Page 156 of Ink Me Three Times
Freddie bites gently at my shoulder. “Come for us. Let go.”
The orgasm crashes over me so hard I nearly scream, muscles clenching, back arching as the plug, the cock, the vibe, all of it converges into white hot heat. I shudder, gasping, and Mitchell follows me, groaning as he spills inside me.
But it’s not over.
They take turns.
Freddie replaces Mitchell, cock thick and already leaking, and fucks me from behind with slow, grinding thrusts that hit deeper, more possessive. Timothy stays in front of me, pressing the vibe against my clit again, gentler this time, coaxing another orgasm from me before he lets me rest.
And finally, Timothy, who’s waited, watched, devoured every moment, sinks into me slow and deep, while the others hold me open, whispering praise in my ears.
“You’re mine too,” he groans. “You’re not walking out of here without knowing it.”
When I come again, it's not from friction. It's fromeverything. The pressure of their hands. The leather under my back. The collar at my throat. The way they say my name in a vow.
I break.
I shake.
I sob into Freddie’s shoulder as Timothy comes inside me, kissing my neck, sewing me back together with his mouth.
And when it's over, they don't untie me right away. They just hold me, stroking, kissing, murmuring promises into sweat damp skin.
“You’re ours,” Mitchell says softly, pulling a blanket over me. “No matter what.”
Freddie cups my belly. “All four of you.”
Timothy leans in and kisses my forehead. “You’ve never been more beautiful.”
And I believe them.
Because this…this wild, filthy, sacred thing we’ve built? It’s messy and strange and complicated as hell.
But it’s real.
And it's mine.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Timothy
Raining again.Because of course it is.
Mitchell’s pacing like a caged bear beside me, muttering to himself about parking validation and how this office smells like lemon scented doom.
Freddie hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes, which is about eighteen minutes too long. The quiet from him isn’t peaceful, it’s loaded. Like standing next to a fuse that hasn’t been lit yet, but you know it’s coming.
I sip my coffee, which tastes like wet cardboard, and try not to fidget. The receptionist gives us a strained smile from behind her desk like we’re a pack of wolves trying not to chew the furniture.
Samara Ellis. That’s the lawyer. Friend of a friend. The kind of woman who wears pressed slacks and no bullshit like armor. Mitchell vouched for her. Said she doesn’t blink when things get ugly. Freddie needs that. So do we.
The door opens. “She’s ready for you.”
Here we go.
Samara’s office is what you’d expect. Warm toned wood, diplomas on the wall, a couple of potted plants that somehow aren’t dead. It’s supposed to be comforting. It’s not.
“Gentlemen,” she says, standing. “Come in.”
