18. Give the Asshole an Oscar #3
I hear a gasp and realize from the way Snow stares that I’m making those sounds out loud. Or rather, Seven is.
Seven snarls with animalistic satisfaction, and we dive in and feast. We attack her dripping sex like starving men. We need more. It’s been so fucking long. Too long. We’ve needed this, needed her so bad.
Our knees crack and rub painfully on the hard floor, but she could keep us down here forever if she wanted.
We gaze up at our little trickster goddess, her shirt and bra still twisted and pushed away to reveal her dark, pebbled nipples. My hips jerk and the sight of her moaning, flushed, and askew is so erotic I’m on the verge of coming.
We latch onto her clit and spear into her with two fingers, a new surge of aggression arising. We want her shaking, screaming, coming for us. Only for us.
Snow's head drops back against the velvet. The heels of her boot digs into my back, which only spurs us on.
Then she starts to climb. Her thighs lock hard around my ears until the bar goes muffled and distant.
Her breath comes in short pulls that never make it all the way down.
She's gone hot and slippery enough that my fingers move without any resistance, and inside she's fluttering around them, quick little grips coming faster and faster while her hips break rhythm and start chasing my mouth instead of taking it.
She breaks with a punched-out curse, her whole body bowing off the couch.
Everything inside her clamps down on my knuckles at once, so tight I couldn’t have moved them if I tried, then lets go and does it again, and again, slower each time, wringing itself out around me.
Wet spills past my fingers and down my palm.
She rides my mouth through all of it, and I stay flat and soft against her, letting her take what she needs until the last squeeze fades out.
Her fingers dig painfully into my hair, and Seven groans, enjoying the roughness.
I'm still catching my breath against her thigh when she pushes me back, slides off the couch, and trades places with me. Before my brain reassembles, she's the one kneeling and my jeans are open, and her mouth is on me.
"Faefucks." My head hits the back of the couch as I grip the edges.
Oh my fae lords. I’m so hard and ready to blow I can’t think.
Snow hums around me, pleased with herself, and works me over slow and filthy and merciless, and no one has ever, in any of our years, in any of our lives, done this to us. A drag of cool metal chases every pass of her tongue. The stud.
My hands shake where they hover above her white hair, afraid to take hold until she grabs one and puts it there herself, and I make a sound I will deny until I die.
Don't you dare finish like this, Seven threatens, even though I know he’s close to losing it alongside me.
When I’m about to blow, I haul her up off the floor and into my lap. I groan and she gasps as her wet, hot center slides along my length. Skirt still on, boots still on, she sinks down onto me, and we both go stupid for a second, foreheads together, breathing each other's air.
"Well? Grovel harder."
My grip tightens with Seven’s strength, a bruising hold. I try to fight him back, but he’s too strong. Snow’s lashes fly wide as she looks at us, as if she knows what’s happening. I can’t stop it, so we give her everything.
Fast, greedy, the couch creaks in loud protest underneath us, her nails carving lines down the back of my neck, her gasps climbing in pitch until she breaks over me once, then again, swearing at me, swearing at the ceiling, swearing at fae lords I hope aren't listening. The third time she takes me with her, milking me of my senses. I empty everything I have and everything I am into the first person I’ve let see me, know me, in... ever.
For a long time, neither of us moves. Her face is in my neck. My hand is drawing circles on her spine under her shirt. Somewhere in the building, a pipe ticks.
"Thank you," I murmur into her hair, "for forgiving us."
She lifts her head. Looks me dead in the eye, flushed, wrecked, glorious.
"Oh, I haven't forgiven you."
I blink. "What?"
"You're on probation for at least another week." She climbs off my lap, straightens her bra and top out before smoothing her skirt. "This was just...an exceptionally productive grovel."
She walks me to the door, though I’m dazed by her pulling me up and across the room. She pats my chest twice.
"Have a nice night," she says sweetly, and locks the Poison Apple behind me.
I stand on the empty sidewalk, fumbling to zip my softening length in my pants. Inside, through the glass, I watch her pick up the spray bottle off the floor and go back to wiping the bar.
Another week.
I don’t really mind groveling, Two says, and he sounds happier than he's been in years.
Is this a game? Six asks, still distressed we haven’t been forgiven. Why are we playing games?
Because look at her, Five says.
We all look at her.
Six is quiet for a moment. Recalculating.
One more week is acceptable, he announces.
I pull my hood up and walk into the dark, not one of us says a single thing. We just keep smiling.