Chapter 8
EIGHT
Vance
Waking up to the scent of baking brings a smile to my lips and reminds me of home. The house was always overfilled with food the closer it got to Christmas Day. It’s one of the things I’ll miss not going home this year.
My eyes trace the naked expanse of Tristan’s body beside me in the bed.
He’s model perfection, spread out across the dark bedsheets, his chest rising and falling, a small dusting of hairs there, eyes closed, still sleeping.
There are no duvet or pillows left on the bed—they became victims of our frenzied fucking last night—and after we’d all collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, no one fucking cared about pillows.
Tristan’s leg shifts in his sleep, drawing my gaze there. Silver scars run across the tops of his muscular thighs. Without him turning over, I know that his back is lined with longer slash scars.
Poppy didn’t ask questions, and from what I saw, she didn’t even react to them, which makes me like her even more. Tristan isn’t shy about them but doesn’t like to talk about who inflicted the ones on his back.
Before meeting Tristan, I couldn’t imagine hating someone I’ve never met in person, but I want to decimate everyone from his childhood.
Running a hand down my face, I slip from the bed and pull on a pair of shorts, leaving the door open as I trek down the hallway to seek out our Angel.
Last night was intense. Tristan and I have shared many women, but there was something different with Poppy.
It wasn’t planned, there weren’t any contracts in place.
What the three of us shared was real, pure, driven by our need to claim.
When those elevator doors opened and the best female fuck of my life was standing inside, I nearly passed the fuck out.
What are the odds? It was fate— it had to be.
I follow the smell of sweetness filling the air, finding our Angel in the kitchen, making a mess. “What are you doing?” She startles at my question, spilling sugar onto the granite counter.
Except for the bedroom, our apartment is a spacious, open-plan unit.
The kitchen overlooks a dining area with a large table that seats eight, though only the two of us ever use it.
The dining space extends into the living room, which is divided by a huge corner couch that wraps around the coffee table.
It faces a fireplace with a huge flatscreen TV mounted above it, currently playing some old Christmas movie.
Sunlight streams in through the high windows, flooding the expanse of animal-fur-covered rugs on hardwood floors.
I make a note to fuck our naughty little slut on the fur rugs later.
“I’m making cookies as a thank you to you guys for letting me stay here. You two are surprisingly well-stocked with ingredients.” She twirls her spatula toward the mess she’s made.
She’s sinfully sexy, wearing one of Tristan’s work shirts, her hair pinned up in a messy bun on top of her head, strands slipping free to frame her face. “You guys must know how to cook, huh?” She licks the spatula, and my eyes zero in on the action.
“Our housekeeper does the shopping and baking, Angel.”
I move up to nuzzle into her neck and inhale her scent. She smells of the cookies she’s baking. I want to eat her.
“Oh of course.” I bite my lip so I don’t laugh when she furrows her brow, and her cheeks flood pink. I’ve had this woman naked, spread-eagle and fucked thoroughly, yet this makes her blush?
“You’re welcome to bake us cookies, though.” I swipe a finger through the white sticky liquid she’s stirring in a bowl. “That tastes good,” I tell her, grasping her hips and groaning when she pushes her ass back into my dick.
“It’s icing. It goes over the cookies.” She moans at our contact, setting the spatula onto a plate covered with cookies cut into Christmas-themed shapes.
“Hmmmm,” I rumble, dipping my lips to the crook of her neck and sucking over a bruise I saw Tristan leave there last night. He doesn’t fucking kiss, that man devours, so he has to be controlled to ensure he doesn’t break our toys.
She gasps, and her pupils blow wide when I spin her and lift her by the hips until she’s sitting on the counter. I love how fucking receptive she is to my touch.
Grasping the lapels of her shirt, I rip it open, the buttons falling to the floor with a clink, clink, clink. She sinks her teeth into her pouty bottom lip, her perfect breasts heaving from her rapid breathing, adoring the rough way I handle her.
She’s not wearing a bra, her nipples forming hard peaks. I grab the bowl of icing and pour it between the chasm of her tits, forcing her to lay back with a palm to her throat.
My mouth goes dry, eager to draw more dick hardening moans from her.
The creamy white liquid looks like cum coating her flesh like a second skin, I want to map every inch of her with my tongue, lips, teeth.
Dumping the bowl back on the counter, I lift her legs and balance her feet on the edge of the counter, splaying her thighs wide for my greedy fucking eyes.
Her pussy is covered by a pair of Tristan’s boxer shorts that she’s tied a knot in to make them fit her waist. The second I dip a finger beneath the hem and slip into her exquisitely tight heat, her hips lift. “Say you’re my cookie,” I tell her.
“I’m your cookie.” She shudders, whimpering.
I yank a knife from the block and cut through the boxers until they fall away completely, leaving her fully on display for me.
“Do you want me to eat my cookie?” I ask her, lust feeding through my veins and hardening my cock. I smooth through the icing on her tits and navel, dragging the liquid over her little raised mound, the warmth of her body keeping the sugar wet.
“Yes, please.” She flexes her hips again, gasping when I flick her clit.
“Did I tell you to move?”
She shakes her head no, her hair swiping through a puddle of flour. She’s a messy fucking girl. “You’ve made quite the mess in our kitchen, Angel.”
“I’m sorry,” she pouts.
“Maybe I should make a mess of you as punishment.”
I slide a hand down her abdomen once more, her body bucking when I push the pad of my thumb down on her swollen clit. “I want you to beg for me to eat your naughty fucking cookie.”
“Please, please eat my cookie.” She peers at me from beneath heavy lids, her red painted nails making little half-moons in the flesh of her thighs.
“Louder.” I flick her clit, and she moans.
At her attempt to close her legs, I slap her inner thigh, the sound jarring. “You’re being so naughty today. Keep those legs open so I can see your cunt seeping in need, Angel.”
“Please touch me, sir.” I spank her pussy then lean in to swipe my tongue up her folds to ease the sting. “Oh god,” she mumbles, the sweetness of her mixed with the sugar bursting over my tongue, igniting my taste buds.
“That’s ‘sir’ to you,” I counter, pushing two fingers into her slick heat.
Her back arches as I slowly pump my fingers into her swollen hole, loving the way her walls clench against me teasingly.
She’s inflamed from being thoroughly used, but she’s still hungry and wants nonstop feeding, her juices leaving a delicious sheen on my fingers.
“Beg me to eat your cunt so Tristan hears you.”
“Please.” She squirms, tangling her own hair in her fingers, her voice echoing through the apartment.
“Please what?” I urge, leaning over her prone body to taste the icing from her nipples.
“Eat my needy whore cunt. I need it.”
“Again,” I demand, popping her nipple from my lips and slipping my fingers from her cunt to push them between her ass cheeks. “Tristan can’t hear you.”
“Please, please, make me come!”
Fuck me. She’s perfect.
I stifle a smile at the sound of Tristan’s feet pounding down the hallway. His wild fucking eyes rack over the display I have laid out for him as he rounds the counter, almost knocking me over as he pushes me aside.
Grasping her thighs, he wraps her legs around his head, almost lifting her clean off the counter. His mouth consumes her pussy with a furious snarl until she’s bucking and thrashing.
Desperate for friction he ruts his hips against the counter as her hands wind into his hair, yanking and smashing his face into her cunt.
“Enough!” I bark when she screams, her body briefly tensing then trembling. Her toes curl against Tristan’s spine, her legs now dangling over his shoulders as her release thunders through her body.
I shove him away from her, his heaving chest and wide pupils telling me he’s lost to his lust. “I didn’t say she could come,” I admonish.
“She begged.” He shows me his palms, his shiny lips coated in her slick release.
“But not for you,” I scold him, and he closes his eyes, gulping.
“Naughty girls get punished,” I warn Poppy, who raises to her elbows to look over the two beasts in front of her.
“I was very naughty.” She licks her lips, and I have to fight the smirk wanting to curl the corners of my mouth. Hungry little whore indeed.
I swipe one of the cookies from the plate and scoop it through the icing littering her tits before taking a bite. “Delicious,” I hum.
“I’m sorry for making her come,” Tristan says, looking between her thighs at his handy work, his cock straining against the shorts he’s wearing.
I sweep the cookie through her soaked thighs then take another bite. “Even better,” I groan. “Bedroom, both of you.” I snap, and he rushes to lift her into his arms, carrying her down the hallway.