Willow #2
I force my hips up, as if I might break the axis of the planet and devour them all whole. I don’t want to be the center of attention. I want to be the fucking epicenter, the crater after impact, nothing left standing but the raw, fused glass of sensation.
All three of them watch me, with awe, with the clinical appraisal of a project reaching its critical phase. I lose track of hands, of mouths, of where their bodies start or end. My insides crack and remake themselves on the out breath.
Gabe closes the door, voice a careful hush. “You called?”
He’s trying for ice, but his hands tremble when he peels the shirt off his body. I writhe up, wanting him closer, wanting him to see firsthand the damage the others have done.
“Get over here,” I order.
He does.
Gabe kneels on the mattress beside me, all clean lines and muscle and the intense tension of a man who never expected to fuck up this bad and love it.
His hand goes to my cheek, feather gentle, even as his eyes track the red-stained bites on my throat, the Xs and Os of a territory battle he’s just now realizing he wants to win.
Xander keeps his grip on my neck; Julian never stops working my clit, tongue and teeth and the impossible pressure of a man who doesn’t believe in mercy.
Gabe just looks at me, his thumb tracing the line of my chin. Then he kisses me, mouth as open and hungry as his eyes.
He tastes like sugar and want. When he pulls away, I’m shaking. Not fear, not quite, all the usual controls have melted.
I’m a live wire, strobing between them, each point of contact searing like a fuse inside my veins. I clamp a hand behind Gabe’s head and pull him in, teeth colliding, mouths wet and frantic. He moans into my mouth, a sound that vibrates down my spine and pools in my pussy.
Julian is relentless. He works me with the edge of a sadist and the patience of an engineer, tongue flicking in patterns designed only to dismantle me. Xander shifts down, his mouth hot and strange at my breast.
He bites hard, then lets up, all the while constructing a fresh latticework of bruises for me to admire in the bathroom mirror tomorrow.
I want to tell them to slow down, to stop, to let me catch up, but the words dissolve into animal sounds, some of which might be a plea and some a threat.
The mattress whipsaws with movement; fabric and skin and breath glaze over my senses until I can’t tell whose hands are where, what body is mine and which have always belonged to someone else.
I’m close.
I want to stall, throttle the moment and pin it down for later, but my body betrays me. Julian’s thumb circles my clit in counterpoint to his tongue, building a pulse I can’t outrun.
He murmurs against me, a deep, satisfied vibration, and my hips try to buck, try to get free, but Xander’s hand clamps them back to earth. Gabe’s forearm is braced across my chest, holding me down with a gentle, unyielding weight.
I feel the heat of Xander’s mouth on my throat, the possessive pressure of Gabe’s fingers, the feral tickle of Julian’s tongue, and the three of them merge into one living, breathing assault course I will run until my body gives out.
When it happens, it’s a detonation.
My vision crosshatches with static and color. I rut against Julian’s mouth shamelessly, animal, and let go with a ragged cry that echoes off the drywall, tears open my own throat. I dig nails into Gabe’s bicep so deep it leaves trenches, mark Xander’s shoulder in a half moon constellation.
Electricity fans out from my center, whites out everything it touches. Nerve endings sparking then going blissfully blank, body rebooting like a dropped phone. I can’t breathe or talk.
It feels like all three of them are holding me under, drowning me on dry land. And I love it.
It’s a full minute before language sifts back into my skull. The room swims into focus in jagged shards: Gabe’s jaw scraped red where I bit him, Xander’s knuckles white around my wrists, Julian’s mouth slick and victorious.
“More,” I gasp. “I want you. All of you.”
Xander is the first to move, the violence in his hands raw and honest as he grabs my knees, dragging me closer to the edge of the bed so my ass is almost slipping off the mattress.
He mouths, “Hold still,” not that I have a choice. The weight of Gabe’s body pins my shoulders back, a careful cage with his arms braced on either side of my face. His eyes are ink black and full of questions I dare him to ask.
Julian’s mouth hasn’t left me, but his fingers are inside, two at first, then curving until I see stars, and then three, a rough stretch that makes me arch up, involuntary.
He holds there until my body stutters its approval, until I hear a wet, satisfied chuckle from him, and then his cock, hot as a soldering iron, pushing in.
The stretch obliterates everything I thought I knew about my body. I swear, loud enough that Xander clamps a hand over my mouth, but I don’t care.
Gabe holds me, words whispered against my cheek, “Yes, Willow, you can take it,” until all I hear is a roar in my head and the pounding of their hearts thrumming through me like a chorus.
Julian fucks me carefully, letting my body learn the rhythm, but Xander isn’t patient. He lines up behind me, spits into his palm, and then there’s an impossible fullness, two cocks prying me open, the pressure so wild I nearly black out.
It’s obscene. It’s too much. It’s exactly, precisely enough.
I writhe, clawing for leverage, trying to bite Xander’s hand. Xander moves his hand just in time, but I howl anyway, bite the pillow instead. I can feel them both, every twitch and throb and scrape, and it’s so fucking good it’s criminal.
Julian is focused, surgical in his pace. He wants to watch me break apart in real time. Xander is brutal, slamming into the contradiction of softness and violence, and I go limp, ruined in the best possible way, because there’s no play acting left.
Every inch of my body is claimed. I’m not even me anymore. I’m just the place where they meet.
And then, Gabe’s mouth, gentle at the shell of my ear, and the first two fingers of his hand, slow at my clit, measured, heartbreakingly careful, like he can sense the overload and wants to draw it out, not let me tip too soon.
I want to laugh, to sob, to scream. I think I manage all three, the pitch sliding from pleasure to desperation to almost grief as the edge builds and builds.
My body is a channel for sensation. It hurts, it’s heaven, it’s everything I’ve ever been denied and every need I have, all at once.
I can’t move. Don’t want to.