Page 39 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
She tries to exhale and the breath breaks into a whimper I feel in my bones.
Deacon is steady at the head of the couch, one hand braced at the back of her head, the other at his side as if he is afraid to touch in case touching breaks what is happening, and I tip her chin with two fingers so she can see me while I say, “Open for him,” and then, softer, “Do not look away.”
She turns just enough for him to bring himself to her lips once more.
The first wet pull is tentative and surprised, the second deeper, the third finds a slick rhythm that fills the warm air between the three of us with obscene, gorgeous music.
Roman kneels by the armrest, his palm warming a slow path along her ribs, telling her to breathe, and each time she remembers how, the little shiver of air washes through my hands where they hold her.
I set a pace she can ride and she finds it fast, hips stuttering and then smoothing into a greedy grind that makes her voice lift each time I drive her down to the root of me.
Every time I bottom out she makes a choked sound that hums through Deacon and tightens his jaw, and he swears once under his breath like a man who has been holding himself together too long.
A shining string hangs for a heartbeat when she lifts for air, then she goes back down, owning the noise, letting it get messy, letting the room hear everything she wants.
“Good girl,” I praise, my thumbs riding the top of her hips, my voice getting rougher. “Take it. Take him. Do not look away from me.”
Her gaze stays locked on mine, pupils blown, lashes wet.
Roman’s mouth finds her shoulder and the little sob that falls out of her is half laughter, half surrender.
And when I change the angle by a hand’s width, everything tips.
Her legs tense, her fingers bite into my shoulders, the sound in her throat climbs and thins, and the couch thumps under us as she stutters through it.
“That is it,” I tell her, steady as a metronome. “Give it to me. Good girl. Take it. Breathe.”
She breaks with her mouth still full and the noise is filthy and perfect, and Deacon has to close his eyes against it because control is a thing with edges and she is sanding every ridge down with the way she moves.
I keep the rhythm exact and talk her through the aftershocks, only slowing by a fraction so each shake has room to finish, and when she slumps she rallies, cheeks burning, eyes bright and wet, and she goes right back to work on Deacon, more confident now, sounds louder, wetter, a wet pull that makes the hair rise along my forearms.
“Greedy,” I tell her, loving the word on her skin. “I love you greedy. Say thank you.”
She lifts off him for the span of a heartbeat, lips shiny, breath snagging. “Thank you.”
Then she takes him again and the vibration of her moan climbs my spine and makes my vision go hot around the edges.
Deacon’s composure frays by degrees.
His fingers tighten in her hair and he tries to say something and fails and tries again.
It is only her looking up at him while she works, hot-eyed and sure and unashamed, that undoes him.
I pull my cock out, and we trade places. Deacon buries himself in her sweet cunt, sighing in relief as he begins to set a desperate pace.
I lift her chin back to me with two fingers. “My turn,” I tell her, and the noise she makes is high and sweet all at once. “Open. Eyes on me.”
She does, and I feed her what I want, slow at first, then deeper, keeping my hips steady so she can take me with her mouth while I keep her moving on me, and the room becomes nothing but wet sounds and low curses and the heat of her breath on my skin.
Each slick pull, each soft pop when I ease her off for air, each swallow and whimper, builds a pressure in me that blurs the edges of the room, and I stroke her jaw with my thumb. “Breathe, sweet girl.”
Deacon goes quiet and still in that way men do when the world narrows to one point of heat, breath tearing, control gone, and she moans around my cock as he slams home a final time and spills himself inside her.
Her lips curl into a victorious smile around my cock, and she looks up at me for approval.
“Perfect,” Roman says at her temple, his mouth a seal on a promise.
Deacon touches her carefully, as if it is dangerous to do more, and thanks her like a man who knows what he has been given.
