Merry Ever After

by Vi Keeland, Penelope Ward, Lucy Score, Marie Force, Tijan, Kennedy Ryan

  Is it?

  Of course, it is, not that Trey will care. What’s good for the Trey is good for the Sinclaire, but it’s more than that. It’s more specific than that. If I had stumbled in here and met someone else, I’d already be in an Uber on my way home. But I sat on him. I talked to him. Harper made me laugh and relax.

  And want.

  “It’s not all that,” I admit. “Because of Trey, I mean. I’d be lying if I said none of it is because he’s here living out his ménage trois fantasy.”

  “Trois?” One dark brow quirks.

  “A couple.”

  “A threesome? Well you know what that means.” His full lips take on a wicked shape. “We gotta be filthy.”

  The air clogs with lust motes, and my heart pounds, a bass drum, a mallet behind my ribs. My hands shake, and I long for my glass of wine to hide behind and drown in, but my head is much too clear. I’m not drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol tomorrow. I know exactly what I’m doing.

  It’s a night to be brazen, so I stand, reach behind me to tug on the zipper securing my dress. The bodice droops away from my arms and shoulders, the sleeves falling loose and empty at my sides. The body shaper beneath my clothes added a layer of confidence, of armor, and even though I’m still covered, the delicate rose appliques on the straps, the boned silk bodice, the color, like a blush across my skin—tell him more about me than my nakedness would, if he’s astute enough to see. It would tell him that no matter how modest my clothes might be, I have an appetite for luxury. It would tell him despite my husband’s occasional indifference, I never stopped trying to tempt him. It could tell him that despite my misgivings about tonight, I wore my prettiest underclothes because I secretly hoped maybe, just maybe I’d find some measure of pleasure, too. That for once, it wouldn’t be all about Trey.

  I think he sees. I think he knows. His eyes soften, and he stands, bringing him so close I smell the copulation of scents, cologne and his natural clean, masculine smell. He reaches out to follow the line of my collar bone with one long finger. He has elegant hands. The hands of an artist, a painter. A writer. Someone preoccupied with documenting the beauty of life, and he’s looking at me now like I’m a work of art.

  Slowly, never breaking our stare, he slides one finger beneath the strap of my body shaper so it slumps over one shoulder, and my breasts, heavy and held up, dip a little. Every place his gaze traces—the shallow well at the base of my throat, the tops of my breasts over the cups of satin, the dusky cleft of my cleavage—seems to catch fire. I try to control my breathing, but the longer he looks at me, staring like a wolf licking his chops, the louder my breaths come in the quiet room. His finger trails from my neck to the other strap of the shaper, the only thing securing the material that hides me from him.

  “May I?” he asks, finger poised to expose.

  I can’t form words the anticipation is so thick in the air, in my throat, so I nod dumbly. He tugs and the cool air hits my skin when the straps fall away. My breasts spill forward and he swoops to hover his mouth over one brown nipple.

  “May I?” he asks again, breath hot over me, and though his voice sounds exactly as it did when he asked that question a moment ago, there is something tighter there. Something straining, like it’s about to snap. Like he’s about to snap, and I want to see. Possessed by some siren, or bold temptress, I cup my breasts, plumping them up until one distended nipple brushes his lips. His control fractures, slips and he closes his mouth around the tip with a greedy suction, with a feral sound that sends a bolt of pleasure between my legs.

  He flicks one nipple with his thumb, and bites and sucks the other, eyes closed tightly so long lashes fan against his tanned skin. His cheeks hollow as he seems to lose himself sucking me, his mouth greedy at my breast. He busies his hands on my body, dragging the zipper past my hips and ass so the dress pools at my feet. My knees are weak and rubbery, the cartilage gelatinous and unsupporting. He releases my breast with a loud pop, and pulls back to stare down at me. The shaper pinches my waist in and snaps between my legs. He slides one finger over the stiff silk encasing my torso, my waist and hips. Without warning, he drops to his knees. My fingers tremble with the need to plow through his thick dark hair, to muss the waves. He taps my inner thigh with enough force to sting. The tiny slap sends a thrill through me, and I wonder how he’d slap my ass. If his large hand would cover one cheek. If he’d mark me where no one else could see. Because that’s where I’ll carry the recollection of tonight, of him. Beneath my clothes and under my skin, a subcutaneous memory.“Spread your legs,” he orders, his deep voice spiked with gravel. With no thought of resisting, I spread my legs to the width of my shoulders. He leans forward and down even further until his face is at the juncture of my thighs. I have a moment of self-consciousness with him so intrusive, so close in the most private place in a way only Trey has been, and take a step in, narrowing the gap between my legs.

  “What did I say?” he asks roughly. “Spread your legs if you want to get fucked, Sin.”

  Something about the moniker reaches in and strokes inside like a probing finger. Whether it’s the familiarity of abbreviating my name or the wickedness of it—Sin—I don’t know, but I spread my legs like a good girl. I train my gaze on the ceiling, wondering when he’ll make his move, but I’m still unprepared for his silky hair to brush inside my thigh, cool against the hot skin as he his teeth close around the tiny snap between my legs holding the body suit secure.

  “Oh.” It’s all I can manage on a startled breath. “You can’t . . .”

  But he does. He pulls the front flap out of the way and replaces it with his mouth, open and ardent and hot and wet on my pussy. He groans, an echo of his pleasure, of how consumed he is, and the sound shudders through my muscles, leaving me trembling as he continues to feast, every once in a while, pushing a finger and then two inside, while still sucking on the bundle of nerves at the top. The bottom flaps of the body suit hang loosely, uselessly around my body, and he cups my bare ass with his big hands. He can’t quite contain the round globes of my butt, the flesh overflowing his fingers.

  “Now this is an ass,” he says huskily. In time with the persistent suction of his mouth, he squeezes my butt until it’s like a pulse thrumming through my whole body. Before I question it, I add my own cadence with the rhythmic squeezing of my breast, brushing a thumb over my nipple. Tiny cries sneak past my lips and I don’t even try to stop them. It’s so good I’ll explode. All self-consciousness is long gone. I’m now thrusting my hips against his lips, pressing my wet flesh to his mouth and he keeps eating, slurping, until the sinews, the muscles, the bones in my body liquify and I melt, hands squeezing his shoulders to stay standing. I come so hard, my vision goes dark and then splinters with fireworks.

  Sinking my fingers into the thick, dark waves of his hair, I pump my hips, giving him everything–my inhibitions, full access to the secrets of my body, carte blanche. And he takes advantage, gripping my thighs so hard as he drinks from my body’s liquid offering that I know I’ll bruise. I can’t wait to see it tomorrow in the starkness of morning. The only reminder I’ll have of his full possession.

  His mouth slows and his grip eases as I come down from the stratosphere that orgasm sent me to. I’m all lassitude and listlessness, but when I pry my eyes open to peer down at him, lust blazes back from his stare.

  “I’m going to fuck you so hard your husband will never satisfy you again,” he says it like a warning. Like it’s my last chance to escape, but I have no desire to run.

  “Do it.” My voice holds the paradox of a command and a plea. “He won’t be my husband much longer anyway.”

  One dark brow elevates, and a smile graces his lips, shiny with the essence of my body. Holding my stare, somehow commanding me even though he’s the one on his knees, he deliberately drags his tongue over his lips, making sure I know he’s savoring the taste of me there.

  “That’s some good pussy,” he laughs. “I could be down here all night.
”

  “I thought you were gonna fuck me so hard my—”

  “Oh, right.” He stands abruptly, bringing our bodies so close the buttons of his shirt scrape the sensitive skin of breasts, brush nipples already swollen from his devouring mouth. He towers over me by almost a foot, and I look up at him in something close to awe. In five years of marriage and a year of dating before that, Trey never made me feel like this. Never made me come so hard or feel this desired. The night that was supposed to be about him has become about me, and I selfishly hope Trey fucks Raina and Ralph all night so I can have as much time with Harper as possible.

  “How do you want it?” he asks, his voice scraping into the quiet of the room.

  “On the wall.” Before I had time to wonder what he wants, to defer my pleasure the way I so often have with Trey, I say what I want. Exactly what I want. I don’t wonder if Trey was right and that I might be too heavy. Harper’s a big man with a fully functional voice. If he wants something else, he can tell me.

  He takes a few steps forward, which forces me a few steps back. We keep moving with purpose, our bodies barley separate and so attuned to each other. He grips my hips, guiding me where he wants me to go, until my back hits the wall. Having kept my eyes fixed on his, I had no idea it was that close, and the contact knocks the breath from my body. He dips until his lips rest at my ear, hands on either side of my head, caging me against the wall.

  “Take me out.”

  The raspy order sends shivers through me, and goosebumps sprout across my arms. Trying not to fumble, I reach for his belt, unbuckling it with shaking hands when he takes my earlobe between his lips.

  “Oh.” My breaths stagger. “Shit.”

  “You feel how hard I am for you?”

  I do. My fingers find him behind his zipper.

  He’s going to tear this pussy up.

  I know it, not just because of how long and hard he is in my hand, but because of the way his eyes devour every visible inch of me, like he’s in a cage and as soon as the door swings open, this ass is his.

  “In my pocket,” he says. “Condom.”

  Thank God he had the presence of mind to remember because my brain is so lust-fogged and I’m so exhilarated, he would have been inside me raw before I even thought to protest. Impatient to feel more of him, I push his pants down, the belt jangling when it hits the floor. His boxers are next, coasting over powerful thighs and hair-dusted calves. He is, in a word, magnificent, and I’m not convinced I’m awake. This must be a dream, having Superman’s doppelganger eager to fuck me against a wall. I take the condom from his pocket, opening it and pulling it over the hard length of him. Biting my lip, I hold back a squeal of delight.

  “Pull it,” he commands, his voice hoarse as our temples kiss.

  I take him gently in hand, tugging and rubbing my thumb over the head.

  “Don’t play with it,” he laughs into my hair. “Harder.”

  I add pressure and tug until he grunts and nods his head beside mine against the wall. He’s stiff and big, hot steel between my fingers. He slips his hand between my legs, and my face heats at the wet sounds my pussy makes as he works my seam. Pinches my clit, thrusts two fingers inside and then, without asking if I can take it, adding another. I gasp. His fingers are huge and he pushes in aggressively, tipping his head back so he can watch my face.

  “I like this tight hole,” he says, his voice hushed on the dirty words. “You’re gonna feel this tomorrow.”

  He kisses my cheek, drops his lips and draws the skin at my throat into his mouth, sucking hard and long.

  Marking me.

  “So your husband will know I took my time with you,” he whispers into my ear, his hot breath dancing over my nerve endings and making me shudder.

  I can’t form words to answer. I’m so overwhelmed by sensation and the reality of what we’re about to do. I look down between us, and in the dim light, I see his huge dick in my hand, pale against my skin.

  “I’ve never been with a white guy,” I say, husking out a laugh. “There’s a first time for everything, huh?”

  “Not my first,” he says, rubbing the pad of his finger over my clit in a slow, deliberate caress.

  “You’ve fucked a Black girl before?” I ask, not sure why I’m surprised.

  “Several.” He grins. “My last two girlfriends and some before. I stopped counting, not that it matters.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t expect that for whatever reason. My own preconceived notions. “The blacker the berry, huh?”

  “I’m only concerned about the second part of that,” he says, with a sly grin, taking his fingers from my pussy and bringing them to his lips. “The sweeter the juice.”

  And he shoves the three fingers that were just inside me deep into his mouth, closing his eyes, sucking and licking them clean. My mouth falls open, shock and wanton desire leaving me breathless. As if the taste of me on his fingers galvanized him into action, he grips my thighs, hoisting me up, back pressed into the wall. On instinct, I lock my ankles behind his back, anchoring myself to him. He doesn’t huff or act like it’s hard the way Trey said he’d have to do. It’s effortless and he is singularly focused on getting inside. It’s such a turn on, his strength and obvious desire for me exactly as I am. His eyes, his hands, his quickening breaths told me how much he desires me, and even though he is a stranger, I’m not self-conscious about my nakedness.

  He tongues the curve of my neck, muttering against my hot skin, “Put it in.”

  Damn, why is that so sexy?

  I reach between us and shift until he’s at my entrance, a blunt force probing a tight hole. I don’t have time to wonder what it will be like being with another man because Harper surges forward, pushing into me like a rocket. Launching, propulsive, buried to the hilt, the soft hair at his groin bushing against me, an erotic abrasion.

  “Jesus,” I say, the word forced from me as he rams me into the wall. I cling to his shoulders and clench my thighs around him.

  He is not gentle. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my legs and he goes hard, starting with shallow pumps and then broad strokes that pull him almost out completely before he buries himself as deep as he can go. I’ve never had it like this, never felt a man this deep. His cadence is aggressive and he pulls back just enough to stare into my eyes. Even when I would close mine, the steely blue force of his holds me hostage to an intimacy that makes no sense. We haven’t known each other even an hour, and he’s unlocked my body’s secrets, feelings and desires I didn’t even know lay dormant, waiting for someone to coax them out of hiding.

  I whimper, bearing my teeth down into my bottom lip to keep the cries contained.

  “Let it go,” he says. “Let me hear it.”

  He thrusts so deep, I suck in a breath.

  “Let him hear,” he adds, a dare glinting in his eyes. “Let everyone hear.”

  Somehow I’d forgotten there was anyone else in this house, in this world, besides Harper and me. This is a swing party. It’s the wildest thing I’ve ever done, fucking a stranger with my husband under the same roof. It’s illicit, ribald, irreverent, but I wanted to reclaim my voice, right? May as well let everyone hear me roar.

  The next time he shoves inside, thrusting deep, sending a jolt of pleasure to my toes, I let the sounds loose. At first merely a grunt and then a groan and then a moan and then a low hum and then a shout and then a wail. It’s like a siren. My voice reverberates off the walls, harmonizing with his grunts and groans. He squeezes my legs, kisses the bruises forming on my neck, bites my shoulder, stirring in faint pain with bliss. I bang my head back against the wall when the orgasm descends and force my eyes open so I can see his face. He’s staring back at me, and oddly enough, here with this stranger, it’s the most intimate moment of my life. Tears wet the corners of my eyes because I’m grateful to have something like this. These moments feel out of time, like on the other side of that door is the real world, and it will pale in the shadow of this dream. It will be dry a
nd dusty compared to this lush, verdant interlude.

  He holds my stare as long as he can, but when he pushes in one last time, so deep he must be writing his name inside of me, his eyes close and he drops his head beside mine. And just when I think this couldn’t be any more perfect, he makes it better.

  “Sin,” he whispers against the damp curve of my neck.

  It’s not anonymous. He knows my name. He knows my body. He brought me the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known, and even if I never see Harper again, this night is sealed in my heart as something special.

  The office door flies open, banging against the wall and shattering the sweet, filthy, tender moment Harper and I made. Trey stands in the doorway, disheveled, his sweater on backwards, his belt dangling unbuckled. His expression is livid.

  “I heard you, Sinclaire,” he shouts. “I heard you fucking this guy. You called his name.”

  “Did I?” I don’t remember that, but I’m not surprised. I lean my shoulders back into the wall and rest one arm on Harper’s shoulder for support. With my other hand, I trace Harper’s wide, sensual mouth. “Good.”

  Harper grins, leaning into me deeper and running his nose along the line of my naked shoulder.

  “What the hell?” Trey storms into the room, up to us and pokes Harper’s shoulder. Harper lets my legs drop to the floor, making sure I land gently, and turns to face Trey. He’s seemingly unphased that his dick is out, his pants and boxers ringing his ankles. At the clear evidence that Harper has indeed been inside me—the full condom still attached—Trey’s expression goes dark, twists with rage.

  I step between the two men, and my nakedness only seems to enrage Trey further. He grabs my arm, dragging me over to the pile of clothes by the couch.

  “Get dressed,” Trey snaps, averting his eyes, hands stuck to his hips. “Now.”

  “First of all, you don’t tell me what to do.” I take my time slipping the body shaper and dress back on, but don’t bother putting on my shoes. “And second, why are you so angry? Isn’t this why we came?”

  “But you . . .I thought you were going home,” he says lamely like a petulant boy.