Page 206 of Tech Bros

Before I can protest, mainly because I’m too busy breathing heavy and bracing myself, he’s sliding inside me, his cock slick with an insane amount of cool lube that feels almost soothing on my ravaged rim. “Oh shit,” I gasp, throwing my head back.

Deacon attaches his mouth to my throat, and I move with each of his solid thrusts, my hips unable to stay still when he fills me up like this. “I can’t keep having sex like this. You’re trying to kill me.”

“Then keep living in LA,” Isaac says. “You’ll get breaks.”

The words pinch and burn as Deacon fucks me perfectly. He’s so good at rolling his abs along my shaft, leaving both my hands free to cling to him like a vine.

“But don’t you get?—”

A thrust shuts me up and makes me grunt, rattling my thoughts. I try to regather them. “When does it end? You’ll get hard again, and it goes on and on.”

Isaac understands I mean this for him, and he rolls onto his side, turning my head where my lips come into contact with his firm cockhead. “You’re not wrong.”

I let it into my mouth, unable to help myself, sucking and groaning, and using my closest hand to pump his shaft.

“Good boy,” he praises me in the same sexy voice I recognize from all the times I was underneath his desk in his office.

“Mm…” Deacon moans. “Time to earn your omelet, pretty boy.”

Fuck…My eyes roll back in my head as Isaac slides his cock from my mouth and Deacon flips us around to put me on top of him. I hear the lube snap open and closed again, a chest against my back, another set of hands on my hips, kneading the flesh there and on my outer thighs.

With my fingertips digging into Deacon’s abs, I arch my back as I ride his cock. Isaac’s finger joins Deacon’s dick first, stretching me to the point of burning. I hiss at the sensation, then blow out a breath, bearing down and into the feeling of being too full. I get rewarded—or punished with a second finger, beginning to understand that if I want to be with these men, I’m going to need to get used to this.

Practice makes perfect, I guess.

Deacon is barely nudging into me now, but he’s got his hand around my dick, giving me firm, arousing strokes that push me precariously close to the edge. I’m pulled short, however by the slick, brutal introduction of Isaac’s fat cockhead in my hole. “Shit,” I shout, collapsing forward where Deacon catches me by the arms and the mouth. His tongue slides smoothly against mine as I groan, adjusting to their combined size once again.

Deacon and I groan together, neither of us moving while Isaac fucks us both. He gives my ass a light slap and a squeeze before he really starts to move. Unlike last night, it’s slow and smooth. Deacon lies beneath me, staring at his hand on my cock, along for the ride.

“Perfect. Fucking. Fit,” Isaac says, punctuating three sinuous thrusts.

Deacon strokes my shaft, managing to keep me hard during this takeover. His other hand caresses my face almost lovingly, as the two of us share the experience of being on the receiving end of a sexy, leisurely screwing, courtesy of Isaac Sullivan.

If there were a mirror, I might have come already because I know how good Isaac looks when he’s in the zone. Almost asgood as he feels. He feels good enough that I can almost forget he’s not the only one inside me.

They’re fucking ruining me. “God,” I gasp, my head dropping, forehead hitting the mattress right next to Deacon’s. All I can do is groan and shake. But I’m not gonna bullshit either. I like this. I like it so much, it makes me sort of concerned about myself.

Like, I think Hunter was right about me all those years ago. Maybe I’m meant to be shared. I’m certainly talented. I don’t think everyone could take this and enjoy it, but goddamn. Maybe I’m not ruined. But I do feel spoiled.I could make a lot of money like this.

“You try it, I’ll drag you back from LA by your hair and lock you in Isaac’s guest room,” Deacon growls because apparently that wasn’t an inside thought. “You belong to us.”

“Okay,” I sigh, whimpering, as I slide once again into that fuzzy, warm trance of euphoria.

“Say it.”

“I can’t…” I can’t make words. Is he kidding? Doesn’t he feel this, too?

“Say it,” Deacon says again, adding his own rough thrust to the stupefying mix.

“I’m all yours,” I say, because that’s what he wanted to hear, right?

“Ours,” he says, like I missed a part.

“Yours. That’s plural.”

“Say it.”

“I belong to you and him.”