23. Dante #2
I pick her up, palms under her thighs. Her legs wrap around my waist on reflex, and she gasps, sharp and unguarded.
I carry her to the bed and set her down on the edge.
She looks up at me from the gray sheets, dark hair behind her, bare stomach rising with each breath.
The thin white lines on her forearms and ribs are visible.
She doesn't cover them. She lets us look with the lights on.
Cole is beside me, and both of us look down at her.
"Both of you," she says. "At the same time. Don't take turns."
Cole gets on the bed and kneels beside her. His hand slides over her stomach, up over her ribs, cupping her breast through the bra. His thumb drags across the nipple, and her back arches, hips lifting off the mattress.
I take her jeans off. Button, zipper, denim peeled down her legs inch by inch while I keep steady.
She lifts her hips. The jeans come off. She's in a bra and underwear on my gray sheets with Cole touching her, and I'm standing at the foot of the bed with six months of want pressing against my ribs, my jaw, the backs of my hands.
I put my hands on her knees and spread them one inch at a time. Then I kneel between her legs and put my mouth against her inner thigh.
The sound she makes is the one from her apartment, the high, involuntary sound from the afternoon she rode my face and left me on my back.
My mouth traces up her thigh slowly, over thin, sensitive skin and trembling muscle.
Cole kisses her, and I can hear the wet sound of mouths together, her breathing fragmenting against his mouth.
I reach her underwear. Dark fabric. Already wet. I press my mouth against her through the fabric, one firm press, and her hips jolt. Cole catches the moan in his mouth.
"Off," she says. Directed down at me. A command. "Take them off."
I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull them down. She lifts, the fabric slides, and then she's bare and my face is between her legs. I grip her thighs hard enough that she'll feel it tomorrow.
Cole unclasps her bra and draws it away, the last barrier gone. She's naked on my bed with Cole's hands on her breasts and my mouth inches from where she's wet and wanting.
I put my mouth on her.
The first stroke of my tongue is flat and slow from her entrance to her clit, and it makes her body arch off the mattress.
Cole's grip moves to her shoulders, pressing her into the sheets, and the combined sensation of him restraining her while my mouth works her makes her cry out. The sound hits the base of my spine.
I work her with my mouth, slow and methodical, reading every response the way I read a shift on the ice.
Her hips buck when I flatten my tongue. When I slow down, her thighs clamp.
Her sounds sharpen when I close my lips around her clit and suck, and then her hand fists in my hair with the same ruthless grip Cole uses when I do this to him.
Two people hold me the same way when I'm on my knees, and it fucking undoes me.
"Dante, don't stop—"
Cole's mouth is on her breast. I can hear the wet drag of his tongue over her skin.
The layered sensation of both of us working her body pushes her toward the edge.
Her hips roll against my mouth. Her hand tightens in my hair.
She's close. Her thighs tighten, her hips find a rhythm, and the pitch of her voice climbs.
I slide two fingers inside her. Tight. Slick. Her body grips me, and the hot clenching pressure makes my cock throb against the mattress. I curl deep, find the spot, and press.
She comes. Her body locks, her thighs clamp around my head, and her hand fists in my hair. The sound she makes is my name and Cole's tangled together, the two names colliding in her throat. Her walls pulse around my fingers in rhythmic contractions.
I work her through it, slower now, until her hand loosens in my hair and her thighs relax.
Lifting my head, I find her looking at the ceiling with parted lips and unfocused eyes. Cole is beside her, his hand on her stomach, his mouth against her temple. His eyes meet mine over her body.
"I want you inside me," Maya says. To the ceiling. To both of us. She turns her head and looks at me. "You. First."
The word first lands, and my eyes cut to Cole.
I stand and strip. Jeans, boxers. Her eyes track down my body and stop at the piercings.
The Jacob's ladder. Silver catching the lamplight.
She saw them once before, in her apartment, when her hand went to her mouth and her composure cracked wide open.
This time she looks at them and wets her lower lip, deliberate as hell.
"I've been thinking about those," she says. "Since your apartment."
"Have you."
"Every time I close my eyes."
Cole strips beside the bed. Maya's gaze moves to him, the same hunger, the same assessment, her lip between her teeth. She's looking at both of us. Naked in the lamplight, the two bodies she heard through the spare room wall fully visible.
Cole finds a condom in the nightstand drawer and tosses it. I catch it and roll it on.
I get on the bed between her legs. She opens for me, knees wide, her hands reaching for my shoulders and pulling me down. The contact of our bodies, chest to chest, hips to hips, is so complete the breath goes out of me.
Cole positions himself beside her, his hand in her hair and his mouth at her ear, whispering too low for me to catch. She turns her face into his neck and nods.
I line up and press forward.
The first ridge enters her and her whole body stiffens.
The sensation is different with a condom, muted but present, each one dragging as I push deeper.
Her eyes fly open. Her mouth opens. The sound she makes is guttural, involuntary.
She remembers the piercings from her apartment, from the afternoon she sank down onto me and said oh.
This angle hits a different spot on the descent.
I bottom out. Fully inside her. Every piercing seated. Her legs wrap around my waist. Her hands grip my shoulders. We're still for one breath.
"The piercings," she says. Wrecked. "I can feel every single one."
"Move," she says. The same word Cole has said to me a hundred times.
I move. The first thrust is slow, a controlled withdrawal and a deep push that seats them again. She gasps. Her jaw clenches. I set the pace, measured, deliberate, each stroke catching the spot my fingers found. Her hips lift to meet mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders. The sounds build.
Cole's hand slides down her body and between us. His fingers find her clit and begin to circle, slow, in counterpoint to my thrusts. The dual stimulation makes her body arch.
"Dante, Cole, I can't—"
"You can," I say against her mouth. Low. "Let go."
Cole's fingers work faster. My hips maintain the rhythm, the angle catching the spot that makes her voice break. She's caught between us, my body above her, Cole touching her between us.
She comes a second time. Harder. Her body clenches around my cock in waves, every contraction amplified while she pulses.
I have to stop moving, lock my arms, and breathe through it because the pressure is threatening to pull me over with her.
Her face is turned into Cole's neck, the sounds muffled against his skin.
Cole stays on her, working her through it, his eyes on mine over her head.
The orgasm subsides. I start moving again, slower, deeper. She's sensitive now, and each stroke makes her whimper.
"Your turn," she says to Cole, her voice scraped thin. She pushes at my chest, rearranging us. "I want both of you. I meant what I said."
I pull out, and she shivers at the loss.
Cole is already moving, the coordination between us automatic, six years of reading each other's bodies in a different context.
He positions himself on the bed, on his back.
She climbs over him, straddling his hips, then reaches back for a condom from the nightstand and rolls it onto him with steady hands.
Her hands stay steady. She doesn't look away.
She sinks down onto Cole. His head drops back against the pillow. His hands grip her hips. The sound he makes, low and guttural, the sound from the bedroom wall that Maya heard through plaster, fills the room. It hits low in my chest and stays there.
I watch them. Maya on top of Cole, her hands on his chest, her hips rolling. His hands on her waist, guiding.
She looks at me over her shoulder. Dark eyes. Sweat on her collarbone. Where are you? Why aren't you here? I said both.
I get behind her, chest against her back and mouth at her ear. She leans into me, that fraction of surrender, and the weight of her body settling between mine and Cole's empties my lungs.
My hand wraps around her throat. Light. Resting. My thumb on her pulse point, her heart hammering against my fingertip.
"Is this okay?" I ask against her ear, because the hand on the throat means something different for her, and the difference matters more than the wanting.
"Yes." Zero hesitation. "Don't let go."
Her pulse pounds against my thumb. I hold.
My hand stays on her throat. The other finds her hip, guiding her rhythm on Cole.
She rides him while I hold her, my chest against her back, my mouth on her neck, my palm at her throat.
The sounds in the room are obscene. Cole's moans.
Maya's breathing. The slick rhythm of her body moving on his.
My own breathing ragged, the control fraying.
I reach down between them, find where they're joined, and slide my fingers up to her clit. She bucks at the contact. Cole groans beneath her. My fingers work her in rhythm with her own hips, my mouth at her neck, my hold at her throat, and her rhythm catches between my touch and Cole's hips.
"I'm close," Cole says. His voice thin. Desperate. "Maya, I'm—"
"Come," she says. A command. From above him, with my hand on her throat and my fingers on her clit. She doesn't look away from him. "Come for me, Cole."