Page 202 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

He clicks his tongue, tsking. “Amateurs. I’ll show you how a real man treats a woman.”

“Big talk,” I manage, still breathless.

“I deliver.” He doesn’t rush, doesn’t grab. Instead, he traces his fingers down my body, learning every curve, every sensitive spot. When he finally touches between my legs, it’s with a knowledge that makes me whimper.

“That’s one,” he murmurs as I pant, flustered, and then within seconds, I come apart on his fingers. My hands squeeze him, my chest tightening.

“Oh, fuck,” I moan.

He doesn’t stop, building me up again with patient, devastating finger play.

This one comes in hot. My face heats up and his eyes make me release.

“Two,” he says as I watch him. I shatter a second time, begging for his dick.

By the time he pushes inside me, I’m overstimulated and desperate and absolutely wrecked. He sets a rhythm that’s slower than the others, deeper, hitting spots I didn’t know existed.

“Three,” he growls against my neck right before I come a third time, this one pulling a scream from my throat. “So fucking sexy.”

Only then does he let himself go, finding his own release with a groan.

After, the room is quiet except for our breathing. Atticus has collapsed in the chair again, looking satisfied. Revan is still beside me on the bed, one hand playing idly with my hair.

The door opens. Koa stands there, soaked from the rain, looking at the scene before him. His face is unreadable.

“You done?” he asks, voice rough.

“For now,” I say.

He nods once, then moves to the bathroom. The shower starts running.

Revan pulls me against his chest, his lips finding my temple. “You were brave today. Braver than anyone should have to be.”

The words crack something in me that violence couldn’t touch. I turn into him, burying my face against his shoulder, and finally—finally—let myself feel the weight of what I’ve done.

“I killed him,” I whisper.

He plays with my hair.

“And I’m not sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be.”

Atticus moves to the bed, settling on my other side. Three of us tangled together, sharing body heat and trauma and something that might be healing.

Koa emerges from the shower, still dripping, and stands at the foot of the bed. Looking at us. At me.

“I won’t share you,” he says quietly.

I stare at him, not giving him a choice.

“But I can’t walk away either.”

He climbs onto the bed, keeping distance between himself and the others but close enough to touch me. His hand finds my ankle, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored.

And maybe I am.

We lie there in the dark—four broken people who’ve survived something that should have killed us. Connected by violence and sex and an understanding that we’re all capable of terrible things.