Page 2 of Single Mom's Daddies
“We’re going upstairs,” the first one says. “You’re coming with us.”
It’s not a question.
He grabs my hand, and the tattoo is inches from my face now. A black cross. Ivy winding up and around, like it’s alive.
The way I feel right now.
Up the creaking staircase, through the crowded hall, to a door that clicks shut behind us and muffles the music like a switch flipped off. The bedroom is quiet. Dimly lit blue. Neat. Someone actually made the bed, which feels like a miracle.
They turn to me in unison.
“You want to stop, you say the word,” says the deep-voiced one.
I stare at them. My voice is gone. So I nod again.
“Good girl,” one of them says.
And I nearly melt.
The three of them move like a unit. A practiced rhythm. The man in front of me brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. The one behind me unzips my shorts, the metal rasp loud in the quiet. The third kneels and unbuckles my heels, one at a time, hands dragging over my calves.
I’m shaking. Not from fear. Fromanticipation. Because for once in my life, I don’t have to think. Don’t have to plan or worry or protect myself.
All I have to do is feel.
The lace bodysuit comes off slow, soft and scratchy at the same time. Hands stroke every inch of me as they peel it away—my hips, my ribs, my breasts, my inner thighs.
And they’restillfully dressed. “Fuck,” one of them mutters. “Look at her.”
“Like a dream,” says another.
“She’s perfect.”
A pair of lips land on my neck, hot and insistent. Another brushes across my nipple, tongue flicking lightly before sucking hard enough to make me moan. The third trails a hand between my legs and strokes through my slick folds with two fingers, groaning when he feels how wet I am.
“She’sdripping,” he says. “Fuck.”
I whimper.
One of them catches the sound and kisses me—rough, deep, filthy. Tongue sliding against mine like he’s starving. His hands cup my face while another man palms my ass, lifting me, holding me suspended for a moment before lowering me to the bed.
The mattress dips. The sheets are cool against my fevered skin. Then they undress—slowly. Shirts first. Then pants. Muscled chests, defined abs, tattoos I can’t make out. One’s tats are on his chest and arms, another just his stomach and legs. The third has sleeves and…in the low light, something metallic glints at thebase of his cock. A piercing style I’ve never seen before. Their masks stay on.
So I focus on their hands.
All three of them have that same ivy-wrapped cross on their left hands. It moves when they touch me. Flexes when they grip.
When the first one lines up between my thighs, I gasp at the sight of him. Thick. Hard. Veins running down his shaft like cables.
“Let me taste her first,” the second says.
“Be quick.”
He drops to his knees and buries his face between my thighs without hesitation. His tongue is hot and greedy, lapping at me like he’s starving. He holds my legs open, growling softly as he licks up every drop of wetness, every shiver of arousal. When he pushes two fingers inside me, curling them just so, my back arches off the bed.
“God—fuck—don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
