Page 111 of 11 Cowboys
Their cocks grind inside me, filling me in tandem, every thrust rocking me forward and back. My mouth opens in a moan that seems to have no end. My arms reach blindly forMcCartney, who kneels in front of me, guiding my mouth to the thick line of his cock.
“Can I?” he asks, already breathless.
I answer by taking him between my lips.
He gasps, his hands trembling as they cradle my face, and the moment clicks into place: me on my knees, stuffed full, lips wrapped around McCartney’s cock, with two other men fucking me in perfect rhythm. This isn’t only about being claimed. I’m being worshipped. Every groan they make is because of me. Every touch is about me.
Cody thrusts harder. Brody matches him. McCartney’s head tips back as he rocks into my mouth, panting my name like he’s losing his mind.
Then someone moans behind us, deep and sharp and dark.
Lennon.
Still untouched. Still waiting.
He steps forward, his cock already out, already hard, stroking slowly as he watches my mouth slide over McCartney’s length. His voice is steady and low.
“You look like something out of a dream, Grace.”
I look up at him through wet lashes, gagging a little on McCartney’s thickness, but not pulling away. I want them to know what I can take.
McCartney’s hands tighten, and he pulls out with a groan, stroking himself fast. “I’m close,” he warns.
“On her,” Lennon says, eyes locked on mine. “Let her feel it.”
I stay perfectly still, hands braced on Cody and Brody’s thighs, as McCartney spills across my lips, my cheek, and down onto my chest. He groans like he’s dying as he paints me, then leans in, kissing my forehead, voice wrecked.
“You’re a masterpiece.”
And still, they move inside me.
Brody’s thrusts turn erratic. His breath comes in sharp gasps. Cody is relentless, his grip bruising on my hips.
“I’m coming,” Brody chokes out, hips jerking as heburies himself deep. I feel his release, warm and thick, filling me again, and it sends me spiraling.
Cody isn’t far behind. He pulls out only long enough to paint his cum across the curve of my ass, then collapses beside me, dragging his palm down my side.
And then, finally, only Lennon is left.
He kneels in front of me, fingertips trailing through McCartney’s mess on my chest, and his voice is a whisper meant only for me.
“You ready for me, Grace?”
I look up at him, feeling wrecked, soaked, and aching, and I smile.
“Always.”
Lennon doesn’t rush.
He’s the last of the nine tonight, and it feels like a culmination. Like he’s been building toward this moment in quiet increments, saving his need behind every sharp glance, every careful stroke.
He watches me now, eyes burning with something deeper than hunger.
“Lie back,” he says, voice low and calm. “Let me take care of you.”
I do what he says, still trembling, body slick and spent and open. My legs fall apart automatically, and I’m wet and loose. I’m used, but not in a way that feels dirty. It feels satisfying, like completing a marathon.
Lennon kneels between my thighs and runs his fingers through the mess the others left behind. He doesn’t flinch or hesitate. His thumb circles my clit, featherlight.
