Track No. 13 Simple #2
Riley lays her fingers on his arm. “C’mon, this is, like, on our bucket list…
two best friends, one unforgettable night.
Please, go down on us at the same time?” Delivered with a grin and zero shame.
“I swear, Harding… you’re, like, the only guy I’d even feel comfortable doin’ this with, and I would never tell my brother,” she says, side-eyein’ her friend.
“I told her you make it safe, and that you’re not a creep.
I could ask maybe Carlos or Frankie… or hell,” she laughs, facin’ Jules, “some rando at the bar, but that’s kinda scary. ”
Uh… yeah. I’d have to fuckin’ agree.
Guy could be a psycho, turn on ‘em both. What the hell’s wrong with her?
But he ain’t stupid. He sees the psychological play: if you don’t do this, then I’ll pick some rando at the bar and die and it’d be all your fault.
Unless… she actually would and she ain’t bluffin’.
“Riley, that ain't me anymore. Savin' myself for marriage now.” He says it with a half-smile—one part truth, one part joke.
“Stop playin',” she rolls her eyes, “You're Andrew Harding. The guy who gives every girl their fantasy, and the one time I ask—me, your friend of five years—all of a sudden, you're savin' yourself for marriage? What? Is it 'cause it's me? If it is, just say that.”
He doesn't know what the fuck to say.
She sighs, shoulders droppin’. “I really need you, and I trust you.”
Then he feels like shit.
She’s just hangin’ with her friend, wantin’ to experience somethin’ they always talked about, with someone who won’t cross a line, someone who won’t take advantage of ‘em. And she came to him for a reason. ‘Cause he was all those things.
“Matty’d fuckin’ kill me,” he tries to reason. “I can’t—”
She shakes her head fast. “Swear, I would never tell him. I would never fuck up your friendship.” She shrugs. “And if we’re bein’ honest? He’d trust me with you more than some stranger, anyway.”
He scratches the back of his head, pulls on the nape with a faint smile—nothin’ behind it. He ain’t agreein’, he’s surrenderin’. ‘Cause how the hell do you keep sayin' no? What other reasons does he got?
Nah, ‘cause… I’m not feelin’ it tonight?
Nah, ‘cause… I don’t feel comfortable?
Nah, ‘cause… I don’t like how it makes me feel?
I, I, I… Those ain’t reasons. Those are I-don’t-want-to bullshit excuses they’d take personal, like it was about them ‘cause she knows damn well he’s done this many times before for complete strangers.
And if he says no, then they’re mad, lookin’ at him like he let ‘em down, disappointed ‘em, and he’ll feel guilty for… what? For not doin’ somethin’ he could’ve easily done? For drawin’ a line made of fog?
So he fuckin’ nods. “If that’s what you need.”
From the barstool, Jules grins wide, surprised, almost impressed with Riley. “No way, you’re really gonna…” but Riley don’t waste time, payin’ her no mind ‘cause she already knew his answer. She’s snatchin’ his hand, walkin’ him out of the kitchen, lighter on her toes.
As soon as he steps into the livin’ room, for the first time in all the years he's been doin' this shit, he’s confused about who the fuck to be. Does he stay Andrew Harding, the friend she’s known for five years, or is she expectin’ him to play the part of some cocky sonofabitch who’s obsessed with pussy and makin’ girls come?
Riley scoops up the pile of clothes and shoves them back into the hamper, the two of ‘em talkin’ low and gigglin’ as they each take an end of the couch.
“Nah. You, stay there,” he says, gesturin’ to Riley in the corner.
Then points his eyes at Jules, nudges his head. “You? In her lap.”
He removes his jacket first, then his shirt, foldin’ it and layin’ it on the backrest of the couch while sweepin’ the room for any cameras or phones out recordin’.
When he looks back at the girls, they’re still sittin’ side by side.
“What’s with the knees-together routine? This ain’t Sunday mass.”
He sets them up how he wants them—Riley's ass to the edge of the couch, and Jules sittin' on top of her—before he's sinkin' to his knees in front of 'em.
He tries to ignore how awkward this already feels.
He tries to block out the fact he knows her and pretends he don’t.
The girls don’t look uncomfortable at all.
They’re laughin’, mutterin’, “I can’t believe we’re really doin’ this.” And, “Yo—remember we talked about this back in like Jr. High. brO, it’s happenin’.”
Their excitement’s the only thing pushin’ him to keep goin'.
He starts at the bottom, droppin' himself into the expert mindset. Figures that's where he's safest. 'Cause expert is the one mode that lives inside every role he's ever played.
He slides his palms up the inside of Riley’s thighs, guidin’ her open.
She’s got what he calls the Cherry Knot: lips thin and tight together, clit hidden under the hood. But when she’s spread like this, everything pulls back. Still gotta watch the hood, ‘cause Cherry Knots like to hide again.
“There you go.”
He bunches Jules’s shirt over her hips, spreadin’ her open next.
She’s got The Drown: low hangin’, plush lips that you can spread open for days and still not see everything. Dark, heavy folds, everything tucked deep and wet.
The Drown’s easy to fuck up if you’re stupid.
It likes to be licked open ‘cause everything hides under everything else—clit under hood, hood under folds, entrance tucked deep. Makes you slow down and work for it, so he knows he’s gotta use everything he’s got—both hands, mouth, chin, nose, jaw.
He spreads Jules with both hands, peelin’ her back to check, then catches warmth at her openin’ with his finger.
“I ain’t standin’ ‘til this pussy’s soakin’ my face,” he mutters, circlin’ the rim, slickin’ the pad for a taste test. Then he locks Jules’s legs around Riley’s until he’s got them both in place—one above, one below.
He leans back on his heel to take in the scene.
“Goddamn. This is what I get tonight, huh? Spread out and fightin’ for my attention.
” He avoids their eyes and lowers his head, thumb liftin’ the hood of Riley's clit as he draws closer, slidin’ his tongue up the center of her pink seam—full, flat, heavy.
“Mm... How the hell am I supposed to breathe?”
Riley curses, hips risin’ with his mouth as he moves up to Jules, parts her folds and presses his tongue flat against her opening—one deep lick up, the tip of his tongue flicking her hangin’ clit once.
He tastes each of them to block ‘em out, but there’s two, and it’s overwhelming.
Minutes later, Riley's thighs are shaking.
“Oh my GOD,” she gasps. “Oh my God, that fuckin’… Fuck…”
He pulls her into his mouth with a hum, flickin’ in slow pulses, and Riley hisses through her teeth, bitin’ back a moan. Until he slides two fingers inside her, hookin’ the bend and makin’ her hips jolt.
“F-fuck, Andrew. Fuck, fuck.” She tries not to grind down but fails.
Jules watches, her hand sinkin’ between her legs, but Andrew grabs her wrist and moves it aside. “Nah, sweetheart. Don’t touch. That pussy’s mine right now.” Then he guides her hand to her own tit. “You wanna touch somethin’? Touch this.”
He presses his elbows against the inside of Riley’s thighs to keep them locked open. Then he’s sliding his hands up between Jules’s thighs and pulls her lips back, keeping her stretched wide and exposed and waiting as his mouth latches onto the other.
Riley’s spinnin’ outta control, turnin’ her face into the cushion to muffle her scream as her orgasm hits hard, back tryin’ to arch up off the couch, whole body going stiff as it pulses through her.
“Comin’ so fuckin’ quick…” he says with his lips against her throbbing cunt. She’s jerkin’, thighs tryin’ to clamp together from the intensity, so he slows all the way down. “Uh-uh, don’t run from it. You asked for this.”
He stays with her through it, licks as it fades.
“One down,” he says, but he’s thinkin’—one more to go and I’m done.
Riley’s still tremblin’ under her, eyes heavy.
Andrew grabs both her hands and hooks her arms under Jules’ thighs. “Be a good friend and hold her open for me.”
Riley obeys, usin’ both arms to pull Jules’ thighs back, anglin’ her hips and spreadin’ her open.
“Wha—wha—” But Jules doesn’t get the word out.
Andrew’s sliding his tongue between her folds.
One deep stroke up the slit, then up and over her clit.
“Yes, yes, yes—fuck, Jesus,” Jules moans.
“This isn’t fair—he’s not even trying—oh my fuck.
” He feels her eyes on him, but he refuses to look up at her.
“You’re literally not even tryin’—fuckin’ shit, look at this guy—”
Yeah, look at this guy. Some kind of hero.
Andrew just wants it to be over.
The taste, the smell, their moans, it’s too much and takin’ over everything, trespassing his senses. He can’t slip out of his body for it, he’s stuck right here with ‘em, chained up between four thighs. All he can do is give ‘em the best experience and hope it doesn’t bite him in the ass later.
“F-fuck, Harding—holy shit—” Jules gasps, legs quakin’ in Riley’s hold. His spit slides down one pussy and drips to the next. He thumbs Riley’s clit again, soakin’ her with it.
One of them moans. Maybe both.
He doesn’t know who’s who anymore.
Doesn’t know how long he’s been down.
He glides two fingers inside Jules, strokin’ deep. “Goddamn… you’re soaked. Never warned me you’d be floodin’ the couch.” Jules cries out as he buries his fingers to the knuckle. “Yeah? You squirt for me?”
He curls tight inside her, hitting that spot. “Wanna come in my mouth?… Go ahead. Do it.”
And his lips wrap her clit, tongue working in tight, dirty pulses, three fingers movin’ faster, harder, each curl punching into that sweet spot.
“Oh my God. Oh my God—fuck—”
Wet sounds. Heavy breathing.
Skin slapping against his wrist.
Then she breaks, mouth hung open in a cry, her spine steelin’, her thighs locked up. Liquid hits his hand, splashin’ his wrist. She comes hard, soakin’ his fingers, his mouth, her friend’s pussy, the couch.
Riley has Jules’s legs locked open wide through it.