39. Jinx #2
"When have I ever not been sure about something stupid?" she says, and the three of us laugh again, quieter this time. The sound dissolves into mouths finding skin.
Cyrus peels her hoodie up over her head, and I catch the hem and toss it somewhere. Her tank top follows, and then my shirt. We're already a tangle of hands trying to touch everywhere and everyone all at once.
"Floor," Cyrus suggests from somewhere behind her earlobe.
"Rugburn," I mutter. "How romantic."
"Better than this narrow fucking couch."
"We definitely need to talk about investing in some orgy-friendly furniture," I admit.
We end up on the rug in front of the couch with the blanket pulled underneath her because the carpet is shit and she deserves better even if she's not complaining.
Cyrus kneels behind me while Ellie lies beneath me, and for a second, all three of us just breathe, suspended in a configuration I've imagined so many times it feels borrowed from a dream.
Then Ellie pulls me down and kisses me again, deeper this time, and hungrier. Behind me, Cyrus's mouth finds the nape of my neck and his teeth scrape the knob of my spine. Whatever part of my brain was still running the anxiety simulation shuts down entirely.
We take our time, which is a first. Cyrus is patient, his hands mapping me while I map her. Ellie watches us with those green eyes blown dark, her breath catching every time Cyrus's touch makes me respond in a way she can feel.
"Show me," she whispers, pulling me closer while reaching past me to curl her fingers in Cyrus's hair. "Show me what you look like with him."
So I do. And she watches, her attention rapt, while Cyrus opens me up with lube-slick fingers, his mouth on my shoulder. Ellie looks like she wants to comment about the fact that he keeps lube in the fucking side table, but she doesn't.
On second thought, that might have contributed to Kade knowing some shit he shouldn't. But I really don't give a fuck what the others do or don't know right now. Ellie didn't walk out that door, so nothing anyone else does or doesn't think matters.
The sounds I make when Cyrus's fingers are inside me are sounds no one else has ever heard, but she asked, and I am physically incapable of denying Eleanor Riggs anything she asks me for.
She's already slick from watching us, my cock sliding between the folds of her pussy, and she shivers each time I thrust lazily against her. I kiss her hard, tasting her strawberry lip balm, and she moans, digging her fingers into my hair.
When Cyrus finally pushes into me, the fullness of it rocks me forward into her, and the sound she makes is worth every second of terror I spent on that couch tonight.
The rhythm builds between the three of us as easily as if we've been practicing, even though this kind of intimacy has only ever existed in the version of us where I'm wearing her clothes and she's nowhere near us.
Every thrust Cyrus gives me I pour into her, and her hands grip my shoulders while her legs wrap my waist. Somewhere in the middle of it all, the performance slips away.
The lie I've tried to embody for four years pales in comparison to the real thing beneath me, the real version of the three of us.
Cyrus comes first, buried deep inside me, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades and his composure cracking in that gorgeous, catastrophic way it only does in private. Ellie's kiss swallows my moans as he drives deeper into me on the last thrust, pushing me deeper into her in turn.
Her thighs lock around my hips, and she grinds up into me.
Her hips shake first, then her fingers in my hair, gripping and stroking and clenching as she finds her release.
She rides it out with me still rock hard inside her, and her nails drag bloody paths up my spine that I'm going to wear proudly tomorrow.
Might even go shirtless just so the whole world knows she was under me, that I was inside of her and she's not going fucking anywhere.
She makes a blissed out little sound and I come apart inside her, her pussy clenching around me tight enough I almost black out. Being inside her while Cyrus fucks me is something I've thought about countless times, but once again, the reality is so much better than I could have imagined.
Afterward, we lay in a heap on the rug.
Cyrus extracts himself first, but he doesn't pull away like he often does, because orgasm is apparently too undignified a state for him, and he needs time to recover from his more human impulses. But even he's not willing to pull away from this completely.
I stay where I am. On my side with Ellie tucked against my chest, our breathing syncing slowly. Her hair tickles my chin. She smells like strawberries and she smells like us, and I want to mark her with it every second of every fucking day.
Ellie's hand is curled around my wrist where the pulse beats. It gradually releases as she falls asleep, but I'm still wide awake, not wanting to miss a single fucking moment.
I can tell from Cyrus's breathing he's doing the same thing.
But neither of us says a word.