Bonus Chapter: Ours

An Exclusive Bonus Scene from Ours to Keep
by Isla Wilde

⚠️ Spoiler warning: read the novel first.
⚠️ Content note: extremely graphic, explicit MFM sexual content. 6,000+ words. Absolutely too hot for retail.

Ours

Set three months after the epilogue. The night they move into the new apartment.

The last box hit the floor with a thud that echoed through empty rooms, and I stood in the middle of our living room — ours, all three of ours — and tried not to cry.

I failed immediately.

“She’s going,” Marcus said from the kitchen doorway, a roll of packing tape dangling from his wrist like a bracelet. “Reid, she’s going. We’ve got tears.”

“I’m not crying.” I wiped my face with the sleeve of Reid’s flannel — the one I’d stolen three weeks ago and neither of us had acknowledged. “I’m just — it’s dusty in here.”

Reid came up behind me. His hands settled on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of my neck, and his mouth found the spot behind my ear that made my knees unreliable. “You’re crying because you’re happy,” he said against my skin.

“I’m crying because we own a couch. Together. Like adults.”

“We’re renting,” Marcus corrected, dropping onto said couch and spreading his arms along the back. “Adults own. We’re three millennials splitting a two-bedroom in a walk-up because none of us can afford this neighborhood alone.”

“Two-bedroom,” I repeated, turning in Reid’s arms to face both of them. “One bedroom for sleeping. One for Marcus’s studio. Which means —”

“One bed,” Reid finished. His hands slid down to my hips. “For all three of us. Every night.”

The way he said it — low, certain, like he was stating a fact about gravity — made heat pool between my thighs. We’d been sleeping together for months. The arrangement wasn’t new. But this — signing a lease with both names beside mine, putting our books on the same shelves, hanging Marcus’s art next to Reid’s vintage gym posters — this was different.

This was permanent.

Marcus’s eyes tracked Reid’s hands on my body. He hadn’t moved from the couch, but I could see the shift in him — the way his posture went from relaxed to alert, the way his gaze darkened from playful to hungry.

“So,” he said. “Are we going to christen this place or what?”

Reid’s fingers tightened on my hips. “Bed’s not made yet.”

“Who said anything about the bed?”

I looked between them — Reid behind me, solid and warm, his chest pressed against my back; Marcus in front of me, lounging on our new couch like an invitation written in denim and messy hair — and felt the familiar electric certainty that had become the rhythm of my life.

I wanted them both. Right now. Right here.

“The couch,” I said. “Then the kitchen counter. Then the shower. Then the bed.”

Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s ambitious.”

“We have all night.” I pulled Reid’s flannel over my head and dropped it on the floor. Underneath I wore a tank top, no bra. Both men noticed. “And I want every room in this apartment to know who lives here.”

Reid made a sound — low, rough, something between a groan and a growl — and his hands slid under my tank top, palms flat against my stomach, fingers spreading possessively across my ribs. “Every room,” he repeated.

Marcus stood up from the couch. He crossed to me in three steps, cupped my face in both hands, and kissed me — slow, deep, the kind of kiss that made my brain go offline. His tongue slid against mine, and I felt Reid’s hands moving higher behind me, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, his mouth hot on my neck.

I was already trembling.

“Clothes off,” Reid said against my shoulder. It wasn’t a suggestion.

Marcus pulled back from the kiss, grinning. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Not you.” Reid’s hands left my body long enough to grip the hem of my tank top and pull it over my head. Cool air hit my bare chest and I gasped — then gasped again when Marcus dropped to his knees in front of me and pressed his mouth to my stomach, right above the waistband of my leggings.

“He said clothes off,” Marcus murmured against my skin. His fingers hooked into the elastic. “I’m just following orders.”

He peeled my leggings down, taking my underwear with them. I stepped out of them, naked between two fully clothed men, and the vulnerability of it sent a bolt of heat straight through me. This was a dynamic we’d discovered early: the asymmetry turned me on. Being bare while they watched. Being the center of focused, deliberate attention.

Reid’s hands came back to my body — one on my breast, rolling my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, the other skating down my stomach toward the heat between my thighs. Marcus knelt in front of me, his breath warm against my hip, his fingers tracing the insides of my thighs.

“God, you’re already wet,” Marcus said, and the awe in his voice — even after months, even after hundreds of times — made my chest ache. He said it like it was a gift. Like my wanting them was something precious.

“Always.” I threaded my fingers into his hair. “When it’s you two? Always.”

Reid’s fingers found me — slick, swollen, aching — and stroked once, slowly, root to tip. My hips jerked. Behind me, I could feel how hard he was through his jeans, pressing against my lower back.

“Couch,” Reid said. “Marcus. Sit.”

Marcus looked up at me, then over my shoulder at Reid, and his eyes went dark with that specific combination of arousal and surrender that meant he was ready to follow Reid’s lead.

Marcus sat on the couch. Reid guided me forward, his hand on the small of my back, until I was standing between Marcus’s spread knees.

“Straddle him,” Reid said. “Face me.”

I climbed onto Marcus’s lap, my back against his chest, my thighs bracketing his. He was still fully dressed, and the rough denim against my bare ass and the cotton of his t-shirt against my spine made me squirm. His hands came around to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples.

“Hold her open for me,” Reid said.

Marcus’s hands slid down my body — over my ribs, my stomach, my hips — and settled on my inner thighs, gently spreading me wider. I was completely exposed, naked and open on Marcus’s lap, and Reid stood in front of us, looking down at me with that expression — controlled, intense, absolutely ravenous beneath the calm.

He dropped to his knees.

“Oh god,” I breathed.

“Not god,” Marcus whispered in my ear, his lips brushing my earlobe. “Just Reid. Who’s about to eat you alive.”

Reid’s mouth was on me before I could respond. No teasing, no buildup — his tongue found my clit and pressed, flat and firm, and my entire body arched. Marcus held me steady, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin hooked over my shoulder so he could watch.

“That’s so fucking hot,” Marcus said, his voice ragged. “Brooke — baby — you should see what you look like right now. Spread open on my lap with his mouth on you. Fuck.”

Reid groaned against me — the vibration made me cry out — and his hands gripped my thighs, pulling me closer to his mouth. He ate me like he did everything: thorough, relentless, utterly focused. His tongue circled my clit, then dipped inside me, then returned to that perfect spot that made my vision blur.

Marcus’s hands were everywhere. Cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples, sliding down to spread me wider for Reid’s tongue. His mouth worked my neck — kissing, biting, sucking marks into my skin that I’d see for days.

“Tell him how good it feels,” Marcus murmured. “He needs to hear it.”

“So good.” My voice was wrecked. “Reid — god — right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop —”

Reid’s response was to slide two fingers inside me while his tongue kept working my clit, and I shattered. The orgasm hit like a wave — sudden, overwhelming, pulling me under. I cried out, my back arching against Marcus’s chest, my thighs clamping around Reid’s head, and both of them held me through it — Marcus’s arms tight around my waist, Reid’s hands steady on my thighs, his mouth gentling but not stopping until I pushed weakly at his shoulders.

“One,” Marcus said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “That’s one.”

Reid sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at me with an expression that could only be described as smug. “Kitchen next?”

“You’re still wearing clothes,” I managed. “Both of you. That’s — that’s a problem.”

Marcus laughed against my neck. “She’s right. Very rude of us.”

What followed was the most efficient strip-down in the history of our relationship. Marcus lifted me off his lap and had his clothes off in seconds — shirt over his head, jeans shoved down, boxer briefs following. Lean and golden, the runner’s body I’d been mapping with my hands and mouth for months, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach.

Reid was slower, more deliberate. He pulled his henley off one-handed, revealing the broad, muscled chest I loved pressing my face against, the abs that flexed when he moved inside me. His jeans came next, then his boxer briefs, and — god. I would never get tired of looking at him. Thick and heavy and already glistening at the tip.

“Kitchen,” I said, grabbing both their hands and pulling them toward the empty kitchen. “Now.”

The counter was cold against my bare ass when Reid lifted me onto it. I yelped, and he grinned — rare, devastating, the kind of smile he saved for moments when he let his guard down.

“Cold?” He stepped between my legs, his cock pressing against my inner thigh. “I’ll warm you up.”

Marcus appeared behind him, a condom in each hand. He’d grabbed them from the box we’d unpacked first — priorities — and tossed one to Reid.

“I want you both,” I said. “Marcus first. Then you.”

Reid’s jaw tightened — not with jealousy, not anymore, but with the effort of holding himself back. He stepped aside and Marcus took his place between my thighs, rolling the condom on with hands that trembled slightly.

“Hi,” Marcus said, because he was Marcus, and even in the middle of the hottest night of my life, he was going to be sweet about it.

“Hi.” I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Fuck me.”

He slid inside me on a groan that I felt in my chest. Slow at first — Marcus always started slow, savoring — then faster when I dug my nails into his shoulders and arched into him. The kitchen counter was the perfect height, and he gripped the edge on either side of my hips and drove into me, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

“You feel — fuck, Brooke, you feel so good —”

“Harder.”

He gave me harder. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the bare kitchen walls — no curtains yet, no rugs to absorb the noise — and I loved it. Loved that our new apartment was learning our sounds. Loved that Reid stood beside us, one hand wrapped around his own cock, watching Marcus fuck me with that focused intensity that meant he was memorizing every detail.

“Touch her,” Reid said. His voice was gravel. “Her clit. Make her come again.”

Marcus shifted his angle and brought his thumb to my clit, rubbing in tight circles while he kept thrusting, and I came apart for the second time — louder this time, my cry bouncing off the empty walls. Marcus followed immediately, his hips stuttering, my name torn out of him like a confession.

He barely had time to pull out before Reid was there.

Fresh condom. Both hands under my thighs, pulling me to the edge of the counter. He entered me in one smooth stroke — thick, filling, perfect — and my head fell back against the upper cabinets.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“That’s the idea.” Reid’s rhythm was different from Marcus’s — controlled, deep, devastating. Every thrust hit exactly the right spot, and he watched my face the entire time, cataloging every gasp, adjusting his angle based on what made me loudest.

Marcus pressed against my side, one hand in my hair, his mouth on my neck. “You’re taking him so well,” he murmured. “Look at you. Our girl. So fucking beautiful.”

Reid’s control cracked. His pace went ragged, his grip on my thighs tightening enough to leave fingerprints, and when I clenched around him and moaned his name — just his name, nothing else, because that was all my brain could produce — he came with a sound that was close to a roar.

The kitchen smelled like sex and cardboard boxes.

Marcus laughed first. Then I laughed. Then Reid — who rarely laughed during sex, who hoarded his laughter like gold — cracked, and the three of us stood in our naked, sweaty, ridiculous huddle in our unpacked kitchen and laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

“Shower,” I said when I could form words again. “The shower’s next.”

The shower in the new apartment was a revelation.

It was the reason we’d chosen this place over the cheaper unit on the third floor — a walk-in with a rainfall showerhead and enough room for three adults if two of them didn’t mind being pressed very close together.

We minded not at all.

The hot water hit my shoulders and Reid pressed me against the tile, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that tasted like steam and want. Behind me, Marcus soaped my back with slow, deliberate strokes, his hands sliding over the curve of my ass, between my thighs, making me gasp into Reid’s mouth.

“My turn to taste you,” Marcus said, dropping to his knees behind me.

I braced my hands on Reid’s chest as Marcus’s tongue found me from behind — licking through my folds, curling against my clit from a new angle, his hands spreading me open while water streamed down my back. Reid watched over my shoulder, one hand fisted in my wet hair, the other braced against the tile.

“How does she taste?” Reid asked. He always asked. It was a thing.

“Like mine,” Marcus said against me, and the possessiveness in it — the echo of Reid’s own territorial streak — made me moan.

I came on Marcus’s tongue with my forehead pressed against Reid’s chest, his heartbeat rapid under my cheek, Marcus’s fingers gripping my hips to keep me standing.

Then Marcus stood, turned me around, and lifted me with a strength his lean frame usually hid. My back against his chest, my legs hooked over his forearms, and he sank into me while Reid knelt in front of us — in front of me — and put his mouth on my clit.

The sensation was indescribable. Marcus inside me, thick and pulsing and moving. Reid’s tongue on my clit, his hands on my thighs, his stubble rough against my sensitive skin. Water cascading over all three of us. Steam filling the bathroom until the mirror was opaque and the air was more heat than oxygen.

“I love you,” I gasped, and I meant both of them, and they both knew it. “I love you, I love you, I —”

I came so hard my vision whited out.

Marcus came inside me with a broken groan, his arms tightening around my waist. Reid pressed a kiss to my inner thigh — tender, reverent — and then stood, and Marcus lowered me carefully until my feet touched the wet tile, and Reid pushed inside me before I’d even finished trembling from the last orgasm.

“One more,” he said against my temple. “Give me one more, sweetheart.”

I gave him one more. Two more, if I was counting the aftershock that rippled through me when he came and groaned my name against my wet hair.

The bedroom was last.

We’d made the bed during one of the recovery intervals — fitted sheet, pillows, the thick white duvet Marcus had insisted on because “it photographs well.” The mattress was a king. The first piece of furniture we’d bought together, chosen after Marcus had sprawled across it in the showroom and declared it “orgy-approved” loudly enough to horrify the saleswoman.

I lay in the middle. Reid on my left, Marcus on my right. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. The apartment was quiet except for our breathing and the muffled sound of traffic from the street below.

“Every room,” Marcus said, tracing lazy patterns on my stomach. “As promised.”

“We missed the hallway,” Reid said.

“Tomorrow.” I turned my head and kissed Reid’s shoulder, then turned the other way and kissed Marcus’s jaw. “We have time.”

That was the thing. We had time. We had a lease with three names on it and a bedroom with a king-sized bed and a kitchen counter we could never look at innocently again. We had time to fight about dishes and argue about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper and have the kind of sex that made us forget our names.

Marcus propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at me, his hair damp, his green eyes soft. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I love living here.”

I laughed. “We’ve been here six hours.”

“Best six hours of my life.” He kissed my forehead, then glanced at Reid. “Back me up.”

Reid’s arm tightened around my waist. His hand found Marcus’s on my stomach, and their fingers interlaced — over my body, holding each other as much as they were holding me.

“Best six hours,” Reid agreed.

I woke to fingers.

Not an alarm. Not sunlight. Fingers — Reid’s, wide and warm, tracing the curve of my hip under the duvet. And Marcus’s mouth, soft and sleepy, pressing kisses to the back of my shoulder.

“What time is it?” I mumbled.

“Doesn’t matter.” Reid’s hand slid between my thighs, finding me already slick — my body responding to theirs before my brain was fully online. “Morning. Our first morning.”

“Our first morning in our apartment,” Marcus murmured against my neck. He was hard against my lower back, and the slow roll of his hips told me he wasn’t fully awake either — just operating on instinct, seeking warmth, seeking me.

Reid’s fingers found my clit and I arched into his touch, my breath catching. “I’m barely awake,” I protested, but my legs fell open and my hand reached back to grip Marcus’s hip, pulling him closer.

“You don’t have to be awake.” Reid’s thumb circled my clit in slow, maddening strokes. “Just feel.”

Marcus lifted my top leg, hooking it over his thigh, opening me wider for Reid’s hand. Then he was there — the head of his cock sliding against me, teasing, not pushing in yet. The contrast — Reid’s deliberate fingers on my clit, Marcus’s lazy friction from behind — had me whimpering into the pillow.

“Please,” I breathed.

Marcus slid inside me from behind — slow, stretching, the angle deep and devastating in this position. Reid shifted closer, watching Marcus fuck me over my shoulder, his hand never stopping its work on my clit.

It was lazy. Unhurried. Marcus moved in long, rolling strokes while Reid kissed my mouth and worked me with his fingers. There was none of the frenzy of last night — no desperation, no christening-every-surface mania. Just three people in a warm bed on a Sunday morning, making each other feel good because they could. Because they’d wake up here tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.

“Switch,” Reid said after a while, and they moved around me like choreography — Marcus pulling out, Reid replacing him, the angle different but equally perfect, and Marcus’s hand replacing Reid’s on my clit.

“This is what I want,” I said, my voice thick with sleep and pleasure. “Every morning. This.”

“Done,” Reid said, thrusting deeper. “Negotiated. Sealed.”

“Marcus?”

“Already in my calendar.” His voice cracked on a laugh, then cracked differently when I reached behind me and wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking him in time with Reid’s thrusts. “Fuck — Brooke —”

We came in a chain. Me first — soft and rolling, the kind of orgasm that started in my chest and radiated outward. Reid right after, his face buried in my neck, his groan muffled against my skin. Marcus last, into my hand, hot and pulsing, his mouth pressed against my shoulder blade.

The ceiling fan turned.

Somewhere below us, a car honked.

Marcus untangled himself first — bathroom, water glasses, the morning routine he’d been building with us for months. Reid stayed pressed against my back, his hand flat over my heart.

“Happy?” he asked.

“More than I knew I could be.”

His arms tightened. His lips brushed my temple. Outside, the city woke up around our apartment — our apartment, our bed, our life — and I listened to it with my eyes closed and my body warm between the two men who had chosen me, fully, without reservation, without conditions.

Reid and Marcus.

Mine.

And I was theirs.

Ours. All of it.

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