Chapter Fourteen #3
I settle into a rhythm, taking him deeper, loving the way he groans above me.
I know I look filthy, drool slipping from my lips.
Alex’s grip tightens, and he guides me even lower—“Six. Seven”—and holds me there, his cock buried deep down my throat.
Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t care. I want to give him everything, want them all to see how much I need this.
I choke a little, my throat stretched wide, and the sound makes Alex’s hips jerk, his breath sharp and broken with want.
I pull back slowly, sucking air through my nose, then sink down again, letting each barbell bump over my tongue, counting them in my head as the pressure and pleasure build.
He finally lets me up, and I blink at him, mouth slick, eyes glassy with need.
“You look so pretty right now,” he growls, dragging his thumb over my cheek, his eyes burning with hunger.
He doesn’t give me much time to recover—his grip tightens in my hair, guiding me back down, a little rougher this time, making it clear who’s in control.
“But you look even prettier with my cock in your mouth.” The possessive edge in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through me, making my heart race and my pussy throb.
I moan in answer, letting him feel the vibration, letting him know how much I love being used like this, how much I want to be everything for him.
Zayn’s voice rumbles from beside me. “Damn right she does.” The grit in his tone vibrates through me, his presence as commanding as Alex’s.
I can feel their eyes on me, which only makes me want to put on a better show.
I know how to put on a damn good show. I hollow my cheeks, swirling my tongue around Alex, savoring the taste and feel of him, and moan low in my throat.
My eagerness grows with every sound of their approval, every muttered curse, every ragged breath.
I work Alex’s cock in and out of my mouth, letting him set the pace—sometimes slow and shallow, sometimes deep enough to make my eyes water.
I let myself drool down his shaft, making it wetter, messier, filthier.
The feeling is overwhelming, made sharper by the heat of their gazes—them watching me.
My free hand slips between my thighs, fingers rubbing frantic circles over my clit.
I can barely breathe, the pleasure building fast, desperate, unstoppable.
“Fuck yes, baby, make yourself cum with his cock down your throat,” Dean growls from behind me.
The command is like a spark on gasoline, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through me, making my whole body tremble.
My orgasm builds, fast and hot, my hips rocking.
I moan around Alex, the vibration making him groan, his hand tightening almost possessively in my hair.
My orgasm hits—white-hot, blinding—my thighs shaking as that tingly sensation crashes through me in relentless waves.
Alex thrusts deep, holding me there—and through the haze, I hear his low, strained voice count, “Eight,” right as he bottoms out, making sure I feel every last barbell dragging over my tongue.
The thick pulse of his cum spills down my throat as I choke on the intensity, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.
I’m left trembling and spent, undone and gasping for air, the aftershocks rippling through every inch of my body, raw and desperate for more.
As the aftershocks fade, the rush of pleasure is quickly crowded out by a surge of shame and guilt that makes my skin prickle.
Embarrassment clamps down hard; I can’t quite look at any of them, the taste of Alex still heavy on my tongue, my lips swollen, my face hot.
I want to disappear—crawl under the bed, scrub the memory from my skin, anything.
My mind is already spiraling: Was I too eager?
Too desperate? Did I look pathetic, hungry, like someone with no self-respect?
I replay every moan, every gasp, every time I let myself get lost in it, and the pride I felt a moment ago curdles into mortification.
They saw everything—every messy, greedy part of me—and now I’m sure I’ll never live it down.
I stand, brushing off my knees, and mumble, “I’m going to bed,” my voice tight and small. I move to leave, but before I can escape, Alex gently catches my wrist.
“Ayla, hey,” he says softly, his voice a lifeline in the thick silence. He doesn’t try to pull me closer, just speaks so only I can hear. “Look at me for a second.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, expecting judgment, or worse—pity. But all I see is warmth and tenderness.
“There’s nothing you need to be ashamed of,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing soothing circles over my wrist. “You were beautiful. You are beautiful. I don’t want you hiding from me—or from yourself.
Not ever.” His gaze is steady, unwavering.
“We wanted you. Every part of you. And if you ever feel overwhelmed or want space, that’s okay too.
But don’t you dare hide away in shame. Not for this. Not for anything.”
His words settle over me, soft and careful, and some of the tightness in my chest loosens. I nod, not trusting myself to say anything, and slip away toward my room—still shaken, but a little less broken.