In my defense, no one told me pregnancy would turn me into a hormonal disaster who gets wet thinking about men she met four hours ago.
Where was this in the pamphlets?
I stare at the ceiling fan spinning its useless circles, accomplishing nothing except pushing hot air from one corner of the room to another.
The rain stopped sometime in the past hour, and now the cabin feels like a sauna wrapped in humidity. I kick off the blankets. Pull them back. Kick them off again.
But the heat isn't the problem. Not really.
The problem is three men admitting they've shared a woman, and my traitorous body deciding that information warranted a full-scale revolt against common sense.
Get a grip, Kelly. You're pregnant, alone, hiding from your entire life, and fantasizing about strangers like a teenager with her first romance novel.
The silence stretches. And my mind—because it hates me—drifts backward to the last time I let myself want anything that deviated from the script.
Mason and I had been dating for eight months. Comfortable enough that I thought honesty might be safe.
I'd read an article about fantasies, about how sharing them built intimacy, and I'd let myself be vulnerable in a way I never was with anyone.
We were in his apartment, and I felt brave. Stupid, reckless, eighteen-glasses-of-wine brave, except I'd only had two.
"What if we tried something different?" I'd asked, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. "Like... adding someone. Another man, maybe?"
Mason's face had twisted like I'd suggested we adopt a feral raccoon.
Then came the laugh—not warm, not surprised, but sharp and dismissive. The kind of laugh designed to make me feel small.
"Jesus, Kelly." He'd propped himself up on one elbow, looking at me like I'd transformed into someone dirty. "What kind of woman asks for that? You want to get fucked by two guys at once? That's... I mean, that's not something brides do. That's porn shit. That's what sluts want."
I'd backpedaled so fast I gave myself emotional whiplash. "I was just joking. Saw it in a movie. Forget I said anything—"
"It was stupid," he'd agreed, kissing my forehead like I was a child who'd embarrassed herself at a dinner party. Like I needed absolution for the crime of wanting.
I'd buried that fantasy so deep I almost convinced myself it never existed. Convinced myself that wanting more made me broken.
And look how that turned out.
Mason, the man who'd called me a slut for wanting more, had been screwing his twenty-three-year-old assistant for months.
Brittany, with her perfect highlights and her complete lack of moral complexity.
Funny how the rules only apply to women.
I roll onto my back, and the ache between my legs pulses with renewed insistence.
Clinical explanations flood my mind: increased blood flow during pregnancy, heightened sensitivity, hormonal fluctuations that turn perfectly rational women into walking nerve endings.
But clinical explanations don't account for the specific images flooding my brain.
Jake's rough hands, calloused from years of gripping fire hoses, wrapped around my hips.
Konnor's intense focus—the same precision he probably uses to crack open chests—applied to taking me apart piece by piece.
Oscar's teasing smile pressed against my inner thigh, making promises I want him to keep.
Stop. Stop it right now.
I can't stop.
The fantasy builds without permission, constructing itself from spare parts and desperation. Three sets of hands. Three mouths.
Three voices telling me I'm beautiful, I'm wanted, I don't have to maintain control for once in my goddamn life.
My hand slides beneath the oversized t-shirt before I can think better of it. Just to relieve the pressure. Just once. Just so I can sleep.
The cabin walls are thin—I can hear someone moving in the main room.
Jake is settling on the couch, probably.
The thought that he's just on the other side of this door makes everything more intense.
More forbidden.
I imagine what they'd do to me if I let them.
Jake would be commanding, his voice rough against my ear, telling me exactly how to move.
He'd hold me like he held me when I stumbled out of the car—steady, certain, like he'd never let me fall.
Konnor's fingers would replace my own, precise and knowing. He'd study my reactions like data, cataloging what makes me moan.
And Oscar—Oscar would trail his mouth down my stomach, lower, that wolf's grin pressed against places Mason never bothered to explore. He'd make me laugh even while I begged.
My fingers find the slick heat between my legs, and I bite my lip to stay silent. I'm so wet it's almost embarrassing, my body betraying every denial I've tried to construct.
This is insane. You don't know these men. You're pregnant.
But the arguments dissolve under sensation, and I chase the feeling building at the base of my spine.
My free hand fists in the pillow, my breath coming in shallow gasps I desperately try to muffle.
I imagine all three of them, together, taking turns and then not taking turns. Oscar's earlier words echo through me.
There's nothing like giving someone that much attention. That much pleasure. Watching her fall apart because there's nowhere to turn that isn't more.
More. I want more. I've always wanted more, and I've spent years being ashamed of it.
The orgasm crashes through me, and I barely manage to swallow the moan that claws up my throat.
Wave after wave pulses through my body, my back arching off the mattress, my toes curling against sheets that smell like Jake.
I lie there afterward, trembling, staring at the ceiling fan that still accomplishes nothing.
Horror filters in slowly.
What did I just do?
I'm pregnant with another man's child. I'm supposed to be figuring out my life. I'm hiding from a scandal that would destroy whatever remains of my reputation.
And I just brought myself to orgasm thinking about being shared by three strangers I met four hours ago.
Mason's voice slithers through my memory, dripping with disgust: That's what sluts want.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I am exactly what he accused me of being.
My hand is still trapped between my thighs, evidence of the crime I can't undo.
A floorboard creaks outside my door.
I freeze. Every muscle locks into place, my breath seizing in my chest. The sound is unmistakable—the specific groan of old wood protesting sudden weight.
Someone is standing right there. Right outside.
Silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I don't breathe. I don't move. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I'm certain it can be heard through the walls.
Please let them be walking to the bathroom. Please let this be coincidence.
Then, soft footsteps moving away. A door closing elsewhere in the cabin.
The air rushes back into my lungs, but relief doesn't follow.
Someone was there. Someone heard. And I have no idea which of the three it was—or what I'm supposed to say when morning comes.
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