Dom decides that is exceedingly difficult to manage six arms and six legs in bed. As he and Billy and Miranda are tumbling from standing, mostly clothed, in his bedroom to horizontal, partially unclothed, on his bed, he thinks fleetingly of spiders, and wonders how they manage sixteen legs when they're fucking. His brain reminds him that spiders lay eggs, and there is no malformed, sixteen-legged fucking involved in their breeding process, and then his brain shuts off, because Miranda's mouth is on his neck and one of Billy's hands is wrapped around his cock.
When he wakes in the morning, Dom aches in all sorts of pleasant places but he's remarkably free of bruising. Once you get down to it, where they put their hands is far more interesting than where someone's accidentally stuck an elbow or kicked someone else in the shin.
Miranda is counting drinks backward in her head, as well as she possibly can when Billy is doing that thing with his tongue and her nipples, trying to arrive at the point where it was decided that she was coming home with Dom and Billy tonight. The bar was dark, and after an endless supply of pints and shots of whiskey, the three of them were pressed together in a dark corner of the dance floor, sweaty hands and tangled limbs and busy tongues. It's the end of filming; everyone saying their goodbyes and making their excuses and having the flings they'd wanted to from the start. Pressed between these two, Miranda is flushed and sweaty and completely content.
When she wakes in the morning, before the alarm, the light in the room has gone sunrise-pink, stereotypical romance novel morning. One of Dom's legs is tossed across hers; she is pressed against Billy's back. The frantic energy of the night before is not here. Mir thinks the feeling that's replaced it is some sort of solace.
Billy has never met a threesome that looked as good in the morning as it did the night before. When Dom pins him to the wall of the men's restroom and licks his neck and purrs that he thinks they should take Miranda home with them that night, don't you miss tits sometimes, Bill?, something cold and fearsome runs through Billy's chest and he has to shove Dom off him just so he can breathe. But he's too drunk to really complain, and Miranda's quite pretty, and he does, in fact, miss tits sometimes, though he'd never be as crude as Dominic and say so. Later, underneath Dom's awfully clever fingers and Mirry's equally clever mouth, any objections he might have had before this started are forgotten.
When he wakes in the morning, the light is all wrong for 4 AM and the bed is cold and empty but for him. His brain finally processes that they've a rare day off today, and as he's slowly waking up, Mirry makes him tea and toast and Dom leaps onto the bed where he's languishing like a consumptive Victorian heroine. Miranda sets the tea down on the bedside table and hovers, fingers twisting nervously together, while Dom shucks his clothes and crawls back under the covers with Billy.
Billy blinks up at her sleepily and realizes that she's as unsure as he was. "Don't be daft, Mir," he says, reaching out a hand to pull her down to the bed. His tea goes cold, undrunk, and he goes back to sleep sandwiched comfortably between them, sated and content.