Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Callaway
The second Monty carries her into the bedroom, everything shifts.
The air thickens with something heavier than steam—want, anticipation, the press of everything we’ve held back.
Her body glistens in his arms, droplets trailing down the curve of her spine and dripping off the backs of her thighs.
Her hair clings to her damp skin, and her breathing has changed—quieter now, almost reverent.
Not a sound in the room but her soft breathing—and the pulse pounding through my ears like it belongs to her.
He sets her down on the rug beside the bed, slow and careful, as if the ground itself should be grateful to feel her skin.
Her feet touch first, and then her knees, and for a second, she stays there—kneeling, naked but for her soaked panties, glistening under the lamplight like something to be worshipped.
I head into the bathroom and grab two thick, warm towels from the heated rack. When I return, Monty’s standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for me like he already knows what I’ll ask.
I hand him one.
“Spread it out,” I say.
He moves without a word, smoothing the towel over the comforter like he’s preparing an altar. I turn my attention back to her.
Vesper stands near the edge of the bed, skin glistening under the low bedroom light, droplets trailing slowly down the backs of her thighs. Her soaked panties cling to her pussy, nearly translucent now—lace molded to every curve, every crease. They’re obscene. Gorgeous.
And they need to come off.
I step close. My hands find her hips.
“You ready?” I ask, low.
She nods, breath catching.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
She lifts her hips just slightly, like she’s offering herself, and I hook my fingers under the waistband of the lace and begin to peel them down.
They don’t come willingly.
They cling to the slick between her thighs like they belong there. Drag over her folds, sticky with heat, with need. The fabric peels away slow—so slow—like it wants to keep hiding what’s already mine to see.
My breath hitches.
She’s bare now.
Dripping.
Her pussy glistens under the soft light, wet and needy, lips flushed and parted like she’s been waiting for this her whole life.
I drag the panties down her thighs, past her knees, down her calves. She lifts one foot, then the other, and I let them drop to the floor.
And I stay there for a second. Kneeling. Staring.
Because fuck me, she is stunning.
Legs parted. Body open. Chest rising and falling. She’s not even pretending to be unaffected.
She’s trembling.
Monty watches from the side, jaw clenched, his cock flushed and straining against his abs, but he doesn’t move. He knows better. He knows what I need.
I grab the second towel and unfold it slowly. My gaze never leaves her.
I start at her knee. Press the cloth to her skin in slow, gentle circles. Then lower, to her calf. My other hand strokes the opposite thigh, grounding her.
She breathes harder.
I reach her inner thigh, and I don’t stop at the water. I drag the towel up—higher—closer—until the edge of the cloth brushes the soft swell of her pussy. I’m careful. Reverent.
But not perfect.
My fingers slip.
Just barely.
My knuckle grazes her mound—warm and so fucking soft—and she gasps like I shocked her.
I look up.
Her eyes are glassy. Her lips parted. Her hands are at her sides like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
I lean forward.
I lick a droplet from her thigh. Just above the curve where her legs part.
She jerks.
And I smile.
Then I lick another—lower—closer to the seam of her, right where her thigh meets her heat. I don’t kiss her pussy. Not yet.
She arches forward, chasing it.
“Come help me,” I say to Monty, my voice low and dark, still not looking away from her. “She deserves more than one pair of hands.”
He’s beside me a second later, towel in hand, his face wrecked and reverent all at once.
He starts at her shoulders. Carefully. He presses the towel along her arms, then over her chest, barely brushing her nipples as he moves lower—slow enough to make her whimper, fast enough to make her ache.
I dry the inside of her thighs while he runs the towel down the slope of her stomach. His knuckles graze her belly. My mouth grazes the top of her mound.
She moans—quiet, broken.
“You like being taken care of like this?” I whisper, my lips ghosting just above the place she’s throbbing.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Please—”
But I don’t let her finish.
Because I lick her.
Once. A slow, filthy stroke from the base of her pussy to the top, tongue flat, savoring the taste of her arousal and the way her knees nearly buckle.
Monty curses beside me.
I glance up at him, and he’s already lowering the towel—already leaning in to kiss the underside of her breast, tongue teasing her nipple until it peaks beneath his mouth.
“That’s what we like,” I breathe against her, mouth barely brushing her slick skin. “You’re letting us take care of you. That’s fucking perfect.”
I lick her again—longer this time, slower. I spread her with two fingers and flick her clit with the tip of my tongue until she cries out.
And Monty is sucking her tit like he wants to live there.
We’re not fucking her yet.
We’re worshipping.
We’re ruining her with devotion.
And we haven’t even laid her down yet.
She’s standing between us, trembling, dripping, utterly undone—and still, we haven’t fucked her. Haven’t filled her. Haven’t even given her the real pleasure we’ve both been dying to give her. We’re drawing it out. We’re starving on purpose. For her. For each other.
I look up.
And that’s when I see him.
Monty. His eyes closed. Mouth tight. Like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
And he’s beautiful. So fucking sinful.
His cock is right there—hard and flushed and leaking. A drop of come clings to the tip, thick and shining like it’s meant for me.
I’m close enough to taste it.
Close enough to want it.
And fuck, I do. I want to lean in and lick that drop off his tip like I’ve been starving for it. I want his cock in my mouth. Want to hear him gasp when I take it deep, want to feel his hand in my hair when he realizes I’m not stopping.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
He’s not ready. We’re not ready. This thing between us—it’s blooming slow. Controlled. Teasing itself open with every unspoken breath.
Still—
My hand moves. Just a little. Just enough.
My knuckles brush against the base of his cock. Almost accidental. Brief.
And he jolts.
He lets out a sound—low, raw, surprised. Almost a moan. His eyes snap open, and for a moment, I swear I see it.
The want.
The permission.
But he goes back to the towel. Back to his hands. Back to her.
And I go back to Ves too because I’m not ready to cross the line without having a long talk with him.
I lean down and press another kiss to her stomach. Then lick the drop he misses.
She trembles.
Completely silent. Completely undone.
We take our time.
Drying her.
Touching her.
Worshipping her like she’s something holy we’ve both been starving for.
By the time we’re done with her like that, she’s flushed and panting, legs slack, body pliant between us—open in the most dangerous way.
I lift my gaze to Monty.
“Lay her down.”
No hesitation. He slips an arm behind her knees, another at her back, and eases her onto the towel-covered bed like he’s setting down something precious he plans to ruin. She sinks into the mattress with a soft sound, thighs falling open instinctively.
Mine.
I kneel at the edge of the bed and trail my fingers down her ankle. Up her calf. Slow. Reverent. Taking my time like Monty told me to—because she deserves every second of this.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur, voice thick with restraint. “You know that, right?”
She nods, barely. Her throat works like she’s already overwhelmed.
I reach her inner thigh and stop.
“You need to hear it,” I whisper. “So I’m going to say it. Again and again. How beautiful you are. How much I love you. How much we want you.”
I lean down and press a kiss just above her knee. Another higher. Then higher still—stopping just shy of her slick heat, letting her feel the denial.
Monty stands beside the bed, towel clenched in his fist, his cock flushed and aching, his jaw tight like he’s holding himself together by will alone.
“Take your time,” he says, voice rough. “She deserves every second.”
I glance up at her. “You hear that?”
She nods again, biting her lip.
“You’re going to lie there and take everything we give you,” I say softly. “And you’re going to thank us by coming so hard you forget your own name.”
A sound catches in her throat.
I crawl over her body—bare skin to bare skin—and when she reaches for me, I catch her wrists gently, guiding them above her head, pinning them there with my weight.
“Not yet,” I whisper. “You don’t get to touch until you’re trembling.”
I lower my mouth to one breast and finally give in. Her nipple is already tight and aching, and I close my lips around it, sucking slowly, circling my tongue until she arches off the bed, moaning.
Monty kneels beside her head, his cock flushed and leaking, throbbing inches from her mouth. He strokes it once, then guides her hand to the base.
“You want him in your mouth?” I ask softly, dragging my tongue slowly over her hip. “Want to wrap those pretty lips around him while I spread you open and make you come on my tongue?”
She whimpers—a needy, breathless sound—and nods.
“That’s it,” I breathe. “Take him. Let him fuck your mouth while I taste this perfect cunt.”
Monty groans when she licks him. Then again when she opens wider and takes him in, lips sealing around the head. Her eyes flutter shut, cheeks hollowing around him, and the sound he makes—fuck. It goes straight to my cock.
I lower my mouth to her heat.
And Christ, she’s soaked.
I resume the long, slow licks. Dragging my tongue through her folds, tasting every drop of slick she’s worked up just from the teasing. She moans around Monty’s cock—louder when I close my lips over her clit and suck.
“Holy fuck,” he rasps, hand fisting in her hair but not forcing. “She’s perfect.”
I hum against her, letting the vibrations tease her further.
She arches off the bed, writhing under both of us—her mouth full, my mouth greedy, her body stretched between us like something sacred.
“Winthrop,” Monty breathes, voice frayed. “Nibble her clit. Just—gently. She likes that.”
I flick my tongue and give the tiniest scrape of teeth over the bundle of nerves.
She screams around him. Her thighs clamp around my head, her hips lifting, trembling.
And Monty—fuck—he moans like he’s about to lose it. He pulls back slowly, breathing hard, his cock glistening from her mouth, swollen and flushed like it’s been kissed awake.
“Switch,” he pants. “Let me taste her.”
I don’t argue.
I give her one more suck of her clit—deep enough to make her legs shake, her cry breaking loose—and then I pull back, licking my lips as I rise.
Monty’s already there.
He replaces me between her thighs like he’s been waiting for permission, spreading her gently, reverently.
He leans in and drags his tongue through her slow and deep, groaning at the taste of her.
He laps at her like she’s something he’s been denied too long, mouth greedy but controlled, tongue working her open until she’s gasping and twisting beneath him.
Her hands fly to the sheets.
Her hips lift.
Monty hums against her, the sound vibrating straight through her body, and when he flicks his tongue over her clit, she sobs.
Only then do I lean in, eyes locked on hers.
“She’s ready,” I murmur, watching her fall apart under his mouth. “Aren’t you, baby?”
She nods frantically, tears in her eyes, pleasure wrecking her.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Please.”
And that—that’s the sound of surrender.
“Please,” she gasps, voice cracked and wrecked. “I need you. I need you in me, Cally—now.”
My name on her lips like that? It tears through me.
I smile—dark, undone, and so fucking in love I could kneel here forever and still not have enough of her.
But then I look up.
At him.
Because I want Monty to be part of this too. I need him to be. But she’s not ready for both of us—not yet. That will take time. Patience. Trust.
But me? I want something now. Something more than just a glance or a graze. I want to feel him. I want him inside me while I’m inside her.
I need this—us. The three of us, tangled and breathless and real.
And that realization makes my whole chest ache.
Because wanting him is easy.
The question is—will he ever want me again?
And fuck, what are we doing here if us will never happen?