Page 28 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“Oh my god,” I whimper. My hands grip the handlebars so tightly that they might cramp at any moment. My whole body feels the same—tense, ready to burst. Heat builds in my core, and I might melt, right here, right now.
And then Colin’s hand is heavier, the pleasure echoing longer inside of me. The spanking feels ethereal, transcendent in some way. I’m floating inside my skin. All of that tension dissipates throughout my body, until suddenly, it coalesces in my cells.
I’m on fire, my orgasm raging through me with every smack of his hand. He’s controlling the tempo, controlling my body completely as my climax soars. My whole body jerks, legs flailing until they’re strapped down too. Colin doesn’t stop, and another orgasm takes hold.
“Release!”
The straps vanish in a flash, and someone mounts me from behind, filling that pulsating spot with their cock. It’s a rough fit, but I need it so bad. Hips drive against my sore backside, our bodies slapping together. I work myself on them. I need another. Right the fuck now.
Someone grabs my hair tight, and my eyes water. It’s Dean, on his knees, condom in place. “Scream for us, pet.”
And I do. Whoever is fucking me dives deep, and I can’t hold it in anymore. As I scream, Dean shoves his cock into my mouth, and somehow, that’s a relief. I didn’t know I needed something to suck on, but I did. The head of his cock nudges the back of my throat, and a little panic tries to rear its ugly head.
I’m safe. This is sex. Nothing scary is happening. I can breathe through my nose just fine.
Hands brace on my hips as someone steps over me, one foot on either side of me. Tic utters, “Can’t neglect this.” Next thing I know, I feel hard pressure at my ass again. Not a finger. “Ready for more?”
I can’t answer more than, “Hmm?”
“Good girl.” He presses deeper as Colin pulls out of my pussy. I’m not sure if this is going to work, but I can’t speak up with a mouthful of cock. When Tic pushes into me there, I groan around Dean, squeezing the handlebars as my whole body goes tense from the pain.
Colin takes that as his cue to slide back into my pussy, and Dean keeps going at my throat. All three brothers are buried in me, and I’m shaking. Tears stream out of my eyes, not entirely from pain, but from being so overwhelmed. The pleasure is intense, and I can hardly keep up with my own body. This feels better than most orgasms. I can’t think. All I can do is feel them take over.
Dean releases my hair, weaving his fingers into my hair and cupping the back of my skull. “That’s it, pet. You love taking that fucking cock, don’t you? You like being full like this. Greedy pet.”
I’m so close to something beyond an orgasm. When his cock slides into my throat and I struggle to breathe, it makes my body tense up in a new way.
“Fuck, she’s gonna come again,” Colin growls. “Keep going.”
Our bodies slap together louder, groans and whimpers blending into something else until finally, it hits. My vision blackens, and a primal scream rips out of my throat as I come on them, because of them, for them.
For me.
I’m on fire and ecstasy, unaware of anything else. One becomes three becomes ten until I lose track of my orgasms. Only then do I hear their grunts and growls, my own pack of wolves. Tic even howls as he comes deep inside my ass.
10
ATTICUS
Salt wind combsthrough the royal palms that border my father’s ocean-front lawn, rattling fronds like applause. To my right, the infinity pool bleeds cobalt into cobalt—the tile melting into the Caribbean beyond. Crimson bougainvillea vines knot themselves around limestone columns, petals fluttering down like confetti every time a breeze sneaks inland from the Malecón. Citrus and cigar smoke braid in the air. Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood, a trumpet practices lazy boleros.
It is, objectively, perfect. A postcard made three-dimensional. Which is precisely why my current mood—flat and brittle—is baffling.
I plant my shoes shoulder-width on a square of manicured grass that Dad calls his “backyard tee box,” square up a glossy white ball, and swing. The driver meets graphite tee with a click so pure it should ring in Dolby Surround. The ball sails high, winks in the sunlight, and disappears beyond the reef.
My father whistles in approval. “New flight record, son.”
I nod, but the praise registers like background hum.
Dad gestures for another ball. His board shorts sport pineapples wearing sunglasses. His linen shirt flaps open, showing a tan that says retirement agrees with him. Near the pool, his wives—Julia, Ibara, Lizel, and Astrid—lounge like living jewels on chaise longues.
Julia, statuesque and Dominican, taps something into her tablet while sipping coconut water straight from the shell. Ibara, Kenyan, adjusts a giant straw hat before handing Dad a chilled towel. Lizel, Filipina, waves from the shallow end where she’s coaxing koi-colored fingernails through the water. Norwegian and perpetually sunburned Astrid spreads SPF on the other wives’ shoulders whether or not they ask.
They giggle when Dad poses with his driver. The sound blends with gull cries overhead until you can’t tell which noise is nature and which is contentment.
I envy him that certainty. Envy him enough to foul up my next swing. The ball hooks early, splashes embarrassingly close to shore.
Dad lowers his club. “Something on your mind, son?”
