Page 53 of Three Pucking Ex's Brothers

I lookamazing.

I bite my lip as I stare, taking in my curves and the little details. I twist and turn, checking myself out at all angles. From the side, the cut of the panties makes my ass look great too.

A strange sense of self-awareness hits me as I think about Brett and that woman, and the negative thoughts try to pervade and erase the positive ones.

I shake my head, tousling my hair as I reach for my phone to do something I haven’t done before.

I snap a photo.

Of me in my bra and underwear, the acceptance and awareness mingling with the pain and heartache.

And I think about all those romantic movies, all the make-overs and bitter show-offs.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe I’m entering my mid-life crisis era and this breakup is my catalyst, or maybe I’ve just watched too many movies lately, but whatever it is, I blame it for what I do next.

I search for his name—since I deleted our text thread the other day in a fit of rage—and as soon as I seeSterling,I click it, but for some reason, it’s not coming up. So instead, I go under my photos, select my picture, and then typeSterlinginto the bar. I try to send the photo not once, not twice, but four damn times because for some reason, the message isn’t working.

Finally, after the fourth try, it brings me to Brett’s thread and I viciously select the photo and hit send.

The rush of excitement and vengeance fills me, and I smile, giggling. I’ve never felt so good about myself before.

Not just because I look great—which I do—but because the bitterness has been festering for days now, and it feels good to be bitchy for once.

I toss the phone on the bed as I try on the jeans, the shirts, and the sweaters over top, taking photos of everything in between.

I take another swig of my alcohol, and realize the bottle is a lot emptier than I remember. My head is a little dizzy, and I think maybe I should stop, but I also can’t help but admit that I feel great.

Better than I have in a long time, all things considered.

Pickles meows at me from the door, and I giggle.

“Yeah, maybe I should get r-ready for bed,” I say with a hiccup, noticing it’s late.

I grab my wine and cell phone, heading for the bathroom to draw a bath, purely to relax and get myself ready for bed. It’s pretty late, and though I don’t have to be in early tomorrow or anything, I am starting to feel the effects of my pasta and wine.

And the jolt of confidence I had is starting to waver.

I slide out of my underwear and bra and set to soaking in the tub, closing my eyes as I drift into that relaxed headspace. My mind wanders to Freddie. To Rush. And even Tommy.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about them, but the wine and my sudden burst of awareness tell me not to think about it too much and just let it be. So I do. I let my mind wander down those pathways as I cleanse myself. I massage the warm body gel into my skin and do my best to wash up with the rag I was using yesterday. When I get between my legs, I realize how sensitive I am.

I slide my fingers through my folds, the familiar ecstasy culminating. Some water sloshes over the side of the tub, and Irealize that this isnotthe best place to start grinding out a damn orgasm.

So, I finish up my bath and grab a towel, before heading back into the bedroom. I drop my towel and my phone on the bed and fall on top of the sheets, falling on my belly. I pull myself up, my insides fluttering as I close my eyes and my mind starts to wander again.

I get into a downward position, stretching for relief as the images of Freddie looking down at me, those perfect lips open, whispering words that make my insides flourish, catch along the sparks of the thought of Rush and his steamy kiss, his evident hard-on.

And Tommy…just thinking about his sweet gaze, his admission…

What would it be like to feel his sweetness on my tongue like Rush? What would it be like to be wrapped in his warm words and heartfelt understanding?

I groan, knowing I shouldn’t be thinking about any of them—my ex’s brothers—like this.

But I also know that my insides are aching for release, and I’m exhausted and tipsy and alone. It’s not like anyone will ever know.

So, I settle one hand on my mound, sliding one finger inside of my wet, tight entrance while the other braces for relief, for grounding. My hand hits something hard, so I move it, not able to focus on anything other than what I need to right now.

I keep my eyes closed as I slide another finger inside of myself and slowly start to work them in and out in a rhythmic fashion. Igroan as I rock my hips forward, building my own pace, my own rhythm as I fuck my fingers.