Page 34 of CurVy 13

“You’re raw, baby,” Tyler rasps. “You should see this, Don. Her arsehole is so fucking smooth. So pretty and pink. So tight and stretched around me. Fuck. Yes. Open for me.”

God, I can’t take it.

I shudder. “I’m going to come!”

Donnie pinches my nipple. “Come for us.”

My climax coils, higher and higher, building through me, culminating in a throaty cry. My pussy locks on Donnie, and my arse puckers around Tyler. I squeeze every inch inside me, rippling around them in frantic pleasure.

“Yes. That’s a g-good fucking girl.” Donnie suddenly stiffens, his hands on my breasts kneading harder, the pace matching the pulse of his cock as he unloads inside my pussy.

“Fuck, fuck,” Tyler groans, frustrated. “I can’t. Martha. The fucking music. The fucking music!”

Donnie rears up, stabs his fist past my shoulder, and grasps his brother’s throat.

“Come for our girl!” he growls, squeezing a groan from Tyler, demanding his orgasm in that violent act. “She’s taking your cock, your cum, and she’s fucking loving it. Come!”

Tyler’s roaring climax releases in guttural growls as he drains his cock inside me, spurting hotly, pumping what seems like an indecent amount into my arse.

“Jesus, fuck,” he bites out.

Fuck, that was hot.

His cock slides from my arse, and I collapse against Donnie’s warm, hard chest. Our shared orgasms batter me into a loose, lethargic mass.

Exhausted, I forget that I’m angry at Donnie, forget who they are and all that has happened over the past few days. Fingers move into my hair, a tender exploration, and my heart inflates.

No, don’t do that, Vallie.

Deflate it now!

Tyler pushes his cock back into his jeans and drops beside us on the mattress. He reaches over and pulls me from Donnie’s chest, the soft fingers leaving my hair.

I wonder if I’m too heavy for him, but he’s broad and packed with muscles, making me feel small and soft.

Am I no longer playing at Stockholm syndrome, or am I just an excellent actress? Seriously, I can see Oscars on the horizon.

Sighing, I exhale all that mess. I can’t compartmentalise any of it. So I don’t try to. It feels good. They feel so good. And I want to hate it. I want to cry, because I don’t hate it!

Wrapping both biceps around my head, Tyler holds me to his thumping heart.

I close my eyes and listen to its frantic rhythm. Tyler couldn’t come, even though he wanted to. Donnie had to help, like he understood, and I’ve read enough dark romance to suspect he’s… been abused. Martha? By his piano teacher? The scars, the humming, he’s broken. God.

I clutch at him.

A few moments pass.

The mattress shifts.

Donnie’s large body slides away.

Batting my lashes in a sleepy, satiated haze, I watch Donnie’s naked backside as he walks from the bedroom, each cheek a perfect cup, as if someone were holding them in place. It’s impossible not to gawk—that man has junk in his trunk.

He’s too stunning for words.

They both are.

With the two pieces I have, Tyler, who covers his body but exposes his face and heart, and Donnie, who masks the latter but walks around completely naked, I can puzzle them together into one complete entity.

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