CHAPTER THREE #2
I lean down and capture Simone's nipple in my mouth. It's hard against my tongue. I suck and bite, alternating between pleasure and pain. Her hips buck up to meet mine, taking me deeper. My hand slides between us, finding her clit. She's swollen and wet, and when I press down, she gasps.
"Please," she whimpers.
I release her nipple and kiss down her body. Her stomach. Her hip bone. I pull out, ignoring her protest, and bury my face between her thighs. She tastes like salt and sex. My tongue finds her clit, circling it slowly.
"Oh god," she moans, her thighs clamping around my head.
I push two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit. She's so wet, my fingers slide in easily. I curl them, finding that spot that makes her see stars. Her back arches off the bed, and she's making these desperate little sounds that drive me insane.
Claire's hand wraps around my cock, stroking. I'm so hard it hurts. I pull away from Simone and flip her onto her stomach. She goes willingly, rising onto her hands and knees. Her ass is perfect, round and firm. I run my hand over it, then bring it down in a sharp slap.
She yelps, looking back at me with dark, hungry eyes. "Again."
I slap her other cheek, harder this time. The sound echoes in the room. I line myself up and thrust in from behind. This angle is deeper, and we both groan. I grip her hips, using them for leverage as I fuck her hard and fast.
Claire positions herself in front of Simone, spreading her legs. Simone doesn't hesitate. She leans forward, her tongue finding Claire's pussy. Claire cries out, her hand tangling in Simone's hair.
I watch Simone eat Claire out while I pound into her from behind. It's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen. Claire's face is flushed, her mouth open in pleasure. Simone's moans vibrate against her, and Claire's hips rock forward, riding Simone's face.
My hand slides around Simone's hip, finding her clit again. I rub it in time with my thrusts. She's trembling, her arms shaking as she tries to hold herself up. Her pussy is clenching around me, rhythmic and tight.
"I'm close," she gasps against Claire's pussy.
"Come for me," I command, pressing harder on her clit.
She shatters. Her orgasm rips through her, her whole body convulsing.
Her pussy milks my cock, and I can't hold back anymore.
I pull her up so her back is pressed to my chest, one hand on her breast, the other still working her clit, prolonging her pleasure.
I thrust up hard one last time and come, buried deep inside her.
My body shakes, muscles spasming. The release is intense but hollow. It brings no real relief. Just exhaustion that settles into my bones.
We collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs, all three of us breathing hard.
Time blurs. My muscles burn. Sweat drips down my spine. My lungs heave with each breath.
At some point, I'm on my back with Simone straddling me, riding me hard.
Claire kneels beside us, her mouth on Simone's neck, hands on her breasts.
I watch them kiss, watch Claire's fingers pinch Simone's nipples, and feel the familiar emptiness yawning wider inside me.
This should be enough. Should fill the void. But it doesn't.
Still, I chase it. Chase the oblivion I know won't come.
When I finally come again, I’m buried deep inside Simone. My body shakes, muscles spasming. The release crashes through me, but it brings no relief. Just exhaustion that settles into my bones.
Claire stretches out beside me, her hand gentle on my shoulder. For a moment, just a moment, I let myself be held. Let myself pretend this means something more than a transaction.
Then reality seeps back in. The weight returns, heavier than before. I roll away, chest heaving, and stare at the ceiling.
"Are you okay?" Claire's voice is soft. Concerned.
"You can go now." I sit up, reaching for my clothes scattered across the floor.
They gather their clothes without a word, stepping into their dresses.
"Marcus will sort you out," I say, pulling on my jeans.
They nod and leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.
I pour another drink and collapse onto the couch. The suite is too quiet now, too empty. The distraction worked, but now reality is creeping back in, settling over me like a weight.
My hands are shaking. I stare at them, watching the tremor. When did that start?
I push off the couch and cross to the safe hidden behind a painting of the Cork harbor. My fingers work the combination automatically. Inside, wrapped in a small plastic bag, is the cocaine I keep for occasions like this.
The bag crinkles as I pull it out. I cut a line on the glass coffee table with my credit card.
The powder forms a perfect white stripe against the dark surface.
I roll a hundred euro note and lean down, inhaling sharply.
The burn hits my sinuses, familiar and sharp.
My head snaps back as the rush floods through me.
The edges blur. The weight lifts just slightly. Just enough.
My heart races. The tremor in my hands stops. Everything sharpens, then softens. I lean back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. The suite spins lazily above me.
This is what I need. This numbness. This quiet.
I close my eyes and let it take me under.
Sunlight. Too much fucking sunlight.
I wake to my phone vibrating against the glass coffee table. The sound is like a drill boring into my skull. I reach for it blindly, knocking over an empty glass. It rolls across the table and falls to the floor with a dull thud.
I force my eyes open, squinting at the screen.
Four missed calls. Seven texts.
The time reads 5:47 PM.
"Fuck."
I sit up too fast. The room tilts violently. My stomach lurches, and for a moment, I think I'm going to be sick. I breathe through my nose, forcing it down.
I scroll through the messages with fumbling fingers. Matty: “Meeting at 6. Don't forget.”
Aidan: “Where the fuck are you?”
Another from Matty: “William. Answer your fucking phone.”
The meeting. My future wife. The O'Rourkes.
I'm supposed to be at my house in thirteen minutes, and I'm across the city in this penthouse suite, smelling like sex and drugs and whatever else.
Perfect. Fucking perfect.
I stumble to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help. In the mirror, I look like death. Red-rimmed eyes. Pale skin. My pupils are still dilated from the coke.
There's no time for a proper shower. I brush my teeth twice, gargle with mouthwash until my mouth burns. I find the spare clothes I keep in the closet—dark slacks, white shirt. My hands shake as I button the shirt.
Get it together. You can do this. Just one meeting.
But even as I think it, I know it's a lie. This isn't just one meeting. This is the rest of my life.