Page 29 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

He drops to his knees, spreads my ass with both hands, and buries his face in my cunt.

His tongue is everywhere, lapping up the mess he made, nose pressed against my skin, breathing me in like oxygen.

He laps at me, alternating between slow, torturous licks and rapid-fire flicks of his tongue over my clit.

I grab the edge of the door, knuckles white, and try not to scream when he pushes two fingers in, curling them up to find the spot that makes me sob.

He eats me like he’s starving, licking and sucking until I can’t see straight, until my thighs start to shake and my voice cracks on his name.

He stands, dick flushed and leaking. He lines up and slams in with no warning, filling me so fast I choke on my own breath.

He fucks me from behind, hard, one hand in my hair, the other gripping my hip.

I brace myself on the wall, every thrust knocking the air out of my lungs, every slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty space.

He leans in close, voice guttural: “You love it like this, don’t you? Getting fucked like this.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth is open but all that comes out is a wrecked gasp and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

He pounds me until my legs go out, then lifts me up.

He sets me on the counter, shoves my knees apart, and eats me again, grinning at me the whole time.

He strokes himself, then pushes me back on the counter and drives his cock in.

He fucks me again, this time slow, dragging it out, letting me feel every inch.

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in deeper, nails digging into his shoulders.

I want to mark him, want to leave a map of bruises.

He slows, buries his face in my neck, and whispers, “I want to see you lose it again.”

He slides in again, and this time, when he pulls out, he flips me over and fucks me from behind, hands fisted in my hair, dragging my head back so I have to look at myself in the mirror above the dresser.

I watch the way my mouth goes slack, the way my tits bounce, the way my whole body shakes every time he drives into me.

“Look at yourself,” he says, voice dark and sweet. “See how perfect you are like this?”

He grabs a fistful of my hair, forces my face inches from the mirror. I see myself: face flushed, eyes wild, lips swollen from kissing. I see him behind me, muscles tense, jaw clenched, eyes locked on mine in the glass.

He moves his hand to my throat, squeezing just enough to make my blood race, and fucks me faster, deeper, until my voice is nothing but a broken moan. He slaps my ass, hard, then rubs it, soothing the sting.

“You gonna come for me again?” he says, a dare.

I nod, gasping.

“Say it.”

I swallow, throat dry. “I’m gonna come for you. Please—don’t stop?—”

He doesn’t. He fucks me harder, hand tight around my neck, the other between my legs, rubbing my clit until I explode, coming so hard I nearly faint. He pulls out, jerks himself, and comes all over my back, painting my skin with heat.

He collapses next to me, breathing ragged, then rolls me onto my side and wipes me clean with his shirt.

For a minute, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the rush of air in my lungs, the pulse in my temples, the soft thud of his heart under my cheek as I rest my head on his chest.

He strokes my hair, slow and lazy, then kisses the top of my head.

“Never thought I’d get you to let go like that,” he says, voice thick.

I want to tell him this is a one-time thing, that we’ll never do it again, that I’m just blowing off steam. But it’s a lie, and we both know it.

Instead, I roll over, straddle his hips, and pin his hands above his head. He grins, lets me take control, and this time, when I fuck him, it’s slow and mean, drawing it out until he’s begging.

I ride him until my thighs ache, until I’m trembling with the effort, until I come again, this time with his name on my lips, loud and clear.

He follows, spilling inside me, then hugs me so tight I can barely breathe.

We stay there, tangled up, sweat drying on our skin.

I close my eyes and pretend the world doesn’t exist. For now, it doesn’t.

I am nothing but muscle and want, and the weight of him holding me together. When we are both stable, we make ourselves decent.

I’m the first to leave. The coast is clear and I head downstairs. The lobby is empty, the street outside a wash of sound and light. I cross the hall to the lounge, expecting nothing but my own echo, but as soon as I step inside, I freeze.

Finn is there. Grey too, both of them at opposite ends of the room, as if the universe arranged them for maximum impact.

Finn sits in a battered armchair, ankles crossed, one arm flung over the back in a way that makes him look lazy and dangerous at the same time. His face is unreadable, but his eyes track me from the second I walk in, blue and sharp as ice.

Grey stands by the window, mug in hand, staring out at the city like he’s waiting for a sign. He doesn’t turn when I enter, but I can feel his attention shift, subtle as a change in air pressure.

For a second, I consider turning around. Running back upstairs.

Finn is the first to move. He stands, stretches, and walks over to the counter. He pours himself a cup of coffee. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits, stirs his coffee, and studies me over the rim of the cup.

I wait. I count my heartbeats.

Finally, he lifts the mug in a slow toast. Grey finally looks at me as I make my way to the exit, my cheeks burning. He catches up, takes my hand. A thrill runs down my spine. “You do what you want,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Nobody else gets to decide.”

He lets go, and I walk out, heart thudding, legs shaky, but for the first time in months, I feel alive.