Page 64 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
The clothes come off next, and then she’s back on my lap.
I let her take control at first, let her move the way she wants, like she’s exploring something holy or forbidden. But when she rocks forward—just once, enough to feel the pressure build—I grip her hips tighter, my thumbs finding those hollows above her thighs, anchoring myself to the heat of her. The rhythm she sets is cruel and perfect, just enough to tease without tipping. My chest rises into hers, every nerve lit up and reaching. Her lips skim my jaw, her breath rough with restraint, and when I feel the edge of her teeth against my neck, I let out a sound I didn’t know I could make.
She lifts her head then, looks at me with pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-swollen, skin flushed in the golden dark.
And in that moment, I know exactly where this is going.
Her rhythm is steady, torturous, like she knows exactly how to make me unravel one nerve at a time. I grip her hips, thumbs digging into the hollows above her thighs, grounding myself in the heat of her. Every shift of her body drags a breath out of me, tight and rough. She leans forward, palms braced on my chest, and I feel her nails trace down my sternum, leaving a line of fire in their wake.
The light from the city bleeds in through the glass, soft and gold, and I watch her move against me in silhouette—hair tangled, lips parted, skin gleaming. Her breaths come shallow now, her body tightening around mine every time she sinks down. I buck up to meet her, matching her pace, chasing the edge without falling over it.
She slows deliberately, teasing, rocking her hips in small circles that make my vision blur. Her mouth finds my neck again, tongue flicking against the place where my pulse stutters. I groan, low and broken, and wrap one arm around her waist, the other sliding down to cup her ass, guiding her the way I need. She lets me, lets herself be moved, and it’s the surrender in that moment that shatters something in me.
I flip her—fast, smooth, without letting her go. Now she’s beneath me, legs tangled with mine, eyes gleaming like starlight. I brace on one elbow, the other hand skating down her side, memorizing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the sweat-slicked bend of her thigh.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” I whisper against her mouth.
“Good,” she breathes, arching into me.
I push into her again, and this time I watch her come undone—eyes fluttering shut, teeth catching her bottom lip, hands curling into my back like she’s trying to hold on to gravity. I stay deep, grinding instead of thrusting, and the sound she makes is half gasp, half growl.
We find a rhythm, dark and hungry. I kiss her like I need to taste her thoughts, bite the edge of her jaw, the spot under her ear that makes her hips buck. She wraps her legs around me, heels digging in, pulling me deeper. I fuck her hard, then slow, then hard again, reading her like the crease of a playbook—every noise, every flinch, every breath a signal. She clutches my face, her fingers rough and frantic, dragging me down for another kiss that leaves both of us gasping.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the slip of her skin under my hands. I feel her start to shake, her body going taut, a tremor building in her legs.
“I’m right there,” she whispers, voice cracking.
“Then let go,” I say, and drive into her harder, faster, chasing the way she falls apart.
She breaks beneath me, a soundless scream stretched tight across her face, body locking around mine. I hold on, barely, pulse hammering like a gunshot in my throat.
But I don’t come. I stop myself on the edge, hovering in the dark with every muscle trembling. My breath stutters out of me, jaw clenched so tight it aches. She’s still shaking beneath me, gasping into my neck, and I press my forehead to hers, grounding myself in her heat, her scent, the weight of what we just nearly lost control of. I flip her again, catching her on top of me, swaying her in time with the thrust of my cock, groaning as she clenches around me, her mouth half open. The positions keep changing, but I can’t get enough.
I’m so focused on losing myself in her that I don’t realize there is someone else in the room.
23
GREY
There are moments in life where time slows down to the speed of muscle memory: a puck in flight, the snap of a tendon, the split-second dilation of a pupil in the dark. This is one of those moments, except the puck is my own tongue, pressed dumb and useless to the roof of my mouth, and the tendon is every cord in my neck straining not to make a noise as I stand, one hand on the door frame, watching Finn fuck Sage on the threadbare couch in the room we pretend is secret.
The couch—barely large enough for two, let alone three—groans under the force of Finn’s hips. He’s got both hands planted on Sage’s ass, fingers digging so deep the prints will last longer than any of us. Sage is astride him, thighs clamped tight around his, the whole length of her spine arched in a perfect crescent of pleasure. Her hair is unbound, falling in a mess over her shoulders, and her mouth is open in a soundless “oh” that only breaks into voice when Finn thrusts up hard enough to rock her forward.
My hands, one still on the door frame, the other curled at my side, start to sweat through the tape. I’ve seen sex before, live and on screen, but never this way: not as a performance, but asan inevitability, a thing that happens because the world refuses to stop spinning.
Finn is statuesque, and it kills me a little. He’s got his head thrown back, neck long and jaw clenched, and the tendons stand out against his skin like wires about to snap. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and every time Sage grinds down onto him, he grits his teeth and breathes through the pain-pleasure with a control that looks impossible from the outside. He is not gentle. He is not cruel. He is just himself, focused, unrelenting, every ounce of energy devoted to the woman above him.
And Sage—Sage is incandescent. She’s not performing for anyone, not even herself. She rides Finn with the single-minded determination of someone who has mapped out every angle, every friction point, every possible path to oblivion. Her breasts bounce with the motion, nipples hard and red from Finn’s mouth or her own hands—I can’t tell which. There is a bead of sweat running down the side of her rib cage, and it pools at the base of her spine, lost in the groove that leads straight to the place where Finn disappears inside her. It’s obscene and perfect and so intimate I want to look away, but can’t.
My own body betrays me. My pants are too tight, my skin too hot, and I can feel my heart racing in my fingertips. My mouth is dry, but I swallow anyway, the sound impossibly loud in the hush of the room. I watch the way Sage rocks back and forth, how she shifts her weight to change the angle, how Finn adjusts his grip to match her pace. I watch the way their bodies fit, how every muscle in Finn’s thighs flexes with the effort, how every motion from Sage is a declaration of intent.
I am an intruder, but also an audience, and part of me wants to shout, to announce myself, to remind them that I exist. But another part wants to see how far they’ll go before they notice me. I know Finn will last as long as he wants to. He’s stubborn like that, never gives in unless he’s good and ready. Sage isalready close; I can tell by the way her breath stutters, the way her hands clench and unclench on Finn’s shoulders. She’s biting her lip so hard it’s gone white at the edge.
It’s Sage who sees me first, or decides to let me know that she has. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, but she opens her eyes and looks straight at me, and the look is not shame, not surprise, but something electric and wild and inviting. Her lips curl in a half smile, and she leans back further, pushing her breasts up and out, putting every inch of her body on display. She makes a small gesture with her chin, as if to say:If you’re going to watch, then watch. Don’t pretend you’re above this.
She lets go of Finn’s shoulders and plants her hands behind her, bracing herself on the edge of the couch. Then, with a single, fluid motion, she pivots her hips and turns herself to face Finn’s feet, her back to his chest, her ass in the air and her knees bent wide. It’s a move so perfect it could have been choreographed, and suddenly the whole tableau is reversed. Now I see everything: the way Finn’s cock slides in and out of her, slick and raw and shining in the light, the way Sage’s hand finds her own breast and squeezes, the way Finn’s hands lock onto her hips and pull her down onto him, over and over.
There is nothing hidden now. Every thrust, every gasp, every shudder is in full view, and I feel myself flush from head to toe with the need to touch, to join, to be inside this moment with them. Sage turns her head, hair whipping over her shoulder, and her eyes meet mine again. This time, there is no mistaking the message. She wants me here. She wants me to see.
