7. Ivy #3
The stretch of West’s cock as he drives into me steals the breath from my lungs. A raw cry tears free, half moan, half sob, while the thick, veined length spears straight to a place that makes my toes curl into the grass.
He’s rougher than Roman, more unforgiving, hips snapping forward with bruising force. One large hand fists tight in my sweat-damp hair, yanking my head back until the tendons in my neck strain; the other grips my hip so hard I know the shape of his fingers will bloom purple by morning.
“You feel that?” His voice is low, right at my ear, every syllable vibrating through my skull. “Feel how deep I am?”
The words arrow straight between my legs. “Yes—” It comes out broken, hoarse, more plea than answer. My walls flutter wildly around the relentless invasion, slick with Roman’s come and my own arousal, the wet, filthy sounds of him pounding into me loud enough to carry across the lawn.
“Good. Remember it.”
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. Each thrust rocks me forward on my knees, nipples scraping over the cool grass, smearing Knox’s drying release across my breasts in sticky streaks.
The contrast—hot, sticky seed against my flushed skin and the chilled blades beneath me—sends sparks racing up my spine. Pleasure coils tighter, vicious and unstoppable, every drag of his cock stroking that swollen spot inside me until my thighs shake uncontrollably.
I can’t think. Can’t speak. All I can do is take it, body jolting with the power of his strokes, the heavy slap of his hips against my ass, the obscene squelch of cum being forced out around his thickness to trickle down my legs in warm rivulets.
My fingers claw at the earth, dirt embedding under my nails as another orgasm barrels toward me, unstoppable.
It crashes into me without warning. White lightning explodes behind my eyes. “West—fuck, West—” His name rips from my throat like a prayer and a curse, my pussy clamping down on him in brutal, rhythmic spasms that milk every inch of his cock.
The intensity borders on pain, sharp and perfect, tearing a strangled groan from him that I feel against my shoulder blade.
He follows with a guttural sound that vibrates straight into my bones, hips stuttering once, twice, before he buries himself to the hilt. Thick, scalding pulses of his release flood me, mixing with Roman’s, so much that it leaks out around his shaft and drips onto the grass in heavy drops.
The sheer filth of it—of being claimed, filled, marked by all three of them—keeps me trembling long after the last shudder fades.
West doesn’t pull out right away. He stays seated deep, chest pressed to my back, letting me feel every twitch, every aftershock. His breath is hot and ragged against my neck, and for a moment the only sounds are our labored breathing and the distant rustle of leaves in the summer breeze.
My mind spins, hazy and raw. The thought I’ve been dodging for weeks surfaces again, clearer than ever in the afterglow.
I don’t want to choose.
The realization settles in my chest, warm and terrifying. Roman’s intensity, Knox’s easy warmth, West’s quiet certainty—I want every piece.
All of them. The thought lingers, too fragile and too enormous to speak aloud just yet. So I stay silent, still impaled on West, still trembling, while the sky stretches endless and blue above us.
Afterward, we collapse.
Four bodies tangled on the grass, breathing hard, skin sticky with sweat and sun. Knox's arm is draped over my waist. Roman's hand is on my hip. West's thumb is tracing circles on my ankle, slow and deliberate.
I stare at the sky. Blue and endless, not a cloud in sight.
My body is loose, warm, satisfied. My brain is doing that thing where it gets very quiet and very honest at the same time.
I think about each of them.
Roman's hand, heavy and certain, like it belongs there. Knox saying something low and warm—I don't catch the words, just the tone, easy and affectionate. West's thumb on my ankle, the repetition soothing, grounding.
The thought surfaces again, and this time I don't push it away.
I don't want to choose.
Not one of them. Not a favorite. Not a version where I pick Roman's intensity and lose Knox's warmth. Not a version where I get West's quiet observations and give up the way Roman looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
I want this.
All of it.
All of them.
I don't say it. I'm not ready. The thought is still too new, too fragile, too impossible to explain. But it's there—solid and certain, the way you know the sun will rise, the way you know your own name.
I want all three of them.
Not because I'm greedy. Not because I can't decide.
Because this—this thing we've built in stolen hours and private spaces—only works when it's whole.
I hold the thought carefully. Don't let it show on my face. Just lie in the sun with three men who've somehow become the most honest thing in my life, and I breathe.
The garden is warm. The grass is soft. Someone's hand tightens on my hip, and I don't check to see whose.
I just close my eyes.
And let myself want.