Christopher lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his dark gaze. “What do you want?”
It’s the same question, wrapped in different packaging.
What do I want? I want to go back in time, before I ever met Sutton or Christopher. I want to be the kind of woman who doesn’t fall in love. I want the world to be a place where men don’t leave and mothers don’t die, but I can’t say those things. They aren’t the kind of sexy answers that make sense when two handsome men are surrounding you, their bodies taut with desire. They used to be partners, these men. Not anymore.
“Both of you,” I manage to say, my voice a wisp of smoke.
That earns me a smile, a cruel kind of smile. “Then spread your legs for Sutton. He’s going to finger fuck you while I play with your tits.”
The words come harsh enough that I expect Sutton to balk. Except his cock pulses beneath my ass. His hand tightens around my wrists. And I have the sudden awareness that he likes Christopher being in charge—not only of me, but of both of us. That maybe his taunting control in the hotel room six months ago had been an act designed to protect him, as much as my obedience is supposed to protect me.
I don’t quite spread my legs, but I don’t fight when Sutton pulls my thigh open. His large hand gathers up my skirt with steady deliberation, folds and folds of it, continents of fabric, the anticipation making me wet more than his hand could do. At least that’s how it seems. Until he touches me, the large clasp of his hand holding my sex a jolt to my system.
I gasp, fighting the hold at my wrists for a second before I subside. “You’re such an asshole,” I say, my voice breaking when Sutton slides his blunt fingertips through my wetness.
Christopher smiles. “Keep going.”
One finger inside me. Two. Oh God. “You bastard. You prick. You’re the worst kind of arrogant, entitled, one percenter, first-world problems, my-iPhone-is-too-slow, do-you-know-who-I-am, goddamn designer-suit-wearing asshole.”
He runs a thumb over my lips, making me shiver. “It’s going to feel so good to fuck this mouth. And what’s wrong with my suits?”
They’re beautiful. Everything about him is cold and beautiful. “I hate you.”
His thumb pushes into my mouth. “So fucking good.”
“If you want me to bite you.”
He looks unconcerned. “Do you want to fuck her?” he asks Sutton, without taking his dark gaze off my lips. “I think she’s about ready. Past ready, to be honest. Practically begging for it.”
Sutton places a kiss on the side of my neck, his tenderness a contrast to Christopher. He moves higher, his lips firm. And higher, to the sensitive space beneath my ear. His teeth gently tug my lobe. “Ask me to fuck you, sweetheart. I want to hear you say it.”
I let my head fall back to Sutton’s shoulder. “Please.”
“The words,” he says, his voice gentle but uncompromising.
“I want you to… to fuck me. Oh God. Please, Sutton.”
“Why do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, his voice terribly gentle, and in that moment I hate him as much as I hate Christopher. More, because he actually has a heart in that broad chest.
“Because I’m…” His thumb circles my clit, around and around, never hard enough to help. “I’m so turned on, and it’s hurting, and I want you. And God, I’m so empty. And I’m broken.” The honesty slips through the millions of cracks around me. “I’m barely holding it together.”
That must be what they wanted, all the pain inside me, because Sutton reaches between us to undo his pants. Christopher produces a condom for him, as if this is well coordinated. They work together to keep my hands behind my back while Sutton sheathes himself. He nudges against me, still covered by the galaxy of my dress. And then he’s pushing inside, impossibly large. Maybe it’s the angle we’re using, or the fact that it’s been six months since I was with them, but the stretch makes me gasp. My eyes prick with pain I can’t quite hide.
“Wait,” Christopher says, proving that maybe he does care.
“Fuck,” Suttons says, his voice strained. “Can’t.” He pushes deeper, making my hips jerk. His hands are like iron against my legs. “She’s so tight. Too tight. You need to help her.”
Christopher is pushing aside his clothes, revealing a cock large and throbbing. Almost painful looking, the way it’s reddened. The way it’s wet at the tip. He places the slick head against my lips. “Open.”
This isn’t the kind of help Sutton meant—or maybe it is. My eyes are wide as I stare up at him. Wide and mutinous. I’m not going to give in easy, not when it feels like I’m being split underneath.
A pinch to my nipple makes me gasp, and then his cock slides along my tongue. Oh God, I’m doing this. It’s not anything like what I imagined a blowjob would be. There’s no licking or sucking. Instead I’m immobile while his hips move him deep into my mouth, the head butting against my throat. I make a gagging sound, and he pulls back. “Jesus,” Christopher says, and it sounds like an imprecation. A prayer.
This is what I asked for, isn’t it? Begging for it, that’s what Christopher said, but I could never have imagined this. The strain of it. The fullness that laps against pain like an ocean on the shore.
In a way I did ask for this, because I wanted to forget. There was something that bothered me, but I can’t possibly remember it now. It ceases to exist in the face of this raw physicality.
“Not going to last,” Sutton says on a grunt.