Page 33 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
GREY
T here are moments in life where time slows down to the speed of muscle memory: a puck in flight, the snap of a tendon, the split-second dilation of a pupil in the dark.
This is one of those moments, except the puck is my own tongue, pressed dumb and useless to the roof of my mouth, and the tendon is every cord in my neck straining not to make a noise as I stand, one hand on the door frame, watching Finn fuck Sage on the threadbare couch in the room we pretend is secret.
The couch—barely large enough for two, let alone three—groans under the force of Finn’s hips.
He’s got both hands planted on Sage’s ass, fingers digging so deep the prints will last longer than any of us.
Sage is astride him, thighs clamped tight around his, the whole length of her spine arched in a perfect crescent of pleasure.
Her hair is unbound, falling in a mess over her shoulders, and her mouth is open in a soundless “oh” that only breaks into voice when Finn thrusts up hard enough to rock her forward.
My hands, one still on the door frame, the other curled at my side, start to sweat through the tape. I’ve seen sex before, live and on screen, but never this way: not as a performance, but as an inevitability, a thing that happens because the world refuses to stop spinning.
Finn is statuesque, and it kills me a little.
He’s got his head thrown back, neck long and jaw clenched, and the tendons stand out against his skin like wires about to snap.
There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and every time Sage grinds down onto him, he grits his teeth and breathes through the pain-pleasure with a control that looks impossible from the outside.
He is not gentle. He is not cruel. He is just himself, focused, unrelenting, every ounce of energy devoted to the woman above him.
And Sage—Sage is incandescent. She’s not performing for anyone, not even herself.
She rides Finn with the single-minded determination of someone who has mapped out every angle, every friction point, every possible path to oblivion.
Her breasts bounce with the motion, nipples hard and red from Finn’s mouth or her own hands—I can’t tell which.
There is a bead of sweat running down the side of her rib cage, and it pools at the base of her spine, lost in the groove that leads straight to the place where Finn disappears inside her.
It’s obscene and perfect and so intimate I want to look away, but can’t.
My own body betrays me. My pants are too tight, my skin too hot, and I can feel my heart racing in my fingertips.
My mouth is dry, but I swallow anyway, the sound impossibly loud in the hush of the room.
I watch the way Sage rocks back and forth, how she shifts her weight to change the angle, how Finn adjusts his grip to match her pace.
I watch the way their bodies fit, how every muscle in Finn’s thighs flexes with the effort, how every motion from Sage is a declaration of intent.
I am an intruder, but also an audience, and part of me wants to shout, to announce myself, to remind them that I exist. But another part wants to see how far they’ll go before they notice me.
I know Finn will last as long as he wants to.
He’s stubborn like that, never gives in unless he’s good and ready.
Sage is already close; I can tell by the way her breath stutters, the way her hands clench and unclench on Finn’s shoulders.
She’s biting her lip so hard it’s gone white at the edge.
It’s Sage who sees me first, or decides to let me know that she has.
She doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, but she opens her eyes and looks straight at me, and the look is not shame, not surprise, but something electric and wild and inviting.
Her lips curl in a half smile, and she leans back further, pushing her breasts up and out, putting every inch of her body on display.
She makes a small gesture with her chin, as if to say: If you’re going to watch, then watch. Don’t pretend you’re above this.
She lets go of Finn’s shoulders and plants her hands behind her, bracing herself on the edge of the couch.
Then, with a single, fluid motion, she pivots her hips and turns herself to face Finn’s feet, her back to his chest, her ass in the air and her knees bent wide.
It’s a move so perfect it could have been choreographed, and suddenly the whole tableau is reversed.
Now I see everything: the way Finn’s cock slides in and out of her, slick and raw and shining in the light, the way Sage’s hand finds her own breast and squeezes, the way Finn’s hands lock onto her hips and pull her down onto him, over and over.
There is nothing hidden now. Every thrust, every gasp, every shudder is in full view, and I feel myself flush from head to toe with the need to touch, to join, to be inside this moment with them.
Sage turns her head, hair whipping over her shoulder, and her eyes meet mine again.
This time, there is no mistaking the message. She wants me here. She wants me to see.
Finn’s eyes open, and he looks at me too. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even falter. He just holds my gaze for a beat, and then he grins, the kind of crooked, dangerous grin that means he’s in control, that he’s always been in control, and now he’s letting me have a piece of it.
Sage rocks back harder, and Finn meets her with a thrust so deep she cries out, the sound echoing off the cracked plaster.
Her hand goes between her legs, fingers working furiously, and I watch as her whole body tenses, every muscle locking down as she chases the edge.
Finn lets her, lets her use him, lets her get as close as she wants, but doesn’t let her finish.
The three of us are caught in this triangle of tension, every sense sharpened to a point. I feel the urge to move, to do something, but all I can do is stand there, transfixed, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Sage is the one who breaks the stalemate. She pulls her hand away from herself and beckons me forward with a crooked finger, her mouth open, her eyes wild.
She wants me.
They both do.
The moment stretches out, elastic and trembling, and I step forward, closing the distance, ready to see what happens when I let myself fall.
The space between me and the couch is measured in centimeters and years: all the distance I’ve spent running from my own appetite, from the sick fascination of wanting too much, for too long, until it curdles into something sharp and unspeakable.
I cross it anyway, no plan, no script, just the static in my ears and the iron tang of sweat cutting through the air.
I can feel Finn watching me as I move, his eyes flat and hungry and not at all surprised.
He doesn’t slow the rhythm of his hips, doesn’t adjust his grip on Sage’s body, but the set of his jaw relaxes, just a little, like this is how it was always supposed to be.
Sage’s smile widens when I get close, and she reaches for my wrist with fingers that are slick and trembling.
She hauls me in with more strength than I expect, and the next thing I know I’m on my knees, eye level with the place where Finn’s hands meet the bruised swell of her hips.
Her breath comes in shallow little bursts, and her skin is hot enough to leave a mark.
The noise from outside—the radiator, the drunk shouts from the alley, the endless low roar of city life—fades to nothing.
All I hear is the slap of skin, the creak of old springs, the wet gasp as Sage grinds down onto Finn and tilts her head to catch my mouth with hers.
The taste is perfect. Her tongue flicks against mine, teasing, then demanding, and I open for her, let her take what she wants.
Her hand slides up my arm, nails biting the muscle, and she drags my palm to her chest, pressing it flat over her heart.
Her breast is soft and heavy, the nipple hard and wet from Finn’s mouth.
She leans back further, arching her body so that I can take her in both hands, thumbs circling, squeezing, the motion in perfect counterpoint to the pounding inside my own skull.
Finn shifts beneath her, and the movement rocks Sage forward, breaking the kiss but not the connection.
She moans, low and guttural, and the sound vibrates straight through the bones of my face.
I watch as Finn’s cock disappears into her, slow and deep, the whole length of it sheathed in skin that glistens with slick and sweat.
I am close enough to see the fine tremors in Sage’s thighs, the way her ass reddens where Finn’s hands grip her.
I want to touch, but more than that, I want to be touched, to be needed, to be wrecked and remade by this impossible geometry of want.
Sage must sense it, because she twists at the waist and yanks me closer, her hand threading into my hair.
She kisses me again, harder this time, teeth nipping at my bottom lip until it stings.
When she breaks away, she doesn’t let go; she pulls my mouth down to her neck, and I bite her there, just enough to leave a mark.
She gasps, and I do it again, softer, lapping at the welt with my tongue.
Her hand finds my other, the one not on her breast, and drags it down her stomach, guiding my fingers to the place where she is stretched wide around Finn.
She makes me touch, makes me feel the slick, the heat, the impossible tightness.
She holds my hand there, pressing my fingertips to her clit, and rides both of us, using my touch to take herself higher.