Chapter 7 Cruz
CRUZ
She crooks a finger and everything in me answers.
Roman eases back with a last brush of his knuckles beneath her chin, heat still coming off his skin, and I step into the space he leaves like I have been walking toward it for a year.
Her breath is quick and shallow, her mouth open on the kind of small, hungry sounds that make a man forget the long winter behind him, and when I tell her eyes on me she gives me that without question, wide and shining.
“Good girl,” I say close enough that my voice lives in her mouth for a second. “You waited. Keep looking at me.”
Her knees part and I settle on the couch, hands firm at her hips, guiding her down until our bodies fit with a wet, shocked sound that steals both our breath.
The movement causes her to release Deacon’s cock with a wet pop that makes me grow harder.
The fire throws amber over the line of her throat.
The couch complains.
Snow hushes the windows like a held note.
She tries to exhale and the breath breaks into a whimper I feel in my bones.
Deacon is steady at the head of the couch, one hand braced at the back of her head, the other at his side as if he is afraid to touch in case touching breaks what is happening, and I tip her chin with two fingers so she can see me while I say, “Open for him,” and then, softer, “Do not look away.”
She turns just enough for him to bring himself to her lips once more.
The first wet pull is tentative and surprised, the second deeper, the third finds a slick rhythm that fills the warm air between the three of us with obscene, gorgeous music.
Roman kneels by the armrest, his palm warming a slow path along her ribs, telling her to breathe, and each time she remembers how, the little shiver of air washes through my hands where they hold her.
I set a pace she can ride and she finds it fast, hips stuttering and then smoothing into a greedy grind that makes her voice lift each time I drive her down to the root of me.
Every time I bottom out she makes a choked sound that hums through Deacon and tightens his jaw, and he swears once under his breath like a man who has been holding himself together too long.
A shining string hangs for a heartbeat when she lifts for air, then she goes back down, owning the noise, letting it get messy, letting the room hear everything she wants.
“Good girl,” I praise, my thumbs riding the top of her hips, my voice getting rougher. “Take it. Take him. Do not look away from me.”
Her gaze stays locked on mine, pupils blown, lashes wet.
Roman’s mouth finds her shoulder and the little sob that falls out of her is half laughter, half surrender.
And when I change the angle by a hand’s width, everything tips.
Her legs tense, her fingers bite into my shoulders, the sound in her throat climbs and thins, and the couch thumps under us as she stutters through it.
“That is it,” I tell her, steady as a metronome. “Give it to me. Good girl. Take it. Breathe.”
She breaks with her mouth still full and the noise is filthy and perfect, and Deacon has to close his eyes against it because control is a thing with edges and she is sanding every ridge down with the way she moves.
I keep the rhythm exact and talk her through the aftershocks, only slowing by a fraction so each shake has room to finish, and when she slumps she rallies, cheeks burning, eyes bright and wet, and she goes right back to work on Deacon, more confident now, sounds louder, wetter, a wet pull that makes the hair rise along my forearms.
“Greedy,” I tell her, loving the word on her skin. “I love you greedy. Say thank you.”
She lifts off him for the span of a heartbeat, lips shiny, breath snagging. “Thank you.”
Then she takes him again and the vibration of her moan climbs my spine and makes my vision go hot around the edges.
Deacon’s composure frays by degrees.
His fingers tighten in her hair and he tries to say something and fails and tries again.
It is only her looking up at him while she works, hot-eyed and sure and unashamed, that undoes him.
I pull my cock out, and we trade places. Deacon buries himself in her sweet cunt, sighing in relief as he begins to set a desperate pace.
I lift her chin back to me with two fingers. “My turn,” I tell her, and the noise she makes is high and sweet all at once. “Open. Eyes on me.”
She does, and I feed her what I want, slow at first, then deeper, keeping my hips steady so she can take me with her mouth while I keep her moving on me, and the room becomes nothing but wet sounds and low curses and the heat of her breath on my skin.
Each slick pull, each soft pop when I ease her off for air, each swallow and whimper, builds a pressure in me that blurs the edges of the room, and I stroke her jaw with my thumb. “Breathe, sweet girl.”
Deacon goes quiet and still in that way men do when the world narrows to one point of heat, breath tearing, control gone, and she moans around my cock as he slams home a final time and spills himself inside her.
Her lips curl into a victorious smile around my cock, and she looks up at me for approval.
“Perfect,” Roman says at her temple, his mouth a seal on a promise.
Deacon touches her carefully, as if it is dangerous to do more, and thanks her like a man who knows what he has been given.
I pull her up for a kiss and taste everything we are on her tongue, and she melts into me with a helpless noise that might ruin me if I let it.
“Stand,” I tell her, and she goes soft and obedient.
She stands with Deacon’s help and pivots to face me.
Her eyes glimmer at the sight of my cock, shining with what came out of her last climax.
She straddles my thighs with a hungry certainty that feels like home.
I am seated, feet planted, hands at her waist, and when she sinks down the wet sound is louder now.
Her mouth opens on a perfect O that is not a word but I take it like one, and I keep her there for a breath so she can feel full, then I set the grind.
“Hands on my chest,” I say. “Use me. Take what you want.”
She does. Nails skim, then press.
She rides me in slow, greedy circles that turn tighter and faster as the heat climbs, and every time I tilt her hips the right way her voice breaks in a way that makes my jaw snap shut and my control fray.
Roman anchors the back of her neck with a steady palm, murmuring praise at the base of her skull that she drinks like water.
Deacon, softened and grateful, kneels beside the couch to kiss the slope of her collarbone and the place where her pulse flutters, his mouth careful, his breath a benediction.
The sounds gather and fold over each other.
Wet glide. Low slap.
Her breath turning into open-mouthed cries that climb and crack and drop and climb again, a music I could live inside.
When her rhythm loses shape, I catch her hips and reset it, then let her take over again so the next crest belongs to her and no one else.
“Look at me,” I say. “Say please.”
“Please,” she pants, not shy anymore, pupils wide, hair sticking to her cheeks. “Please do not stop.”
“Not stopping,” I promise, and I drive her through it, a deep, deliberate grind that drags a long, trembling sound out of her chest, and she comes apart against my mouth as I kiss her through it, stumbling and then flowing and then shaking again, and I do not rush it because urgency is easy and what I want to give her is thorough.
She slumps, and then the next wave finds her like a tide, smaller but wicked, a breathy little “Yes yes yes” that sounds like bells in a storm.
I hold her while it moves through, my lips at the corner of her mouth, my breath in her ear. “You are doing so good, so sweet, so filthy in the best way.
I am so pround of the way you take and ask for more in the same breath.”
Roman adds soft commands that keep her body from fleeing itself. “Open your throat. Breathe. That is it. Good. Stay with him.”
Deacon leans close and says something indecent and kind that paints color high on her cheeks and makes her grind down harder like she is showing off for him, and the couch complains again and the fire throws another wave of heat across her chest.
I am close enough to feel red at the edges, a bright nerve singing through me, and I refuse to fall. I lock my jaw and breathe like a man who knows the value of patience, and I praise her as if gratitude itself can bridle hunger.
“Not yet,” I tell her against her open mouth, my hand warm at the base of her skull. “You hear me? Not yet.”
“Yes,” she whispers, shaking, voice wrecked and shining. “Not yet.”
“Good girl,” I say for the hundredth time and it still tastes new. “Keep taking me. Slow. There you go.”
I slow it to a grind that is all pressure and heat, and she shivers and gives me a ragged laugh that turns into a gasp.
Roman kisses her temple like a seal on a promise, and Deacon’s thumb draws lazy circles at the notch of her throat to anchor her.
Her fingers claw and loosen, her jaw drops, her voice goes high for a beat and dissolves, her hips lose rhythm for two strokes and then find it again, and when it passes she clings, breathing in little stutters that lengthen under Roman’s steady hand.
I hold her there, straddling me, both of us slippery with heat, my breath ragged, my control intact by a thread.
I kiss her slow and filthy and grateful and tell her, “You did so good for us.”
I keep her open and adored, the room a low thrum of breath and praise and wet, satisfied sounds, the storm pressing its face to the glass, the fire sighing, her breath warm against my mouth, my hands heavy at her hips, the night wide open and waiting.