Page 10 of Brushed and Buried
Trevor grins. “Why do you like bottoming?”
“Because,” I breathe, “when it’s good, it feels like full-body surrender. I can take everything and still want more. There’s a kind of power in it.”
They’re quiet. Rapt. I roll onto my knees, giving them a better view. My cock’s hard, pressed to my abs, and I know they’re all watching it.
“Who’s up first?” I ask, voice light, teasing.
Lance, naturally.
He steps in with a crooked grin, nervous but game. He sits beside me on the couch, and I straddle his lap, the music still playing.
“You sure about this?” he asks. He looks like the question was actually for himself, not me.
“Let’s just say I’ve had practice with men who want to experiment, and they are unsure where to begin,” I murmur, grinding slowly. “But never with an ER nurse.”
He flushes, even as his hands slide over my hips. “You’re…warm.”
The music pulses louder, the beat vibrating in my bones. I roll my hips as I dance on Lance’s lap, slow at first, then faster, grinding with controlled friction. My hands slide up my chest, tweaking my nipples for show, then comb into Lance’s hair. He watches me with reverent awe, like I’m some kind of sexed-up angel descending from a slutty heaven. The others are dead silent, just breathing, drinking in every move.
Lance is compact and muscular, with blue-gray eyes. His chest is firm, abs taut under me, and I love the way he bites his lip, unaccustomed to being on this side of the attention.
I slide off him, still in rhythm with the song, and slink over to Trevor. He spreads his legs without hesitation, smiling like he’s won the jackpot. He’s got laid-back charm, all swimmer’s build and sun-kissed curls, sea-blue eyes flashing as his cock presses a thick outline in his shorts. I straddle him, chest to chest, rolling my ass against his length. He grips my hips and lets me move, respecting the rhythm.
“You were made for this,” he murmurs, half drunk and devoted.
I grind down harder, torturously slow, until he groans. “I get that a lot.”
Then I turn, crawling over to George. I brace my hands on his wide thighs and rise up to grind against his lap. He doesn’t touch at first, only watches, his eyes heavy-lidded and his jaw tightly clenched. He’s easily the largest of the group; tall, thick in the shoulders and biceps, olive skin under his dark brown hair, grown out into a thick, slightly tousled cut. His chest is broad and muscled, dusted with a trail of black hair leading into his shorts. When he grips my hips, it’s firm and assured. His palms are callused, the kind that leave an ache you remember. I moan and toss my head back, letting my hair spill.
Finally, I move toward Vince.
He’s leaning against the wall, with his arms folded. His black hair falls unruly onto his brow, framing a strong, clean-shaven jaw and hazel eyes flecked with gold. His black tee clings to his tattooed right arm, his thighs thick beneath his jeans, all lean, compact strength.
I let the music guide me as I move closer, hips swaying and chest rising with each breath. I dance in front of him, performing as I would for any stranger, arching, hands tangled in my hair, thighs flexing. When I pivot to show him my ass, I press back against him, feeling him hard and warm beneath me. His body is steady, but the tension in his chest, the subtle shift of his hips, tells me everything.
His hands hover near mine, restrained, like he’s holding himself back, but I feel every pull of muscle under my palms, every pulse as his body reacts to mine. I grind slightly, rolling against him, savoring the friction, the way his warmth spreads across me.
He barely moves and doesn’t blink, yet I feel him completely present. Flickers of attention reveal his struggle. His breath catches in small hitches. The lines of muscle beneath my hands pull taut. Everything speaks of his resistance and of how I make it impossible for him to hold back. When I step away, he releases a shaky breath, as he finally gives himself a measure of distance, but his gaze never wavers.
I move on.
I am now back to Lance, sitting on the couch. Sweet, curious Lance, who welcomes me like I’m dessert. I straddle him again, and that’s when the tension shifts.
George stands and casually pushes down his shorts. Everyone goes silent.
His cock springs free, heavy and thick, a real monster. It is long and veiny, the head already glistening.
“Bro! What the actual hell?” Trevor blurts, wincing and laughing.
Lance’s eyes go wide, mouth falling open. “God. Forget proportional,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen it before, but never hard. Does any uterus stand a chance?”
Even Vince cracks a slight grin. “Definitely built for destruction.”
George just shrugs, unbothered. “I work with my hands. This is just another tool.”
My mouth waters, not romantically but professionally. Mostly.
“I hope your tool knows how to play nice,” I say with a wink.
