Page 44 of Hellbent
He grips me with both hands under my arms and lifts me like I weigh nothing, hoisting me onto the workbench beside us. He shrugs off his shirt in one fluid motion, pulls a condom out of his pocket and then kicks out of his jeans. He steps between my thighs, rolls the condom down his length, and when he looks at me, his pupils are blown with lust.
Jake steps close, still flushed, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. One hand strokes my hair back with quiet reverence. The other hand slips down to his cock. He’s already hardening again, thickening as he strokes himself. The sight of Damian positioning his cock at my entrance has him rock-hard in seconds. He exhales heavily as his fist works over his shaft, his gaze glued to the way Damian’s hips roll forward.
I reach for Damian, curling my fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him down until his mouth crashes into mine. The kiss is messy, all heat and need, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me open, holding me still.
“Show me how good she takes it,” Jake murmurs to Damian.
And then—Damian thrusts.
A sharp gasp escapes me, my body arching, fingertips digging into his shoulders. He groans. His fingers bite into my skin. The workbench rattles beneath us, the sounds of metal and wood clattering.
“Fuck, Max,” he growls against my throat, his teeth dragging over my skin. One of his hands slides up, finds my throat, presses just enough to make me whimper.
He rocks into me again—slowly, then harder, his rhythm building. Each thrust draws a sound out of me—a cry, a breath. I clutch at his back, nails sinking into his skin, as my thighstighten around his hips. With his free hand, Jake palms my breast, cupping and fondling it as Damian pumps into me, exhaling hard out his nose, fingers pressing into my windpipe.
I’m close. I know Damian feels it too, the way I squeeze, the way my breath stutters. I cry out, arching off the bench as he pounds into me, Jake’s hand exploring, pressing, squeezing.
“Fuck,” Damian growls, throwing his head back. “You’re so fucking tight and wet, baby. Jesus.”
I whimper. Jake leans over to kiss me, his mouth drawing electricity up through the center of my body, splitting the current until the stimulus is almost too much for me.
“You look so fucking good,” he whispers. “So beautiful getting fucked hard.”
His voice cracks as he says it—because he’s right there with us, working himself faster now, the wet sound of his fist unmistakable. His breath comes in short, desperate bursts. “Fuck, Max…fuck.”
And then—I fall. A sharp, sudden plunge into blinding pleasure, my whole body clenching tight as I cry out.
Damian follows with a low curse, his grip tightening around my throat, hips snapping against me one last time before he drives himself in to his full depth, bracing his weight with one hand on the table and shuddering as he comes.
Beside us, Jake groans loudly, and I turn my head just in time to see him orgasm again, thick ropes of cum spilling across his fist, his breath heaving.
For a moment, none of us move. There’s nothing but the sound of our breath, heavy and uneven, against the faint buzz of the overhead lights humming through the silence.
Then, finally, Damian lets out a low chuckle, loosening his hand from around my neck and pulling out. He gives me a long, slow, deep kiss, and then steps back, smiling.
“Knew you could move, Finch.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SMELL OF coffee threads through the hazy space between sleep and waking, tugging me toward consciousness. I figure it means Wyatt’s home—and then panic sends my heart racing.
I sit upright, my pulse hammering.Shit. If Wyatt walks in and sees the mess we left—empty whiskey bottle, clothes on the floor, maybe worse…I don’t even want to think about it. I scrub a hand over my face, pushing past the rush of anxiety. My head and body ache—one from the whiskey, the other…from Jake. Followed by Damian. The memory sends heat licking up my spine.
I slide off the bed, throw on a t-shirt and an old pair of Wyatt’s shorts, and prepare to face the music before padding toward the kitchen.
But it’s not Wyatt. Relief eases the tight coil in my chest. Instead, it’s Jake in yesterday’s clothes, leaning against the counter, sipping coffee from a chipped black mug. His lips curve, eyes dragging over me in a way that makes heat bloom under myskin.
No regrets. Not even a little.
“Morning, beautiful. You were out cold.” His voice is rough with sleep. Sexy and gruff, just like him.
“Coffee,” I groan. “I want coffee.”
“Me too,” comes a low voice from the couch. I look over to see Damian sprawled across it, one arm flung over his eyes, shirtless but in his jeans from last night. His body is gorgeous in the light of day, carved with muscle and marked with tattoos across his chest and shoulders.
Right. They both stayed here last night.
Because last night really did happen. Even in the clear light of day, there’s no denying it.
