7. Chloe #3
I nod and make appropriate sounds while Adam's fingers continue their slow exploration and Chris's hand settles possessively on my other thigh.
The dress has ridden up enough that both men have access to bare skin now. Adam traces patterns with his fingertips—circles, lines, maddening touches that make my muscles tense with the effort of staying still.
Chris's grip is firmer, more grounding, his thumb rubbing slow circles against my inner thigh.
Harry watches from across the table. He can't see what his brothers are doing, but he knows. Something in my carefully controlled expression gives it away, or maybe he just knows them well enough to recognize the signs.
His dark blue eyes lock onto mine as he takes a sip of bourbon, and the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach flip.
Adam's fingers find the edge of my panties.
The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends electricity shooting straight to my core. My grip on the fork turns white-knuckled, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
"The wine is exceptional," I tell the table in general, needing an excuse to lift my glass with a trembling hand.
Dad beams from the head of the table. "French Burgundy. A 2015 vintage I've been saving for special occasions."
The conversation turns to wine—regions and vintages and whether Burgundy can compete with Napa Valley in the current market. Adam uses the distraction to grow bolder, his fingers slipping beneath the silk of my underwear to find me wet and ready.
One finger slides inside me, slow and careful. I nearly choke on my wine.
Chris's hand tightens on my other thigh—steadying me, anchoring me, keeping me grounded while Adam begins a rhythm that threatens to unravel my composure entirely.
His finger moves in and out with excruciating patience, each thrust deliberate and controlled.
Someone asks me about my plans after graduation. The question comes from miles away, filtered through the roar of blood in my ears and the concentrated effort of holding still while Adam adds a second finger.
"Graduate school, probably," I say. "Maybe an MBA program."
My voice sounds normal. Conversational. Meanwhile, Adam's thumb finds my clit and begins tracing circles that make my vision blur at the edges.
The woman beside Harry launches into a detailed analysis of various MBA programs and their networking opportunities. I nod and make encouraging sounds while Adam's fingers work inside me and his thumb maintains steady pressure on my most sensitive spot.
Chris's hand slides higher on my thigh.
The dual sensations—Adam's skilled manipulation and Chris's steady presence—create a feedback loop that has my entire body strung tight with the effort of restraint.
Every muscle clenched, every breath carefully controlled, every expression monitored for signs of what's happening below the table.
Harry raises his glass in a toast to family, his eyes never leaving mine. The table responds with murmurs of agreement and the gentle clink of crystal.
I lift my own glass with a hand that shakes just enough to notice, and Harry's mouth curves in the barest suggestion of a smile.
He knows exactly what his brothers are doing to me.
The orgasm builds slowly, inevitably. Adam's fingers curl inside me, while his thumb maintains relentless pressure on my clit. Chris's hand slides to the junction of my thigh and hip, his grip firm enough to keep me anchored to my chair while pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my core.
Conversation continues around us. Wine flows, courses are cleared and replaced, the photographer captures candid moments of family togetherness.
Through it all, Adam works me with single-minded focus while maintaining perfect conversational skills with the guests on his other side.
The pressure builds until I can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but grip the edge of the table and fight not to make a sound. My thighs clamp around Adam's hand, my body bowing slightly forward as the orgasm crests.
It hits like a wave, washing over me in pulses that make my vision white out at the edges. My teeth sink into my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the pain the only thing keeping me from crying out.
Every muscle in my body locks tight, holding the sensation inside while my heart pounds against my ribs.
Adam's fingers never stop moving. He works me through it, drawing out every last shudder while I struggle to keep breathing normally. Chris's hand tightens on my hip, reminding me where I am and why I need to stay quiet.
The orgasm crests and breaks, leaving me boneless and shaking in my chair. Adam's hand retreats slowly, his fingers slipping out of me with a gentleness that makes my spent body shiver.
But he doesn't remove his hand entirely—just settles his palm back on my thigh like a brand, claiming and possessive.
Around us, dinner continues. Guests laugh and drink wine and discuss summer plans while I sit between two men who just made me come at their parents' dinner table, surrounded by witnesses who have no idea what they just witnessed.
My pulse hammers in my throat. My face feels flushed despite the evening air drifting through open windows. Between my legs, I'm wet and aching and thoroughly claimed by men who are supposed to be my brothers.
Harry lifts his bourbon in another silent toast, this one meant for me alone. His dark blue eyes hold satisfaction and promise in equal measure—satisfaction at what he's just watched, promise of what comes next.
The photographer approaches our end of the table, camera raised to capture another moment of family harmony. Adam and Chris shift slightly closer, their bodies creating a fortress around me while I struggle to arrange my features into something appropriate for public consumption.
The flash goes off. Another perfect family photo for Dad's collection, capturing four people who are playing by entirely different rules than anyone realizes.
My body still hums with the aftershocks of what just happened. The silk of my dress feels electric against my sensitized skin.
Every small movement sends echoes of pleasure through my core, reminders of Adam's skilled fingers and the controlled violence of coming silently in a room full of people.
This is dangerous territory—not just the physical risk of discovery, but the emotional risk of how right it feels to be claimed by these men while surrounded by the people who've spent years making me feel like I don't belong anywhere.
But danger has never stopped me from wanting what I want. And what I want is sitting on either side of me, close enough to touch, close enough to taste, close enough to ruin me completely if I let them.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me want to find out exactly how much ruin I can handle.