Eighteen #3
“Roll her over,” Jason tells Leo. “I want her on her stomach.”
Leo obeys, careful but strong, flipping her so she’s flat on the bed, legs parted, ass up. There’s nowhere left for her to hide now.
Jason slides behind her, hands running up her back, kneading her shoulders, the base of her neck. His touch keeps dragging her back into herself every time pleasure threatens to pull her under.
Leo moves to her head, strokes her hair, and kisses the side of her face. “You okay?” he whispers.
She nods, but the sound that comes out is closer to a moan than a yes.
Jason lines up behind her, runs the head of his cock up and down her slit, teasing but never entering. “You ready for me?”
She lifts her ass, begging without words.
He pushes in, all at once, the stretch making her gasp. He’s rougher this time, fucking her with a ferocity that matches the wild in her chest. Leo strokes her face, fingers her mouth, lets her bite down when the pleasure crests into pain.
Jason grips her hips, slams into her, voice thick with praise: “You look so fucking good like this. You don’t have to hold back with us.”
Want floods her so hard it almost feels indistinguishable from grief.
Jason’s hand snakes up her spine, finds the base of her skull, and holds her in place. “Don’t run from it,” he says. “Take it.”
Leo feeds her his cock, slow and gentle, giving her something to work against, to hold onto. She moans around him, drooling, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
She’s so full she can barely breathe.
Jason picks up the pace, hips slapping against her ass, balls hitting her with every thrust. He leans down, mouth at her ear. “You’re mine,” he says, and the words are a bullet in her heart.
Leo pulls out, wipes her mouth, and kisses her lips. “She’s ours,” he says, voice soft but certain.
The words hit harder than anything physical ever could.
She’s not divided. She’s expanded. She’s more.
Jason groans, pulls out, and flips her onto her back. He slides in again, missionary this time, pinning her wrists above her head. Leo straddles her chest, feeds her his cock, and she takes it, hungry, wanting to please them both.
Jason fucks her, relentless, his eyes locked on hers. “Come for us,” he says. “Let us see you.”
She does. The orgasm tears through her so completely she loses the room for a second.
She screams, the sound muffled by Leo’s cock, and neither man stops, neither man lets her go.
They fuck her through the climax, through the aftershocks, through the begging and the sobbing and the utter, humiliating bliss.
When Jason comes, he buries his face in her neck, bites down, and fills her. Leo finishes on her chest, painting her with heat, then wipes it away with slow, worshipful hands.
They collapse, all three, tangled in sweat and breath and heartbeats.
Brielle blinks, tears drying on her cheeks, and looks at them. Jason’s head is on her shoulder, hand at her breast, thumb stroking lazy circles. Leo’s arm is around her waist, holding her like he never wants to let go.
She laughs, wild and relieved and real. “You’re both insane,” she says.
Jason grins. “Only for you.”
Leo nuzzles her neck. “You’re perfect.”
She believes it.
She’s not split, not a tug-of-war rope. She’s the center of it.
They stay like that for a long time—minutes, hours, it doesn’t matter. Brielle closes her eyes, lets herself be held, and feels the containment settle in her bones.
For the first time in her life, wanting more doesn’t make her feel broken.
It makes her feel whole.
?
After, there is only breath and warmth and the lazy instinct of holding on. Brielle floats somewhere above the bed, suspended in the strange weightlessness that comes after being completely undone. Her skin is fevered, every nerve ending thrumming in the hush.
No one speaks. There’s no need.
Jason traces idle patterns along her collarbone, his hand steady and warm, the pads of his fingers tracing her like he’s memorizing something precious.
Leo lies at her back, arm banded across her stomach, holding her like something he still can’t believe he’s allowed to have.
The world is a small, bright cocoon, humming with the aftershocks of everything that just happened.
Brielle’s voice is barely a whisper: “Holy shit.”
Both men laugh, the sound low and tangled. Jason pulls her closer, brushes her temple with his lips. “You’re incredible,” he says.
Leo murmurs, “You’re a fucking goddess,” into the hollow of her throat.
Brielle can’t decide if she wants to sleep for a year or start all over again. The ache between her legs is proof she’s alive, but it’s not enough to smother the want still sparking beneath her skin. She’s never felt so safe inside her own wanting.
The room is different now. Settled. The old fear of being too much finally feels homeless.
She lets herself drift, lulled by the steady pulse of two heartbeats bracketing her. She dozes. When she wakes, the sheets are cool and the world outside the window is barely shifting from black to blue.
She clears her throat. “Next time,” she says quietly, “I want all of it.”
She half-expects to feel shame, or at least the old familiar cringe of asking for what she wants.
Leo laughs softly into her shoulder, and Jason’s grin is so immediate it almost undoes her.
No one says “If you’re sure.” No one asks for a script or permission. It’s just there, a new truth, already taken root.
Brielle lets her eyes close again, safe between them. For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something she has to survive.
And this time, she isn’t afraid of what she wants.