Page 104 of Agency

“No sir. I don’t.”

“Seeing you with Morgan. Knowing you were enjoying him the same as me. As you had Jericho.” He paused now, and his lips were so close to my ear that I could hear his tongue slither out to wet them. “Knowing your soaked, slut pussy was just as desperate to swallow his cock as it was to be filled by me.” His fingers tweaked a nipple as his other hand came around and, sliding over my hips, found the snaps of my jeans. “Are you our little slut, Ambyr? Do you want our mouths on you, our cocks filling you?”

Whimpering, I nodded.

“Say it.” Fingers threading through my hair, they tightened for emphasis. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes sir,” I breathed as his fingers began to unzip me and his other hand tightened its grip in my hair. “Fuck yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” His callused, sandpaper-rough hand was already sliding into my jeans, and his fingers worried back and forth at the waistband of my panties. “Because I want you ready for this.”

“Yes sir,” I breathed again, my voice having more in common with a whimper than anything else as the tips of his fingers slipped beneath my elastic waistband and touched my warm, begging skin beneath. My hips wiggled back, and my breath came faster. Maybe the wine played a part, or maybe the fact that I could feel Morgan’s eyes on us did, but Andrew’s touch left trails of fire behind and I could feel the silent need deep within me for his hand to travel lower, lower,so much lower.

“Oh, please sir.” My hips continued to move, to try and encourage him along that inch-long trek.

“Not yet,” he whispered, a tinge of teasing cruelty to his voice that just made me wetter.

I let out a low moan of frustration.

Then both his hands moved, leaving me gasping as they slid over my back and sides. Down to my jeans they went, and he lowered himself to his knees and began to pull down my pants.

First, there was the kitchen’s warm air as the denim lowered.

Then, there was his hot breath against the back of my thighs.

Finally, my embarrassing whine came as I lifted each foot to allow him to strip off my jeans the rest of the way.

And still, Morgan did nothing. Off to the side he stood, bent over and simply scrubbing and scrubbing that casserole dish he’d been working on for what felt like hours as Andrew brushed my jeans out of the way.

Somehow, that was even hotter. Like this was just a situation where I was free to be used and fucked by either of them, and Andrew was the first to take his turn while Morgan finished up his chores.

Which, maybe this was…

Shifting my feet, I went to move my hands from the counter.

“Don’t,” Morgan growled without so much as a glance over from the glass casserole dish he was still scrubbing, freezing my hands in place.

“Keep them right where he said, slut.”

A shiver ran through me at the last word, and I realized just how much I was under the spell they’d both been weaving. But, shivers, or no shivers, I kept my hands where they were–kept them gripping the Formica countertop like I was holding onto a life raft in the raging sea. Kept gripping till my knuckles were white.

Now, rough-padded fingers slid up and over my thighs to accompany the hot breath coming from behind. Those fingers hooked into the thin fabric of my panties and began pulling down, down, down, till I could feel that wonderfully steamy breath over the top of my thighs and bottoms of my cheeks and right across my impossibly wet sex.

“Spread your legs, slut,” Andrew growled.

I did. God, I did, even as my face went almost red with shame at how hot I found this, how easily I’d become used to being their little toy, how much I’d begun to crave their firm words and firmer hands.

And I was rewarded–oh how I was rewarded!–by more of his wonderful, hot, damp breath over me. And then his nose, smelling me like he was sniffing over the feast he’d laid out earlier tonight for all of us, followed by stubbled cheeks pressing into the back of my bare thighs.

Leaning forward, but keeping my hands firmly planted on the counter’s edge as they’d earlier instructed, I shuddered at the pleasure of his tongue parting me.

“Fuck,” I breathed. “Yes. Please, sir. Please! Fuck yes! I’m yours!”

“No,” he said, his mouth muffled by my flesh. Then he was standing, and a whine was escaping my throat. “Not yet. Hands off the counter. Now.”

Hands, then. Both of theirs. Morgan had already dried his, something I’d missed with Andrew so firmly and sexily parked behind me on his knees, and now they turned me to the side so that one was in front and one was in back. They stripped away the rest of my clothes. They claimed my newly bare skin for their own with both hands and mouths, their fingers dipping between my legs.

Their lips lowered to my shoulders, my neck, my breasts. Biting, kissing, sucking, they circled with their tongues. Spreading, grasping, covering, they conquered my flesh with their hands. They owned me, and they knew they owned me. And they treated me like their toy.