Chapter Fifty-Nine
Delilah
We all head to Benji’s to celebrate.
When I walk in, the living room floor is covered in thick plastic.
The couch too. He’s moved the coffee table entirely out of the way.
In its place there are buckets. Big gallon tubs, like party-store icing.
Each one labeled in aggressive Sharpie: strawberry, honey, salted caramel, cake, blue raspberry, peach, chocolate.
I clap. “They all came.”
“This is ridiculous,” Jett says, but he’s already peeling off his shirt. His mouth twitches like it’s trying not to smile. “There’s a cake flavor?”
Rhys steps in behind me and slides my blazer off my shoulders. “This is regressive.”
Benji’s locking the door. “You two don’t have to take part,” he says. “We can make art without you.”
“Art is my thing,” Rhys says, loosening his tie. He doesn’t sound dismissive. He sounds hungry.
“It’s therapy, right?” Jett says.
“You no longer have to take part in therapy,” Rhys replies smoothly. “Judge signed off on you too.”
“Fuck you, I still have anger issues,” Jett says, popping open the cake flavored bucket.
“And impulse control,” I say sweetly, already kicking off my heels.
“I didn’t say I wanted to fix them,” Jett says.
Benji’s behind me again, warm and solid, rolling me out of my pants. I’m suddenly bare-skinned and goosebumped.
“Group therapy then,” he says.
“Group project,” I purr. “Multimedia.”
“Performance art,” Rhys says, undoing his cuffs.
Jett looks down at the paint. Then at me. “You gonna let us draw on you?”
“No, baby,” I say. “You’re gonna eat me.”
The plastic crinkles under my knees like a tarp-wrapped secret. It’s already warm in here, bodies and paint and tension thick in the air, and I haven’t even been touched yet.
I pick up a paintbrush, thick, flat, made for a wall and not a canvas, and dip it into the cake-flavored paint. It’s bubblegum pink. Obnoxious. Sinful.
I slap a stripe of it across Jett’s chest.
He jerks. Then stares down. “The fuck?”
“You’re my masterpiece,” I say sweetly, swiping another arc across one nipple. “Now shut up and let me work.”
Benji’s kneeling beside me, elbow-deep in the caramel, scooping it with his hands like he’s living his second childhood. He slaps a handprint on my thigh and smears upward, leaving a sticky, golden trail over my hip.
Rhys crouches beside the paint tubs. He runs one streak of strawberry across my collarbone with the tip of one finger. Precise. Like he’s signing his name.
Jett hasn’t stopped staring. He’s got streaks of pink paint across his chest, frosting kisses down his abs, and his cock’s already out, already hard, gripped in one possessive hand, daring someone to look directly at it.
I do.
He licks his bottom lip. “Turn around,” he orders. “On hands and knees.”
“Oh?” I smile. “Is that how we’re playing?”
Rhys tuts. “You’ll ask nicely.”
Benji kisses my shoulder, licks a stripe of honey off my skin. “Or beg.”
“I’ll do all of it,” I moan. “Just touch me.”
They do. All three.
Painted hands on my ass, my thighs, fingers pressing into sticky, slick skin.
Rhys’s fingers part me first, two, then three, unhurried but firm, and I can feel how wet I already am, how my own arousal is mingling with sugar and heat and pure, unhinged want.
Benji kisses his way down my back, licking paint and sweat and something feral from my skin. He pauses at my ass, kneads it, and hums.
“Make her come first,” Rhys says. “We agreed.”
“We agreed on nothing,” Jett growls, but his voice cracks and he kneels beside my face, thick cock tapping against my cheek. “But I wanna see that, yeah. Make her scream.”
Benji doesn’t need to be told twice. His mouth covers me like he’s been waiting all day to feast. And maybe he has.
His tongue is wide and soft, slow at first, dragging through me, savoring the flavor of every single thing I’ve ever been.
He laps up paint and slick and groans low in his chest when my thighs shudder around his head.
“Fuck, baby,” I moan, arching, rocking back into his face. “You taste the cake yet?”
“It’s all frosting,” he says, mouth full, before diving back in.
Rhys watches, hand tight around the base of his cock, lips parted, memorizing me for later. For punishment. For praise.
Jett’s hand tangles in my hair. “Open your mouth.”
I do.
His cock pushes past my lips, thick and angry, already dripping. I moan around him, spit slicking my chin, fingers digging into the plastic as Benji keeps licking and Jett fucks my mouth slow and mean like he wants to break me but he’s holding back. Just for now.
This is everything I wanted. Everything I craved. Paint-streaked thighs. A mouth full of Jett. Benji’s tongue inside me, Rhys stroking himself as he watches his patient get wrecked on the floor like art.
Like vengeance. Like therapy.
I don’t know whose idea it was, but it’s Benji who lifts me into position like I’m made of spun sugar and maybe molten sin.
The paint’s smeared over us all now, strawberry across my stomach, caramel handprints on my ass, blue raspberry streaks where my thighs have been held open and eaten like dessert.
Benji lays flat on the plastic, cock thick and glistening against his stomach, arms open to receive me.
“I got you, precious,” he says, all warm low drawl and big hands on my hips. “Come ride your boy.”
I lower myself slow, paint-slick and gasping, until the thick crown of him presses into me. My whole body shivers. He fills me in that way only Benji can, big, slow, indulgent.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight.”
Rhys is kneeling behind me, hands gripping my waist, fingers flexing. There’s paint smeared across his thighs and streaked on his wrist. His cock drags heavy along the seam of my ass, and I feel the way his breath stutters, controlled but faltering.
“This,” he says, voice ragged. “You sure you want it?”
“Yes.” My nails dig into Benji’s chest. “I want all of it.”
Rhys presses forward.
The stretch is insane.
Benji groans beneath me, deep and low. “Fuck, baby. Your gripping me like a fist.”
“Focus,” Rhys bites out behind me. “I’m not gonna hurt her.”
“You better not,” Benji warns, but he softens it with a kiss to my throat. “You good, precious?”
I whimper. “So good. So full. Oh my god move.”
Rhys sinks the rest of the way in and my entire body lights the fuck up. I feel them everywhere, Benji deep in my cunt, Rhys grinding into my ass, one thick, hot cock pressing forward while the other nudges impossibly deeper. My mouth drops open.
Jett crouches in front of me, a devil ready to collect. His cock twitches, thick and flushed and proud, and he watches with that wide-eyed, feral edge.
“I don’t know if I wanna fuck your mouth or just watch,” he growls. “You look like a fucking wreck.”
“She’s a work of art,” Rhys snaps behind me, driving in again, sharp and precise.
“She’s mine,” Jett answers, voice low and tight as a pulled bowstring.
Benji huffs a laugh beneath me. “She’s ours, boys. Take it easy.”
“No,” I gasp, dragging myself upright. “Don’t take it easy. Take me apart.”
Jett groans like that broke him. His hand fists in my hair and he pulls me down to take him in. My lips stretch wide around him. I fucking love it. I love the growl that rips out of him when I gag, the way his hips jerk forward like he forgot how to hold back.
Rhys fucks up into me, one hand fisted in my hair alongside Jett’s, the other gripping my hip so tight I’ll bruise. Benji rocks slow, letting me grind against his chest, his cock held tight by both my body and Rhys’s behind me.
“You’re amazing,” Benji whispers. “Taking both of us. My perfect little mess.”
“Mine,” Rhys breathes behind me. “So beautiful.”
Jett’s hand tightens. “You’re both talkin’ too much. Let her choke.”
They move in rhythm, fucking me on both ends like it’s a test of endurance, a battle for ownership, a goddamn act of faith. And I’m the altar.
They use me like an offering.
Like art.
Like therapy.
And I want more.
Benji is groaning beneath me. He’s close.
I’m dragging him to the edge with every twitch, every slick grind.
His praise never stops, his voice adoring through clenched teeth.
“That’s it, fuck, you’re takin’ us so good.
Your pretty cunt’s so full. You’re squeezin’ the life outta me, fuck, I’m gonna come. ”
Rhys fucks into me harder, rough now, precision lost to obsession. He wraps one hand around my throat and the other’s splayed on my back. “She was made for this,” he snarls, breath hot against the back of my neck. “To be filled, to be claimed.”
Jett is unraveling in front of me, muscles tight, jaw clenched.
His cock bulges in my throat, and his hands are wild in my hair.
He’s trying not to break me, but wants to so bad.
He pulls back enough for me to gasp, spit glistening down my chin, and glares at the other two like he might murder them for touching me.
“She’s gonna come and I’m not inside her?” Jett growls. “That’s fucking criminal.”
Benji groans. “You are inside her. Look at her mouth, man. She’s taking you just like she’s taking us.”
Rhys laughs, but it’s a shredded sound. “She can handle it. Can’t you, pet?”
I try to answer but can’t, Jett drives forward, choking off my response with his cock, and Rhys slams up and grinds while Benji bucks beneath me with more urgency.
“I’m gonna, fuck,” Benji’s words are swallowed by a groan so deep it rattles in my ribs.
And then he’s coming. His hips jerk beneath me, his cock pulsing thick and so deep inside me I can feel every rope of it flood me, hot, sweet, and messy between us. He holds me tight as his hips roll through it, whispering praise through gritted teeth.
“Good girl. So good. Show us how pretty you come when you’re loved.”
I’m right there, trembling, soaked in sweat and streaks of body paint, and the extra stretch of Rhys.