Page 16 of Good Girl
“Oh god!” she screams when Vance’s tongue slides up my shaft as she lifts her hips over me. With his face buried between her legs, she somehow manages to continue rising and falling onto my cock in a mind-bending rhythm.
“You’re fucking perfect,” I tell her, my words guttural. “Made for us, for our cocks, made for our ropes, our commands.” Ecstasy floods my bloodstream as I thrust up, almost lifting her off my lap. She writhes and wriggles, her rotating hips driving me mad. “Such a good girl.”
Vance pushes her back into me, her hair fanning over my chest as her head turns to give my lips access to her neck. Wanting to taste every inch of her, I kiss and suck, scraping myteeth across her skin while watching her gorgeous tits bounce. Vance puts one foot beside me on the couch, leaning over us so he can push his cock between Poppy tits. His head falls back, the corded muscles in his throat on display as he fucks himself with them, his thick mushroom tip jutting out between them. Poppy swipes her tongue over it until he grunts and spills his seed over her chest and throat.
Trembling, her pussy strangles my dick, as she cries through another orgasm, forcing mine from me. I fill her up, pumping into her warm heat until we all slump in exhaustion.
Vance is the first to move, and a few seconds after he leaves the room, I hear the bath faucets turn on. Releasing the bindings around her wrist, I scoop Poppy up into my arms and carry her through our apartment to place her in the warm water of the bath he’s drawn for her. The water laps over her blotchy skin as she leans back against the rim, sighing. “I feel a little woozy,” she giggles, “That was insane. Thank you.”
Fuck. She’s going to be the death of me.
Stroking damp hair from her face, I pick up the washcloth and clean her as Vance goes about grabbing her a towel and toiletries. I caress the cloth over her torso, swallowing a smirk when I notice the marks Vance left on her skin last night. She has always been a knockout, but she looks beyond stunning with his bite marks claiming her flesh. She could be a dream, she’s too perfect to be real.
“I didn’t know you could get piercings there.” She bites her lip, her eyes dropping to my cock and her body shuddering in memory.
A smile slants my lips. “Did you like how it felt?”
“Very much.”
For many years, my body didn’t feel like my own. Pleasure was something that was forced from me, whether to give or receive. I got the piercing to reclaim a sense of ownership overmy body. It was my choice, a source of sexual gratification that I decided to give to myself and my partners. My free will won’t ever be taken again.
With Vance somewhere else in the apartment, I take the moment alone with her to really look at her. She has tiny, faint freckles on her nose, and her eyes are large and bright, a jade-like green with dark lashes bordering them. She has a small, petite nose and perfect, fat lips designed for sucking cock. Her creamy skin is smooth and soft over limbs defined from the muscle she’s built. Heavy natural tits rest on her chest, the rosy nipples peeking out of the water as it laps against her.
Beyond conscious thought, I reach out to trace a finger down her taut stomach before trailing it to her perfect cunt. She arches her back and moans as I slip through her folds, the water sloshing around her as her eyelids grow heavy. “I dreamed about you touching me.” My heart thunders against my ribcage in response to her confession, a possessive urge pounding within me.
“Now that I have, Poppy, there’s no going back to before,” I warn her, my tone thick with lust. “You’re ours now. Our good girl.”
Vance returns wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, handing Poppy a bottle of water, “Drink up, Angel. You’re going to need to hydrate.”
EIGHT
Vance
Waking up to the scent of baking brings a smile to my lips and reminds me of home. The house was always overfilled with food the closer it got to Christmas Day. It’s one of the things I’ll miss not going home this year.
My eyes trace the naked expanse of Tristan’s body beside me in the bed. He’s model perfection, spread out across the dark bedsheets, his chest rising and falling, a small dusting of hairs there, eyes closed, still sleeping. There are no duvet or pillows left on the bed—they became victims of our frenzied fucking last night—and after we’d all collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, no one fucking cared about pillows.
Tristan’s leg shifts in his sleep, drawing my gaze there. Silver scars run across the tops of his muscular thighs. Without him turning over, I know that his back is lined with longer slash scars.
Poppy didn’t ask questions, and from what I saw, she didn’t even react to them, which makes me like her even more. Tristan isn’t shy about them but doesn’t like to talk about who inflicted the ones on his back.
Before meeting Tristan, I couldn’t imagine hating someone I’ve never met in person, but I want to decimate everyone from his childhood.
Running a hand down my face, I slip from the bed and pull on a pair of shorts, leaving the door open as I trek down the hallway to seek out our Angel.
Last night was intense. Tristan and I have shared many women, but there was something different with Poppy. It wasn’t planned, there weren’t any contracts in place. What the three of us shared was real, pure, driven by our need to claim. When those elevator doors opened and the best female fuck of my life was standing inside, I nearly passed the fuck out. What are the odds? It was fate— it had to be.
I follow the smell of sweetness filling the air, finding our Angel in the kitchen, making a mess. “What are you doing?” She startles at my question, spilling sugar onto the granite counter.
Except for the bedroom, our apartment is a spacious, open-plan unit. The kitchen overlooks a dining area with a large table that seats eight, though only the two of us ever use it. The dining space extends into the living room, which is divided by a huge corner couch that wraps around the coffee table. It faces a fireplace with a huge flatscreen TV mounted above it, currently playing some old Christmas movie. Sunlight streams in through the high windows, flooding the expanse of animal-fur-covered rugs on hardwood floors. I make a note to fuck our naughty little slut on the fur rugs later.
“I’m making cookies as a thank you to you guys for letting me stay here. You two are surprisingly well-stocked with ingredients.” She twirls her spatula toward the mess she’s made.
She’s sinfully sexy, wearing one of Tristan’s work shirts, her hair pinned up in a messy bun on top of her head, strands slipping free to frame her face. “You guys must know how tocook, huh?” She licks the spatula, and my eyes zero in on the action.
“Our housekeeper does the shopping and baking, Angel.”
I move up to nuzzle into her neck and inhale her scent. She smells of the cookies she’s baking. I want to eat her.
