. “He’s quick. No stamina.”
Beau snorts. “You’d know.” Then he catches sight of me and grins, all teeth and cocky half challenge. “Hey.”
“Give it a minute,” I say, but my heart’s already in my mouth. These men, these disasters, these partners in crime—they’re the axis the last three years have spun around.
Grey leans in, voice soft for once. “You okay?”
I nod. “Better than okay.”
He smiles, the kind that’s just for me, then tugs my hoodie to pull me in for a hug. He always hugs like he’s bracing against a storm—full body, both arms, face tucked in the crook of my neck. He lets go only when Beau gets impatient, slapping my ass and saying, “C’mon, we got a team meeting.”
Finn’s smile is lazy, proud, and so beautiful it hurts.
The four of us stand in a circle, waiting for someone to call the play.
Beau moves first, like always. He sidles up to Finn and musses his hair. “MVP, huh? You remember who set up that shot?”
Finn rolls his eyes. “You remember who carried you all season?”
Beau lets it slide and grabs me around the waist, spinning me into the huddle. His hands are rough but warm, fingers already roaming over my hips, my back, the skin at the nape of my neck. Grey moves in behind, hands strong and certain, mouth at my ear. Finn presses up against my front, smelling of sweat and hope and the unmistakable promise of something better than winning.
For a second, I want to laugh. This is the most ridiculous place I have ever had sex, and that includes the time we tried to christen the new nutrition office and ended up breaking a shelf full of vitamins.
But then Beau is kissing me, hard, and Grey’s hands are working under my shirt, and Finn, beautiful Finn, is stroking my hair and murmuring how proud he is of me, of us, of the weird, stubborn family we’ve built out of nothing.
We take our time. There is no rush. Every touch is a memory, a celebration, a chance to say: I’m still here. You didn’t lose me. You never will. We kiss and tease, trade spots, tangle limbs and stories and the kind of dumb inside jokes that only make sense at two in the morning when the whole world is still spinning.
Finn slides my pants down, kissing every inch of skin as if he’s mapping a territory he never wants to forget. Beau is impatient, already pressing against me, but he waits his turn, content to watch and stroke and whisper dirty encouragements in my ear. Grey holds me steady, his hands a fortress, and when he finally takes me, it’s with a care and a strength that makes my whole body sing.
I lose myself in them, in the way they move around and with each other, the easy confidence of men who know every line and edge of my body, and love it all the more for the changes three babies have wrought. We are a machine, well-oiled and reckless, never the same twice but always, always better than before.
We fuck until we’re breathless, until there’s nothing left but the shaking and the laughter and the stubborn refusal to let go. We collapse in a heap, Beau beneath me, Finn draped over my legs, Grey curled at my back like a weighted blanket. My skin is hot and tacky, my throat hoarse from moaning, and my heart so full I think it might finally have outgrown its cage.
We lie there, tangled and happy, and talk about nothing: what we’ll eat for breakfast, whether the kids will ever let us sleep past six again, who’s going to be the first to puke at the victory parade.
Beau pokes my side and says, “We’re a mess.”
Finn kisses my ankle. “Best mess I’ve ever seen.”
Grey just squeezes my hand and says, “Family.”
It’s true. It’s stupid and improbable and so far from what I ever imagined, but it’s real. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re living. We’re winning.
We clean up, as best we can. Finn finds a box of baby wipes in my backpack and does a once-over on Beau’s abs, “for the cameras.” Grey puts the room back together, stacking chairs and wiping down the table, always the fixer. I reapply lipstick with shaking hands and think about how easy it would be to do this forever.
We head for the exit, arms around each other, steps in sync. Outside, the world is still loud with celebration, but here in the tunnel, it’s quiet. Safe.
Finn leans in and says, “You still want that weekend away?”
I nod. “Anywhere but a hockey rink.”
Beau smirks. “We’ll see.”
Grey presses a kiss to my forehead, then steers us all forward, toward the noise, the future, the mess we’ve made and the promise that we’ll keep making it, together.
As we walk, I reach back and link my fingers with Finn’s, then Beau’s, then Grey’s. We move as a unit, a line, a team.
We’re not perfect. We’re not always pretty.
But I wouldn’t change a thing.
