4. Jolie #2
"It's okay," Jarvis whispers against my hair. "We've got you. Daddy's got you."
The word hits me like lightning. Daddy. He said it so naturally, so easily, like it's always been true. My chest tightens with something sweeter and sharper and more terrifying.
They let me cry until I'm empty. Until the water cools and my sobs turn to hiccups. Then Jarvis stands and lifts me out like I weigh nothing, wrapping me in a towel that's soft and warm and smells like them.
Jett dries my hair with another towel, his movements surprisingly tender.
Jarvis dries my body, patting every inch until my skin is pink and glowing and sensitive to even the slightest touch.
When he passes between my legs, he doesn't linger, but his hand pauses, and his eyes find mine, and the heat in them makes my knees weak.
"Bed," he says. "Now."
They carry me between them. Not literally, though Jarvis keeps one arm around my waist and Jett holds my hand, but it feels like being carried. Like they're moving me from one world to another.
They lay me on the bed. The sheets are cool against my back. The towel falls away, and I'm naked on display, my hair fanning across the pillow, my breasts still swollen and leaking faintly in the dim light. I should feel exposed and afraid, but I don't.
I feel chosen.
Jarvis climbs onto the bed first, propped on one elbow, looking down at my body with an expression that makes my toes curl. Jett positions himself at the foot of the bed, his hands on my ankles, spreading my legs just enough that the air hits where I'm wet and aching.
"Tell us if it's too much," Jarvis says. His hand traces my waist, my hip, the underside of my breast. "Tell us if you need to stop. But don't lie to us, Jolie. Don't say you're fine when you're not. Don't say stop when you mean more."
"I won't," I whisper. It's a promise I don't know if I can keep, but I want to. I want to be honest with them. I want to let them see the parts no one else bothered to look for.
Jarvis leans down. His mouth is hot against my collarbone, my shoulder, the slope of my breast. He takes his time, mapping me with lips and tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth that makes me gasp.
When he finally reaches my nipple, he doesn't rush.
He breathes over it first, his warm breath making the peak tighten and ache.
Then he closes his mouth around me and sucks.
The sound I make is embarrassing. It's a cry, a moan, a sob all twisted together. The relief is immediate and overwhelming, a deep pulling sensation that starts at my breast and shoots straight down to my core. Milk flows into his mouth, and he swallows with a groan that vibrates against my skin.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my flesh. "That's it. Let it out. Give it to Daddy."
His words send a pulse of heat between my legs.
I arch into him, my hands flying to his hair, and he lets me hold him there while he works my breast with rhythmic, demanding pulls.
He's not gentle. He's thorough. He suckles deeply, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue pressing against the underside of my nipple, and every draw makes my hips buck off the bed.
Jett chooses that moment to lower his mouth to my inner thigh.
I jerk, my whole body tensing, but his hands keep my legs spread and his mouth is hot and wet and so close to where I need him.
He kisses his way up, nibbling at the sensitive skin, licking the crease where my thigh meets my hip.
He's teasing me. He knows exactly what he's doing, and the bastard is enjoying every second of my desperation.
"Please," I whimper.
"Please what?" Jett asks, his breath ghosting over where I'm soaked and swollen.
"I don't know. I don't know what I need."
"Yes you do," Jarvis says. He lifts his head from my breast, milk glistening on his lower lip, his dark eyes almost black with lust. "You know exactly what you need. You're just scared to say it."
He goes back to my breast, switching sides, latching on with a hunger that makes my vision blur. At the same time, Jett finally puts his mouth on me.
I scream.
It's not controlled. It's not pretty. It's raw and shocked and completely beyond my ability to contain. His tongue slides through my folds, finding my clit with unerring accuracy, and he licks me like he's tasting something precious. Like he's savoring me.
The combination is too much. Jarvis at my breast, pulling deeply, rhythmically, his hand kneading the flesh he isn't sucking.
Jett between my legs, his tongue circling and flicking and pressing with a confidence that makes me want to weep.
They're coordinated, these two men, working my body like they've been doing it for years.
"So perfect for us," Jarvis growls against my skin.
He switches breasts again, never letting the pressure ease, and I feel another letdown reflex shudder through me.
Milk spurts into his mouth, and he moans, the sound vibrating through my chest. "So fucking perfect. Look at you. Look how you give to us."
"Fucking perfect," Jett murmurs against my skin. "I could live on this." Jett adds, his words muffled against my most sensitive flesh. He pushes my legs wider, opening me completely, and thrusts his tongue inside me.
I come off the bed, my back bowing, my hands fisting the sheets.
The pleasure is building like a wave, huge and unstoppable, pulling me under before I'm ready.
I've touched myself before, late at night, quiet and ashamed and quick.
But I've never felt anything like this. Never had hands this sure, mouths this hungry, praise this relentless washing over me while my body climbs higher.
"Daddy's got you," Jarvis whispers. He looks up at me, his mouth still latched to my breast, and the sight of him, so powerful and focused on me, snaps something inside my chest. "I've got you, little one. Let go. We've got you."
I do.
The orgasm crashes through me with a violence that steals my breath.
It starts where Jett's tongue circles my clit and radiates outward, pulsing through my womb, my stomach, my breasts, until I'm milking into Jarvis's mouth while waves of pleasure tear me apart.
I cry out, loud and broken, my hips bucking against Jett's face, my hands gripping Jarvis's hair so tight it must hurt but he doesn't stop.
He keeps sucking, keeps drinking, keeps murmuring praise against my skin while I shatter around them.
"Good girl. That's my good girl. Give it all to us. Every drop."
I don't know how long it lasts. Time stops making sense.
I'm floating in a space where nothing exists but their mouths and their hands and the words they keep feeding me like I'm starving for them.
Maybe I am. Maybe I've been starving my whole life and only now, with their bodies wrapped around mine, do I realize how empty I was.
When I finally come down, I'm boneless. Trembling.
My skin is flushed and sensitive and every touch makes me twitch.
Jarvis lifts his head from my breast, licking his lips, his eyes dark and satisfied.
Jett presses one last kiss to my inner thigh, his stubble scraping the tender skin, and I whimper at the aftershock.
"Beautiful," Jarvis says. He wipes a stray drop of milk from my breast with his thumb and brings it to his mouth. "Look at you. Look what you can do."
I should feel ashamed. I know I should. I've spent six years feeling ashamed of exactly this. But looking at his face, at the raw awe and possession there, I can't find the shame. It's gone. Melted into something else, something molten and dangerous that pools in my stomach and makes me want more.
"Trade," Jett says, crawling up the bed.
He kisses me first, and I taste myself on his lips, musky and strange and intimate.
Then he moves to my breasts, settling between my legs with his weight pressing me into the mattress.
He's harder than Jarvis, hungrier in a different way.
He doesn't tease. He latches on immediately, sucking with deep, rhythmic pulls that make my sore nipples ache in the best possible way.
Jarvis moves down.
His hands slide up my thighs, spreading me wider, and he looks at me there with an expression that makes me want to hide and arch simultaneously.
"Pretty," he murmurs. "So pretty and pink and swollen. You did that to her, brother. Made her come so hard she's still pulsing."
"She's responsive," Jett says around my breast. He switches sides, licking a trail of milk from one nipple to the other before sealing his mouth over the neglected peak. "She's going to be a handful."
"She's going to be ours," Jarvis corrects.
His finger traces my entrance, light and teasing, and I moan because I'm sensitive, so sensitive, but I don't want him to stop. He circles my opening, spreading my wetness, and then slowly pushes one finger inside.