Page 82 of Craving Consequences

“Look at all this space,” Van growls into my ear. “We can make you scream, and no one will help you.” He pulls out and slaps my backside. “Go.”

I jolt forward with the impact. My feet tangle together and I stagger, but keep moving forward to the boulder in the distance.

They don’t stop me from shaking out the blanket and spreading it out. They stay a seemingly safe distance, watching me bend and move straightening out the corners. But I’m just a rabbit between two wolves.

And I have never felt so safe or loved.

Or terrified.

Wet.

Aroused.

Lachlan moves to the rock jutting out of the ground and kicks off his shoes. Van joins him, tugging his shirt up over his head with a lazy drag that reveals the thick spread of muscles that make my throat dry. His abs flex as he stretches. Sunlight castsgolden heat over the ridges and valleys of his torso. A tribal line of ink snakes down one side only to vanish into the waistband of his jeans.

Lachlan, leaner, but no less dangerous, drops his shirt to the side and unbuttons his jeans before lowering himself down. He stretches out with a satisfied grunt, back against the rock, legs extended.

But it’s the thick, purple head poking up from the V of his pants that I’m captivated by. The slit shines wet and slippery, coating the cap in preparation. The sight of it has me clenching around nothing.

“Come here, baby,” Lachlan beckons, voice low and dangerous.

I kick off my shoes and obey. Every nerve ending is a violin string ready to snap as I move to sit next to him.

“Here.” He pats the blanket between the wide V of his legs.

I crawl into his lap and tuck my knees up.

“Legs open, sweetheart. Wide. Give Van a good view while he eats.”

Van chuckles as he digs into the first takeout bag and emerges with a sachet of fries. “We want you on display, Evie. No squirming. No closing your legs.”

Heat crawls up my spine, warms my cheeks, but I do as I’m told. I shift and reposition myself, settlingmy back to Lachlan’s chest with my knees up and spread, exposed and obscene to the world. The position bunches my skirt up around my hips, a white frame showcasing my swollen sex.

Van passes out the food. Even to me. I’m given my burger and fries while Lachlan snakes an arm around me, cups my sex. Rubs my clit while running his lips along my jaw.

“What time are we meeting tomorrow morning?” Van asks, sitting back, eyes fixed on his friend’s fingers drifting lazily between my folds, slipping in deep before dragging out to circle my clit.

“I’m thinking we get a head start to beat the storm,” Lachlan says, stretching me on two fingers. They glide in and out slow and smooth. Unhurried. Drift out wet and slippery to spread my already parted lips and scissor my clit. “Six, maybe?”

Van nibbles on a fry, watching me squirm. Watching Lachlan stroke me with lazy precision like I’m not even there.

I am so overstimulated and aching, I think I might cry, but I know begging won’t work. Crying won’t work. I need to endure if I want them to make it better.

“Eat, Everly,” Van coaxes, tone deceptively light as he licks salt off his thumb. “Good girls who finish their food get to play.”

The packet of fries between my fingers crinkles, reminding me I’m holding them as Lachlan’s fingers pinch and tug my nub, knocking the breath out of me.

“Maybe she wants me to stop,” Lachlan taunts.

“No!” I blurt. “Feels so good. Please...”

“Then start eating,” he murmurs, circling. Circling.

I bring a fry to my lip. Take a bite.

“Chew,” Van prompts, reminding me when my mind forgets the process as Lachlan sinks his fingers in and grinds his palm ... curls my toes.

“Oh God!” I choke, back arching. Hips meeting the friction.

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