Bonus Scene: The King-Sized Bed

An Exclusive Bonus Scene from Unprecedented Access
by Isla Wilde

⚠️ Spoiler warning: read the novel first.
⚠️ Content note: extremely graphic, explicit MMF sexual content. 3,500+ words. Absolutely too hot for retail.

The King-Sized Bed

Set two weeks after the epilogue. Maya, Cole, and Wes’s apartment.

The delivery guys left twenty minutes ago, and I was still standing in the bedroom doorway staring at it.

A king-sized bed. An actual, honest-to-God king-sized bed with a real frame and a headboard and a mattress so thick it looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel commercial. No more waking up on the floor because the air mattress had deflated under the combined weight of two professional hockey players. No more rolling into the valley between them where the seams gave out. No more pumping the damn thing back up at three in the morning while Cole slept through it and Wes pretended he wasn’t awake.

“You’re looking at it like it’s the Stanley Cup,” Cole said from behind me, hooking his chin over my shoulder.

“It’s better than the Stanley Cup. The Stanley Cup can’t support two hundred and twenty pounds of defenseman without slowly sinking to the floor.”

“Two-fifteen,” Wes corrected from the hallway, carrying the last of the new sheets we’d bought. Egyptian cotton. Thread count so high I’d almost choked at the register. Cole had handed over his card without flinching, and Wes had added the pillows—six of them, because apparently the man who’d spent a decade sleeping in hotel rooms had opinions about pillow density.

“We should break it in,” Cole said against my neck, his mouth warm and already doing that thing where he kissed the spot just below my ear like he was testing whether I’d melt right here or make him work for it.

“We haven’t even put the sheets on.”

“Exactly. We should test the mattress first. Quality control.”

Wes set the shopping bags on the dresser—the new dresser, the one we’d spent a Saturday assembling while Cole read the Swedish instructions in increasingly absurd accents. He looked at the bed, then at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched in that almost-smile that still made something flip low in my stomach.

“He has a point,” Wes said.

“You two are not ganging up on me over furniture.”

“We’re not ganging up on you.” Cole’s hands settled on my hips, pulling me back against him. “We’re agreeing. There’s a difference. Wes, tell her there’s a difference.”

“There’s a difference.” Wes crossed the room with that unhurried stride, the one that always made me think of the way he played—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly when to close distance. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze. Those gray eyes moved over my face like he was memorizing something. “We’ve waited two weeks for a bed that won’t try to kill us. I’d say that earns a proper first night.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Then a proper first afternoon.”

Cole laughed against my hair, and the vibration traveled straight through me. His fingers found the hem of my t-shirt, sliding underneath. Warm hands on bare skin. I sucked in a breath.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” Cole murmured. “What I’ve been thinking about for two entire weeks of sleeping on that rubber disaster?”

“Buying a bed?”

“Having enough room to actually spread you out.” His thumbs traced circles on my hipbones. “On that air mattress, everything was a negotiation. Someone’s elbow in someone’s ribs, my knee hitting the floor, Wes’s feet hanging off the end—”

“I liked the air mattress,” I said, which was a lie, and all three of us knew it.

Wes’s hand came up to cup my jaw. Tilted my face toward him. “You hated it.”

“I hated the mattress. I liked what we did on it.”

His thumb brushed my lower lip, and the look in his eyes shifted from amused to hungry so fast it stole my breath. “Then imagine what we can do with room.”

He kissed me. Slow and deep and thorough, the kind of kiss that made my knees actually soften, and behind me Cole pressed closer, his mouth finding the curve of my neck, his hands pushing my shirt higher. I was caught between them—Cole’s heat at my back, Wes’s steadiness in front of me—and it still hit me sometimes, this feeling of being held from both directions like they’d figured out between them how to leave no part of me untouched.

Wes pulled my shirt over my head. Cole unhooked my bra before it even settled, hands replacing fabric instantly, cupping my breasts while his thumbs circled my nipples. I gasped into Wes’s mouth.

“Two weeks,” Cole said again, like it had been a prison sentence. “Two weeks of that thing deflating at the worst possible moment. Remember Tuesday?”

I did remember Tuesday. We’d been in the middle of something very promising—Cole on his back, me riding him, Wes watching from the edge with his hand on himself—and the mattress had let out a long, wheezing sigh and sunk six inches, folding Cole nearly in half and dumping me sideways. We’d laughed so hard we couldn’t finish. Then Wes had carried me to the couch and finished what Cole started while Cole found the pump.

“The bed isn’t going to deflate,” Wes said, already walking me backward toward it. His fingers worked my jeans open with the same focus he brought to everything—methodical, no wasted effort. “It’s not going to sink. And it’s not going to make any noise.”

“I don’t know.” Cole’s voice dropped into that register that meant he was done joking. “I’m planning on making some noise.”

Wes lifted me. Just—hands on my waist, a flex of those ridiculous arms, and I was on the bed, bouncing once on a mattress that absorbed the impact like a cloud. I laughed, surprised, and then stopped laughing because Wes stripped his shirt over his head and Cole was already shoving his jeans down and the sight of both of them undressing in this bedroom—our bedroom, with the curtains we’d picked and the nightstands that matched and the overhead light Cole had installed wrong twice before Wes quietly fixed it—made something crack open in my chest.

This was ours. Not a hotel. Not a stolen hour. Ours.

“Don’t get emotional,” I told myself out loud.

Cole grinned, gloriously naked now, already hard. “Too late. You’re making the face.”

“I am not making a face.”

“The scrunchy one where you’re about to say something about how much you love us and then pretend you didn’t say it.” He climbed onto the bed—and it didn’t move. Didn’t groan. Didn’t shift like it was considering surrender. He crawled over me and kissed my forehead, then my nose, then my mouth. “It’s okay. You can say it after.”

“After what?”

“After we make you forget your own name on this very expensive mattress.”

Wes settled onto the bed on my other side, and the mattress absorbed him too. I could feel the warmth of his body along my left side, the roughness of his stubble when he bent to press his mouth to my shoulder. Cole’s hand was already sliding down my stomach, fingers tucking inside my underwear.

“I want to take my time,” Wes said quietly. Not to me—to Cole. A coordination. A signal. And even though I’d been with both of them enough times now that the choreography was familiar, the way they communicated still undid me. A look. A word. An understanding built on years of trust and a shared devotion to making me lose my mind.

“I’ll keep her warm,” Cole murmured, and slid my underwear down my legs.

He settled between my thighs with the easy enthusiasm that was pure Cole—no buildup, no teasing preamble, just his mouth on me like he’d been starving for it. I arched off the mattress with a sound I didn’t plan, and Wes was there, propping himself on one elbow, watching my face while his free hand traced a slow path from my collarbone to my breast, circling my nipple with his thumb before rolling it gently between his fingers.

“Tell me what you feel,” Wes said. He always wanted the words. Cole showed up with his whole body; Wes needed the language, needed to hear me say it so he could calibrate, adjust, give me exactly what I wanted before I even finished asking.

“His mouth,” I managed. “And your hands. And this mattress is—oh, fuck—”

Cole did something with his tongue that made my hips jerk, and he hummed against me in satisfaction—the vibration rippling outward until I was gripping the bare mattress with both hands and remembering that we hadn’t actually put the sheets on.

Wes kissed me. Caught the moan Cole was dragging out of me and swallowed it. His hand moved from my breast down my ribs, down to where Cole’s head was moving between my legs, and I felt his fingers thread briefly through Cole’s hair—a casual, affectionate gesture that Cole acknowledged by groaning against me, the sound sending another wave of sensation straight through my core.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered against Wes’s mouth. “Neither of you stop.”

Cole picked up speed, his tongue working in flat, steady strokes while two fingers pressed inside me, curling forward against the spot he’d mapped weeks ago and returned to with an accuracy that was almost unfair. Wes’s mouth moved down my throat, biting gently at the place where my pulse hammered, and between the two of them—the relentless wet heat of Cole’s mouth and the slow, deliberate pressure of Wes’s teeth and tongue on my neck—I came hard enough that my vision blurred and the sound I made echoed off the ceiling of our bedroom.

Cole looked up from between my thighs, lips wet, eyes bright, absurdly pleased with himself. “That’s one.”

“Are you keeping count?”

“We have a king-sized bed, Maya. I’m keeping count.”

Wes was already reaching for the nightstand—the one that actually had a drawer now, stocked with condoms and lube because we lived here, because this was a home, because we’d organized it like adults who planned to fuck each other regularly and well. He rolled the condom on with efficient hands while Cole shifted to lie beside me, stroking my hair back from my damp forehead, kissing the corner of my mouth.

Wes moved over me. He was so much bigger than I was—broader, heavier, the kind of physical presence that should have felt overwhelming but instead felt like shelter. He braced on his forearms, keeping his weight off me while his hips settled between my thighs, and when he pushed inside me—slow, controlled, watching my face—I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him deeper.

“God,” he breathed. His eyes closed, jaw tight, and I watched the restraint cost him. Wes never rushed. Even when his body was screaming for it, even when I could feel the tension in every locked muscle, he held himself in check until I said—

“Move.“

He moved. Deep, grinding strokes that hit every nerve ending, that pressed his pelvis against my clit with each thrust. Cole stretched out beside us, one hand braced on Wes’s shoulder, the other trailing down my arm to interlock his fingers with mine.

“You’re beautiful,” Cole said, and he wasn’t talking to just one of us.

Wes’s rhythm picked up. I matched it, lifting my hips to meet each stroke, and when I pulled him down for a kiss I could feel the growl building in his chest before I heard it—a low, rumbling sound that he only made when he was close to losing the control he wore like armor.

“Let go,” I told him. “Wes. Let go.”

He buried his face in my neck and let go. Harder. Faster. The headboard didn’t hit the wall—because the bed was solid, planted, steady beneath us in a way nothing in this apartment had ever been—and the absurd miracle of that made me laugh even as I gasped, even as another orgasm built under the pressure of his body and the sound of his breathing and Cole’s hand tightening on mine.

“Come on, baby,” Cole murmured in my ear. “One more.”

It hit me like a wave—cresting slow, then crashing. I cried out, clenching around Wes, and felt him follow a breath later, his whole body shuddering, his mouth open against my throat. For a long moment neither of us moved. Then Wes pressed a kiss to my collarbone—tender, almost reverent—and pulled out carefully, rolling to my side.

Cole was already moving. “My turn.”

I laughed. I was boneless, still trembling, but Cole’s energy was infectious and his hands were already on me, turning me, and I went willingly because saying no to Cole Barrett when he looked at me like I was every good thing he’d ever wanted was not something my body had ever figured out how to do.

“On your knees,” he said. Then, because he was Cole: “Please. The mattress can handle it. I checked the weight limit.”

“You checked the weight limit.”

“Nine hundred pounds. We’re well within parameters.”

I got on my knees. He knelt behind me and ran his hands down my back—a long, appreciative stroke from my shoulders to my ass that made me shiver. Wes shifted to the head of the bed, propped against the new pillows—four of the six, because he’d apparently built himself a fortress—and watched with those gray eyes gone dark.

Cole pushed inside me in one smooth stroke and I gasped, dropping forward onto my hands. He was different from Wes—not better or worse, just different. Where Wes was controlled depth, Cole was responsive rhythm, adjusting angle and speed based on every sound I made, every shift of my body. He leaned over my back, one arm banding around my waist, and pressed his mouth to my ear.

“Tell me you love this bed.”

“I love this bed.”

“Tell me you love what I’m doing to you on this bed.”

“Cole.“

“Say it.” He punctuated the demand with a thrust that made me see sparks.

“I love what you’re doing to me.”

“Good girl.” He straightened up, gripped my hips, and set a pace that was just this side of devastating. The mattress held. The bed held. The frame didn’t creak, the foundation didn’t groan, and for the first time in two weeks we could focus entirely on each other instead of wondering when the floor was going to reclaim us.

I looked up and found Wes watching. He’d pulled a pillow behind his head and he was stroking himself slowly, not urgently—just appreciating the view. His gaze moved between my face and where Cole was moving inside me, and when our eyes met he gave me that rare, unguarded smile that nobody else in the world ever saw.

“Touch yourself,” he said quietly. “I want to watch you come again.”

I reached between my thighs while Cole held me steady. My fingers found my clit—swollen, sensitive, almost too much—and I circled twice before the orgasm caught me, intense and sudden, pulling a cry from my throat that I didn’t try to muffle. Cole groaned behind me, his rhythm stuttering, and came with his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades and my name on his lips.

We collapsed in a tangle. The mattress cradled us—three sweaty, gasping, thoroughly satisfied people who’d been sleeping on a glorified pool toy for two weeks.

“Nobody’s on the floor,” Cole said into the sheets.

“Nobody’s on the floor,” I confirmed.

Wes pulled me toward him, tucking me against his chest. Cole curled up against my back, one arm thrown over both of us, his nose in my hair. The bed was wide enough that nobody’s legs dangled. Nobody’s arm was pinned. There was room for three adults to lie together without strategic negotiations about whose limb went where.

“We should have bought this the first week,” Wes said.

“We were busy.” I traced the scar on his collarbone—the one from a skate blade, three seasons ago. “Someone insisted on assembling the bookshelf first.”

“Storage is important.”

Cole snorted into my hair. “He organized the silverware drawer before we had a couch.”

“Priorities,” Wes said calmly, but his hand was drawing slow circles on my hip, and I could feel him smiling against my hair.

I lay between them in the late-afternoon light that came through the curtains—the blue ones, a compromise between Cole’s preference for blackout and Wes’s preference for waking with the sun and my insistence that whatever we picked had to match the walls. The apartment smelled like us now. Not new-paint or move-in-day cardboard, but coffee and that bergamot soap Wes used and the slightly singed scent of whatever Cole had attempted to cook that morning.

“So,” Cole said. “King-sized bed. Officially approved?”

“Approved,” I said.

Wes’s arm tightened around me. “Approved.”

Cole propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with those blue eyes, that messy hair, that grin that still made my heart do something stupid every single time. “Know what’s great about a mattress with a nine-hundred-pound weight limit?”

“What?”

“Round two doesn’t require an air pump.”

I pulled him down and kissed him, and when Wes’s mouth found the back of my neck a moment later, I thought: This is the life I chose. Both of them. All of this. The faucet that dripped and the bookshelf Cole still hadn’t put the last shelf on and the drawer full of condoms organized by brand because Wes was Wes.

Every glorious, messy, deliberate inch of it.

And the bed held.

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