Then he’s sliding into me from behind, his cock thick and incredibly hard. My mouth opens on a gasp, and I surge forward, cheek pressed against West’s cock as Blue thrusts. He pulls back, and I only have enough time to slip West’s cock into my mouth before I’m pushed forward again, the cock sliding deep. I’m impaled from both ends, being rocked back and forth, providing friction and heat and wetness to pleasure their cocks.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” West mutters. “You weren’t fucking kidding about her mouth.”
“Consider that your coming home present.”
I flush hot at those words, at the thought of being a present, my mouth something he can give as he pleases. And I know that he’s telling the truth. It’s not just a game to him, something to say that turns me on or a boost to his ego. He is giving his friend my mouth—and the relief of sex, the comfort of skin and touch and pleasure. Not with his own body but with mine.
West lets out an uneven laugh that turns into a groan. “You’re killing me.”
And then I want to be the one giving him a present, more than just my mouth, the heat and wet of it. I swirl my tongue around the crest of his cock, making him jerk. My hands cup his balls, kneading gently while he pants above me. I give him every part of me, all my skill and desire, an active participant in this perverse welcome home.
He gasps out, “I’m coming,” seconds before a hot spray hits my tongue. I swallow him down and keep sucking until he’s done. He collapses back on the bed, breathing hard.
Blue pulls me up by my hair and reaches around for my clit. His thumb is rough and merciless, pushing me until I’m coming around him, soaking him with my juices. His fist in my hair turns me toward him. His mouth closes over mine, a deep kiss, a claiming kiss. I wonder if he can taste the salty come of his friend. And then I don’t have time to wonder, because Blue pulls out of me. He sets me gently aside, and I wobble against the bed.
A soft slap to my thigh. “Say good night,” he tells me, his voice like gravel.
I eye his cock, still glistening with my arousal, still hard as iron. “Good night?”
He laughs. “To West, beautiful. I think you already know you and I have a long night ahead of us.”
“It’s too much,” I tell him. “I can’t.”
Dark eyes narrow. “Are you telling me no?”
He loves it when I fight him. And I love fighting him. No, I love being conquered.
I turn and run.
I dash through the hallway in the dark and make it into the bedroom, his footsteps coming after me. I barely have time to close the door before the handle is turning. I’m at the bed when he grabs me and tosses me in the middle.
Then his body is on top of mine, covering me completely, overpowering me. His cock is inside me, thrusting, forcing its way in. I moan and rock up to meet him, adrift in sensation, utterly at peace as he fucks deep inside.
True to his word, he keeps me in that space for a long time. We’re far out to sea, just the two of us, tasting the salt of each other, drinking the proof of each other’s pleasure.
Chapter Eleven
It’s the next night that I come awake to the muted clink of pots and pans. West spent most of the day at the Grand. All three of us ate an awkward, chaste dinner last night and went to our respective beds. Now it’s four o’clock in the morning, and I smell butter and bacon.
Blue is more of an early riser than I am, relig
ious about his morning runs, but right now he is fast asleep, expression soft, mouth slightly open. There’s only one person who could be cooking now, and I find him in the kitchen.
West is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, standing in front of the stove. I’m not fully awake yet, my mind a fog, but I know this is strange.
“Nightmare?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t turn around. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Six months ago I would have only been going to sleep at this time, exhausted and sore after working the pole all night.
I eye the stack of pancakes. “You were going to eat those by yourself?”
“I was going to wait until you woke up. Couldn’t sit still though.”
His words filter through my sleepy brain, and I understand that cooking has been something to keep his hands busy, that he’d really gotten up and dressed for some other purpose. Then I see the duffel bag by the door. My heart drops. “You’re leaving.”
He flicks off the stove and turns around, expression somehow both hard and soft, determined and pained. “It’s time.”