Page 75 of Savage Daddies

But he doesn’t.

Something leather slides up my ass cheek.

“That feel good, darling?”

This pain oozes wetness out of me. So much that I feel it drizzle down my leg.

“Bullwhip here enjoys a whip,” says Wrangler.

“And it appears,” Poet says, “that little miss here likes to receive them.” A finger dips between my thighs to mop up a trickle of wetness. Then there’s a sucking sound. “Mmmmm. Tastes like somebody’s been preparing for round two.”

Another finger joins the action.

A third.

Their moans harmonize, and I stick my ass out even more.

“Look at you,” Bullwhip says. “All wet and open for three men that aren’t your husbands. You’re a daring little thing, aren’t you?” A finger plunges inside of me, causing me to lose my grip on the wall. “Oh, sweetheart. You feel even better than last time.”

Poet enters my vision. “Let’s get you laid down on the bed.”

Lace shorts pool at my feet. I’m still clothed from the waist up, but not for long.

They lay me in the center of the bed and pull down my cami top. My breasts spring out.

“Oh, Zoe.” Is that drool hanging from Poet’s mouth? “How I missed your breasts.”

I straighten my arm and strain to reach for Poet’s pants. We’ve done this dance before, but things are different now. These dicks no longer belong to strangers. One belongs to my old literature teacher, and the others to his two hot besties.

Wrangler sits on the side of the bed and teases his hand between the valley of my breasts. Then he squeezes them. Puckers a nipple.

The sensation shoots straight to my clit.

I widen my legs.

The other two grab my ankles and help me widen them further.

“You’re so wet I see it leaking out of you.” Poet examines my pussy like it’s a Shakespeare play or something. He weaves his finger through my folds, making my breath hitch. “I love it when you squirm.” He flicks my clit, and what do you know—I spasm out. “Like that.” Blue recedes from his eyes, and his pupils expand. “You’re so easy to tease.”

I sit forward and caress his erect dick through the leather pants. “Did you not want me to stop the first time, when I was on the back of the bike?” I run a seductive tongue over my lip. “I didn’t want to stop. I’d have let you bend me over that night.”

“Zoe.”

“And let you take me from behind.”

“Young lady.” Wrangler abandons the nipple stimulation to face me, smoothing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. The warm brush alone tingles the area. “I won’t be able to control myself if you keep speaking like that.”

I bite my lip. “Really? How so?”

Lightning strikes outside, illuminating Wrangler’s face. The iron-gray stubble on his cheeks outlines them perfectly. Seeing him play out his former life as a rancher would’ve been fun. I imagine him caked in dirt, smelling of sweat and musk and horse. They have that nice, earthy smell to them from munching hay all day. There’s something so masculine about it—it’s the same with the bikes.

I liked Mr. Reeves before—the blue tailored suits always complemented his eyes, but something about exhaust fumes and gasoline and tattoos flick on a switch inside of me that instructs my mouth to say yes to pretty much anything they request. That’s what draws me to them. They’re the opposite of everything Felix represents.

His OCD won’t permit him to wear clothes without dry-cleaning them first, and he arranges pens the same width apart on his desk to satisfy that part in his brain that strives for perfection.

Poet, Wrangler, and Bullwhip ride into the wind and don’t comb their hair after, and they leave their facial hair alone.

Wrangler positions himself over me, so I peel away his jacket lapels to expose a black shirt underneath which must be the club’s uniform or something—they all wear black.

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