by Cara McKenna
Mica moved aside and she took his place between Vaughn’s spread knees. His dick was still wet, and it shone in the glow of the Christmas bulbs. She touched him. Slow strokes from the root to the head, and she smiled up at him when he touched her hair. He didn’t hold her head—not quite. He plucked at a curl, cupped her ear. He seemed fascinated, she thought. Did he still feel naked, his secret exposed? Did that make it hotter, maybe?
“Taste him.”
She did as Mica ordered, taking Vaughn just inside her mouth. The air of the room had left his skin cool, but she’d soon remedy that.
“He likes it deep and slow,” Mica murmured. “Right up until the end. Suck him like you’ve been waiting days for this.”
She did. Took him in long, smooth gulps, slowly finding the right angle to make it deep, past her palate and into her throat. She couldn’t get there with every guy, especially not big ones, usually, but something about Vaughn fit. She took him smoothly, barely registering more than the faintest reflex. All the while she imagined Mica doing this to him, and the calm of that orgasm burned away like morning mist.
“Just like that,” Mica said. His hand was on her neck, fingers in her hair. He had to be touching Vaughn’s fingers as well, and that notion had her as hot as any other thing happening between the three of them.
What else have you two done to each other? More than this? Would Vaughn go there? She couldn’t guess, but man, she wanted to know. Wanted to see.
Vaughn was close in no time—she tasted his excitement in tangy little bursts and felt it in the way his thighs clenched each time she took him deeply. Behind her, Mica was a mantra of dirty little whispered words. “Yeah. Good. Deep. Like that.” They thrilled her as much as the cock between her lips and the promise of whatever came after, as much as any glimpse of Mica’s bare body. She took every order, drank up every taste of praise. She let his excitement heat her like a hearth, reveling.
“Fuck.” This from Vaughn, and his hands were trembling against her skin. “Don’t stop, Clare.” And with that final word, this other man’s voice lit her anew in a way he hadn’t before. Had Mica ever used her name? she had to wonder. He’d called her honey, but to hear Vaughn say her name now, it couldn’t compare in its intimacy. A surge of connection zapped her, and there was ferocity charging her actions as she urged him home. He could feel it—he told her with his body, his muscles locking in surprise as she owned him in long, deep, hungry sucks, quicker than before.
“Fuck, please.”
Is that what you said when Mica did this to you? And did he love every moment, or had it perhaps frightened him? Had he said his friend’s name, or shut his eyes and imagined a woman? Had he felt relief in the wake of the orgasm, or something far different? Shame or disgust? Unlikely, if they’d stayed this close.
Plus, sometimes shame makes it all burn a little brighter. Or if not shame, then some kind of pleasurable edge, that I-don’t-know-if-I’m-ready-for-this surge of adrenaline she’d felt so often in bed with this man. She’d seen that same edge in Vaughn—seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in the tight set of his body when Mica had first touched him tonight. And she felt it now. Tasted it, practically.
“Get him there,” Mica said.
Vaughn was beyond words, panting. His hand squeezed the spot where her neck met her shoulder in quick, thoughtless pulses. His hips jerked, surely longing to thrust but held back by the barest facsimile of self-control. Clare kept on serving him, feeling more powerful than she ever had in bed. On fire. On top, despite being on her knees. She felt a moan rise up in her throat and let it out, a primal sound humming around Vaughn’s cock.
The hand on her shoulder froze, fingertips digging nearly too tight, then the rest of his body following suit, muscles locking up tight as he came. She stilled her mouth and hand, welcomed what he gave, and when that strong body went soft against the covers, she slid him free and swallowed.
There was something in her veins. Something hot and electric. Maybe something that Mica felt each time he took someone to bed, took someone past their limits. She felt powerful, and a little high. She sat up on her heels and looked to Mica, and that same heat flashed in his eyes as he smiled.
“Good,” he said simply.
Clare turned to Vaughn. His chest was working, his lips parted. His eyes opened and she rubbed his thick thighs from the knee to the hip. “That’s for you to say,” she told him. “Was it good?”
“Fucking amazing.”
Because of my lips, my tongue, my hands? Or from Mica’s eyes and the memory of his mouth? Perhaps both of them. That was certainly the case for Clare, the times she’d climaxed between these two men.
And will he stick around? This scene was fraught for Vaughn; she now had no doubt of that. She wouldn’t begrudge him leaving now, if it was all too much with the lust mania burned away.
But he surprised her.
He sat up and urged her to lie with him, gathering her against him chest to chest, her face at his throat. His sigh was supreme; satisfaction made wordless sound. He scrunched and released her hair, again and again, and Clare chuckled at such an open show of appreciation.
“I’ll take that as approval.”
“Like I said—amazing.” He whispered it, sounding sleepy, then let her hair go to stroke her back with a grazing palm. “So what’s next?”
“I haven’t the faintest.” She craned her neck to look to Mica. The ringmaster had a plan, surely.
But Vaughn cut in once more. “You, next. You should have another one.” More than drowsy fondness charged his voice, now. There was lust behind the fog. It charged her in turn to sense something more than reluctant lust from this man. There was hunger in him, and right now, no hesitation.
Perhaps the truth had set him free, to be seen with Mica and not rejected for it. Whatever the case, Clare liked it.
“If you insist,” she said, and kissed her way down his neck, rubbed at his back. Mica could see both, and she hoped it excited him. He’d brought her and Vaughn together, after all.
“What do you want?” Vaughn asked.
“Mica,” she said. Vaughn probably needed some time to recover. “And you watching.”
The fingertips whispering down her back slid to her butt, squeezed softly. “You got it.”
She rolled over to seek Mica’s eyes.
“How?” he asked.
“You tell me.” Always, let him tell her. Order her, command her, shock and thrill her.
“You on top,” he decided.
“Okay.” Clare liked to think she was good on top. She could even come from it sometimes, with certain lovers, hands free.
She got to her knees, watching Mica’s naked body in the warm sheen of the bulbs as he arranged a couple of pillows and lay back. Once a condom was in place she straddled him, then sank down slowly until he was deep, feeling thick and hot inside her.
“You feel good,” she told him.
“You look good.”
Clare turned to Vaughn. She wanted his voice as she wanted Mica’s—deep and rich and bossy. “Fast or slow?” she asked him.
He licked his lips. His cock was soft, but lust tensed his face and burned in his eyes all the same.
Have you fucked him, too? she wondered in a breath. Do you wish you had?
Fast or slow?
“Slow,” he decided.
Clare eased off one centimeter at a time until it was just Mica’s crown at her lips, then took him back inside. She did it like that for a minute, maybe two, letting both men see this act in all its explicit detail. With every pass her hips felt looser, the motions smoother. With every panting breath she coaxed from Mica she felt power surge as she undulated above him. She could see herself in her mind’s eye, every shadow, every inch of her body in that flattering cast; the contrast of pale skin and dark freckles, dark nipples, dark eyes. She felt s
exier than she could ever remember, taking the most beautiful man in the world as he lay flat on his back.
“Faster,” Mica said, hands cupping her hips.
She looked to Vaughn and felt the gleam shining in her own eyes. “When he says faster,” she told Mica, “then I’ll go faster.”
Vaughn’s expression shifted, something dark shining in his gaze. Mischief and understanding. “Not yet,” he said.
Clare smiled at each man in turn and kept her hips working Mica in long, steady strokes. “Sorry. You heard the man.”
With that, something shifted in Mica. The glint in his eyes changed and his brows drew together in a little show of pleasurable distress. He went from the conductor to a helpless participant in a breath, and there was no mistaking this role excited him, too.
Mica’s torture was Clare’s, as well. The slow friction was a tease, ratcheting her tighter with every stroke but promising only frustration, no relief. She ached for Vaughn’s next order as badly as Mica surely did, but she kept her expression the picture of haughty patience, enjoying the role of tormenter.
Finally, Vaughn spoke. “What do you need, Clare?”
She met his stare, zapped by the intensity on that face. Everyone was wearing a new costume tonight, slipping into a different skin.
“Friction,” she said.
“Give it to her,” he told Mica.
He looked only too willing. His hands were at her hips, but now he freed one, laying it palm-up where their bodies met, offering her clit the feel of his rough fingertips each time she took him deep.
“Fuck.” She shut her eyes. That was all she needed, just a little something. She changed her motions, making them tighter and shorter, rubbing against him. She tried to keep it slow, but her body had other wants. It wanted to rush, to make this frantic and messy and get there quick—but that wasn’t her part. She was in control. Or pretending she was. Use him, she ordered herself. But keep it together.
She changed again, grinding hard, taking what felt good and knowing Mica was likely missing those long strokes. His face told her she was right. His eyes were pleading for more, his mouth offering nothing but a string of breathy moans.
There was no bigger turn-on than a panting man. Especially a strong one, a highly sexual one like Mica, used to getting his way and calling the shots, reduced to a quaking, needy mess. She felt powerful, and that power wound her up tight, tight, tight, as exciting as his fingers or cock or voice or orders. She stared down into those dark eyes, reduced to black slivers, his lids half-shut in desperation.
Behind her, Vaughn spoke. “He feel good?”
“Amazing.”
“Anything you need from me?”
“Just your orders. Your voice.” Gorgeous voice that it was, smooth and deep, the blackest velvet. “Though I’d take your hands, too, if they’re on offer.”
“Where?” he asked, already coming closer.
“Wherever excites you.” She was taking from Mica; let Vaughn take from her.
He knelt behind her and she felt broad palms gliding over her shoulders, down her back to cup and ride her flexing hips. The touch tingled, these outside sensations deepening everything going on inside her.
“Yeah.” She’d said it without thought.
“Like that? Nice and light?” His hand slid up her sides, down her back, and over her butt, leaving her nerve endings sizzling like sparklers.
“Yeah, that feels good.” Just the right contrast to the hot, rough friction she was stealing from Mica.
Then those hands slid higher, up her neck to gather her hair and expose her nape. Where rough palms had just been she now felt soft skin—his full, smooth lips—and the teasing brush of five-o’clock shadow.
“Good,” she murmured. Her eyes had shut, and when they blinked open once more she found Mica staring up at her, his lips parted, expression glazed. His own eyes were restless, shifting between Clare’s face and whatever he could see of Vaughn, again and again.
She craned her neck and spoke to Vaughn. “I want him on top. I want to watch him work.”
Vaughn’s gaze dropped—boldly so—to Mica. “You heard the lady.” Clare wondered if Vaughn knew what was in store for him, as well. He might not sound so bold.
She smiled as she stilled, then got off slowly, letting Mica’s cock slip free in a long, explicit stroke. He was on her as soon as her back found the sheets, sinking deep, arms locking up tight beside her ribs.
“How?” he asked, taking her with slow, mean strokes.
“Faster.”
He obeyed and she feasted her eyes on the muscles of his abdomen and sides, his chest, his hips. “Fuck, you look good.” She turned her attention to Vaughn, still kneeling, close. “I want your hands on him. The way he had his on you, when you were fucking me. On his back, and his neck.”
The hazy look on the man’s face changed, sobering. Mica’s expression shifted as well, a pleasurable flinch tightening those perfect features.
Vaughn hesitated only a moment before doing as she asked. He shuffled closer on his knees, then locked a hand to the back of Mica’s neck, rousing a moan. He touched Mica nothing like he’d touched Clare. It looked rough, even cold. And it looked like that single, hard point of contact had Mica teetering at the precipice.
“Touch me,” she said to Mica.
God bless those strong climber’s arms. He braced his thrusting weight on one arm easily and his other hand moved across her mound, thumb strumming her clit.
“Faster,” she prompted. “As fast as you’re fucking me. In little circles.”
He took the order as best he could, and even his distracted and clumsy efforts beat the expert job she could’ve done herself, because it was him. Because of his obedience. Because she knew how he needed the task just to keep from losing it. She watched his hand, his arm, his exquisite face and laboring body. She drank in the point where Vaughn’s fingertips pressed into the skin of Mica’s throat, and she was there. The bowstring inside her snapped, the climax as quick and violent as any she’d ever felt. No crashing waves, no breaths-long ecstasy. The pleasure slapped her, hard, a moment’s respite chased by a sting of sensation, leaving her only wanting more.
Mica, though, he hadn’t had any yet. And he looked about ready to perish.
“Your turn,” she panted, answering the question posed by those dark eyes. Her orgasm had been so quick, he needed confirmation.
“Thank fucking Christ.”
She had to laugh at his face—such pure, overwrought relief.
Immediately, his hips were speeding. He dropped to his elbows, his belly brushing hers, cock rushing, skin slapping. Vaughn leaned closer, his hand on Mica’s back now, urging or merely riding. Clare knew he was doing that for her, and knew it had to be thrilling Mica, but she hoped it excited Vaughn as well, if only from the taboo.
Then, a sound broke through the crush of collective breath—Vaughn’s voice, strong and fearless and mean. “Fuck her,” he told Mica, the words as cold as that grip had been.
Mica groaned. He was a man tortured now, and his skin shone with sweat in the light of the Christmas bulbs. What else did he wish for, in this moment? He had Clare’s pussy, Vaughn’s hand and voice, his own cock taking what it desired, but what else? Did he wish for Vaughn’s hand to slide lower? To cup his balls, tease his ass? She could only guess, and the guessing had a fresh climax building, hot on the heels of the first. She slid her hand between their bodies, seeking her clit.
Mica slowed, but she urged him to go quicker with her free hand. “Your turn,” she said again. She wanted to come bad enough to get herself off once he was done, with or without any assistance.
“Fuck. Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” Did Mica mean her? She assumed so, but those words could so easily be meant for Vaughn, as well. “I need to come.”
“So come.” She kept on touching
herself, but it was his climax she ached for. There couldn’t be any more powerful feeling in the world than leaving this man helpless. “I want to see it.”
“Yeah? How? Where?”
All that came to mind was a filthy vision of white come against Vaughn’s dark skin, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Instead she said, “Anywhere you want.”
His answer came back immediately. “Your hand. Right where it is. Keep touching yourself.”
She did, burning hotter than ever at those words. She nailed her attention right where she wanted it—to those flexing hips and that flashing cock, every gorgeous, racing muscle chasing release. Where was Vaughn looking? she wondered. Maybe her hand, maybe her breasts—maybe Mica. She let herself imagine it was the latter, and another orgasm grew inside her. The truth came tumbling from her lips. “Jesus, you’re hot.”
“Good. Watch me.” His voice was strained—he was close, right there. His eyes were shut tight, body hammering. Her gaze jumped to his neck, and she found Vaughn’s grip tight, his dark thumb pressing hard into Mica’s tan skin. That’s no tentative touch. Not shy, not grudging. Vaughn felt something belied by his stern expression. Something hot, something wrong. She looked up, seeking Vaughn’s gaze and finding it on her face. So intense, it struck like a bolt, but the moment was diffused when Mica suddenly pulled out and sat up. Vaughn’s hand fell away as Mica stroked himself home. He dropped back down, braced on one arm as he came across Clare’s knuckles with a choked, disbelieving series of grunts. She was lost in those sounds, lost in that pained and beautiful face, her pleasure cresting on the heels of his, searing. Obliterating.
The room grew quiet save for their mingled breathing. Mica settled beside her, radiating heat. Vaughn was on his back on her other side, and she turned to rest a hand on his ribs. She hoped it let him know he was welcome to linger, but not such needy contact that he’d think she expected him to stay all night. She wanted Mica to herself at some point, but this man meant something to her as well. He’d given her pleasure as surely as the man at her back had, and her affection for him had deepened tonight.
