“Yeah. What else am I supposed to do?” A chagrined laugh from Gabe’s brother. “Communicate with you like an adult?”

“That would have been nice.”

“You’re one to talk. Hiding in your house. Signing the divorce papers without so much as a middle finger for us. You wouldn’t believe the guilt I’ve been living with.”

Gabe walks into the house calmly and takes a knife out of the wooden block. After shaking his head at the three of us huddled under the window, he goes back outside. And then there is the very distinct sound of a tire being punctured. “Happy?” Gabe asks.

The ex-wife is laughing.

“Not really,” mutters his brother.

“Well, I am,” Gabe says, letting the words hang in the air. “I’m happy. I don’t need you to feel guilty for me. Matter of fact, I don’t want it. There’s no reason for it when I’m this happy. You take up your space and I’m going to take up mine.”

“Is there any chance of us being…friends?”

“I don’t know.” Gabe doesn’t elaborate right away. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

“Well done, mate,” Tobias murmurs.

A moment later, Gabe steps over the threshold and marches into the kitchen. His attention zeroes in on me and he keeps coming, intention etched into his features. My pulse speeds into a haywire sprint as Gabe hauls me to my feet. My breaths already sound like hiccupping half-sobs and I don’t even know what’s happening yet. I’m not in the dark for long, though. Gabe leads me into the kitchen by my wrist, kneels long enough to tear my panties down my ankles, and then I’m being lifted, my ass slapping down on the kitchen table, rattling the remaining breakfast plates and orange juice glasses.

“I want some pussy.”

Slowly, I trace the growing ridge in his sweatpants with a single fingertip. “Then you better take it.”

I’ve enjoyed every second of having Gabe inside of my body. But when Banks hands him a condom and Tobias spits on my already dampening sex, allowing Gabe to buck home inside of me with a vile, gritted curse, there is a new, distinct difference in his energy. His confidence is tenfold. He’s not just making love to me with an air of gratitude like before, though that sentiment is still there in spades. No, he’s owning me. He’s looking me right in the eye and conquering me, because he was finally able to conquer some loose end in himself.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp.

He captures my throat and bears down harder, faster. “Don’t worry.”

The table rocks underneath us, silverware falling off the table. His hips are machines.

“Now, mate. That’s how you fuck our woman.”

Pressure is building inside of me and it’s no wonder. I’ve got this man huge and thick inside of me, the intensity and purpose in his gaze stealing the air from my lungs. And my other two lovers stand behind him, watching with unconcealed lust as I’m brought to the brink of screaming. No, I am screaming. A plate falls off the table and smashes on the ground. My toes curl up and that quickening sensation I became very, very acquainted with last night is starting to make itself known. It’s the kind of orgasm that only comes from the inside. No outside stimulation. Just the incessant rubbing of that deep, secret place and the knowledge that I’m the key to my man’s pleasure and the only way he can achieve his release is through this. This wild, animalistic rutting. This unabashed enjoyment of my body.