Mark f****d me in the morning because he thought the mess was for him.
He woke hard, hospital sleep still on him, and rolled me under him before the light was honest. I was swollen. Sore. Wet in a way that wasn't a dream. He groaned when he pushed in, like my body had missed him, and I took it with my teeth in my lip because Wes was still there underneath, and Mark was sliding through his brother without knowing.
"God, Lena. You're—"
"Don't talk."
He didn't last. He never did when he was tired and thought he had found me ready. A dozen strokes, a hand on my breast, his mouth on my neck an inch from the mark Wes had left. He came with a grateful sound and stayed on me, heavy, pleased with himself. I hadn't come. He kissed my cheek like that was the same thing.
"Needed that," he said. "
