Chapter 29 Lucia #2
Nick drives harder. Deeper. His jaw is clenched.
His hands grip the sheets beside my head and his hips slam into mine with an authority that pushes my body up the mattress an inch with every stroke.
He reaches down. Hooks one hand under my knee.
Lifts my leg higher, changing the angle, opening me wider, and the depth he achieves in this position makes my eyes roll back.
“Look at me,” he says. Low. Commanding. Even now. Even after everything. Nick needs my eyes on him when the pleasure hits because watching my face come apart is the thing that undoes him.
I look at him. His eyes burn. His chest is flushed.
The muscles in his arms are corded from holding his weight while he takes me with the focused, devastating rhythm he has perfected across every encounter we have had.
He is not the same man who fucked me in the generator shed.
That man was claiming. This man is keeping.
Jude’s fingers find my clit and press and the combined assault of Nick inside me and Jude on me detonates the orgasm in a white-hot cascade that blanks my vision.
I come with Nick’s name torn out of my throat and Jude’s fingers on my clit and Rafe’s hand on my breast and the orgasm rolls through me in waves that each peak is caught by a different touch.
Nick holds himself deep inside me. His release follows mine.
Hot. Pulsing. Filling me. His forehead drops to my collarbone and his breathing is wrecked against my skin and I can feel the last pulses of his cock inside me and the fullness of it, of him, of this, makes my walls clench around him one more time and the groan he makes against my throat is the most honest sound Nick has ever produced.
He pulls out. Presses his mouth to my throat. One seal. Then he rolls to the side.
Rafe.
He does not wait for an invitation. He has been watching.
The patience has served its purpose. He stands at the foot of the bed and strips the rest of his clothes and I look at him, all of him, massive and golden-eyed and carved from something harder than muscle, and the want that hits my chest is not new but it is sharper because I know what his body does to mine.
He climbs onto the bed. Takes my hips. Flips me.
Not roughly. Casually. My weight is negligible to him.
I am on my stomach and his hands slide under my hips and lift and I am on my knees and he is behind me and his cock presses against me and the size of him stretches me open and the sound I make is primal.
He pushes in. Slow. Every inch deliberate.
I grip the sheets with both fists and drop my forehead to the mattress and the stretch of him fills me so completely my thoughts dissolve into pure physical response.
Rafe’s hands on my hips are anchors holding me in place while he buries himself to the hilt.
He does not move immediately. He holds himself inside me.
Both hands spanning my waist. His thumbs tracing the dimples above my ass.
He is taking his time because the getting-there is the point for Rafe.
The destination is secondary to the journey and the journey is every inch of contact between his body and mine.
This is the difference between the mountain and tonight.
On the mountain, Rafe was proving he belonged in this configuration.
Tonight he belongs and he knows it and the knowing makes him slower.
More thorough. He pulls almost all the way out and the drag of his cock against my swollen walls is so acute my thighs tremble.
Then he pushes back in. Deep. Full. And the wet sound of him filling me again makes my toes curl against the sheets.
He moves. Deep. Rhythmic. The pace he sets is not fast. It is relentless.
A tide. Inexorable. Every stroke drives so deep my hips shift forward against the mattress and his hands pull me back, impaling me on him, and the push-pull rhythm establishes itself as a conversation between his strength and my body’s willingness to take everything he gives.
The wet sounds of our bodies together are obscene and beautiful and I do not care who hears because the door is locked and this room belongs to us.
Nick is beside me. He has recovered. His hand finds my face. Turns it toward him. His mouth on mine while Rafe takes me from behind and the kiss swallows every sound I make. Nick’s tongue in my mouth and Rafe’s cock inside me and the combination is a sensory overload that makes my arms shake.
Jude moves behind Rafe. His hand on my lower back. His voice at my ear.
“Your trapezius is locked,” he says, quiet, almost clinical. “Your body is bracing instead of receiving.” His palm presses flat between my shoulder blades. “Let go.”
I let go.
The difference is immediate. My spine lengthens. My hips tilt back. Rafe’s next stroke reaches somewhere new and the sound I make is involuntary and shameless.
Jude narrates what is happening to me the way he narrates a procedure.
The vascular flush across my chest wall.
The involuntary tightening of my inner walls on every outstroke.
Not arousal language. Anatomical fact delivered in a voice that is more intimate than arousal because it means: I am watching every cell of your body.
Nothing escapes me. You are being taken care of.
Rafe picks up speed. His grip on my hips tightens.
The rhythm accelerates and I push back to meet every thrust and the impact sends shockwaves up my spine.
Nick’s hand is in my hair. Jude’s hand is on my hip beside Rafe’s.
Three men touching me while Rafe drives into me from behind and I can feel the second orgasm building in waves that are taller and deeper than the first.
Rafe’s hand slides around my hip. His fingers find my clit.
The man who does not speak uses his fingers the way he uses his mouth.
With devastating focus. He circles my clit in time with his thrusts and the precision of the coordination tells me he has been thinking about this.
Planning it. Running the scenario the way he runs a perimeter sweep. Calculating every angle.
I break.
The orgasm hits me so hard my arms give out.
My chest hits the mattress. Rafe follows me down.
His weight on my back. His cock buried to the hilt.
His hips stuttering as my walls clamp around him in waves that do not stop.
He comes inside me with a sound that is barely audible.
A low, rough exhale against the back of my shoulder.
Then a word.
“Home.”
One word. Not “Ours.” Not “Mine.” Something new. Something that tells me the perimeter he has been walking his entire life has a center now and I am in it. The man who walked every edge has found the middle.
He withdraws. Presses his lips to my spine. Rolls to the side.
Jude.
He does not take me from behind. He does not flip me.
He waits until I turn over. Until I am on my back, looking up at him, flushed and wrecked and trembling and still wanting.
He waits because Jude always waits for eye contact.
The most important thing to Jude is that the person under his hands is present and choosing.
“Hi,” he says.
I almost laugh. The absurdity of it. The simple, human normalcy of greeting a woman who is naked and flushed and dripping and looking at him with half-closed eyes.
But that is Jude. He strips away every layer of performance until the only thing left is the human interaction underneath.
Two people. In a bed. Saying hello before they make love.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is wrecked. Raw from the sounds I made for Nick and Rafe.
He covers me with his body. Weight on his forearms. His face above mine.
Close enough to breathe his air. His scarred hands frame my face.
His thumbs trace my cheekbones. The same gesture from the shower.
The same gesture from the cabin. The gesture that means: I am going to take my time and you are going to let me.
He enters me slowly. The stretch after Nick and Rafe is different.
Sensitive. Every nerve ending exposed and raw.
My pussy is swollen, slick, thoroughly used, and Jude reads all of that on my face.
He adjusts. Shallower at first. Gentle in a way neither of the other two were because Jude understands that a body that has been taken apart needs to be entered differently than a body that is fresh.
He is not competing with what came before. He is completing it.
Deeper. Inch by inch. His eyes on mine through every fraction of progress.
My walls stretch around him and the sensitivity makes everything more intense.
The pleasure is layered on top of the residual ache from two orgasms and the combination is exquisite.
A specific overwhelm that is not too much. Exactly enough.
He is fully inside me. Our hips flush. His forehead against mine. His eyes open. My eyes open.
He does not close them. Neither do I.
This is the Jude register. The one that wrecked me in the cabin. The one that feels less like sex and more like being seen by someone who has decided to look at you with everything he has and never stop looking.
He moves. Slow. Deliberate. Each stroke finding the spot he mapped a few days ago and has refined every time since.
His scarred hands are steady on my face.
His eyes hold mine through every thrust and the intimacy of being fucked by a man who refuses to look away is more intense than the feral worship and the commanding possession combined.