Page 118 of Honey Cut
“Pull out,” he says. “I want to see how much there is.”
Tristan obeys with a shiver and a wince, peeling away from my chest and letting go. When his dick slides out of my pussy, cum from two people follows.
Both men stare between my legs, like the secret to happiness is right there, pooling under my cunt and onto a throne, and I can almost guess what Mark’s about to say before he says it.
“I want more,” he tells us. “Now.”
forty-four
ISOLDE
We creepup to the apartment, giggling like teenagers trying not to get caught, half naked and sticky with fluid and lube. The Samhain party is still ramping up, with the hallways crowded and music thumping from the hall, and I can’t deny the excitement in the air, the feeling like mischief and potential and something primal and necessary is shimmering just within reach.
When we get to the apartment, Mark closes the door behind us, and then we all just grin at each other like fools. Fools who think they’ve found the escape hatch to every problem and the escape hatch is justgiving in, is just taking what you want anyway.
We shower together, washing, and then Tristan and I washing Mark together, smiling at his renewed arousal, the insatiability of him. Erect, he drags us out of the shower, gives us the most cursory of pats with big fluffy towels, and then pulls us to the bed. A few minutes later, he’s on all fours above my face as he fucks my mouth, one hand reaching back to hold Tristan’s face between his cheeks as Tristan kneels behind him and eats ass like he’s never cared much for oxygen and will happily go without.
It doesn’t take long with Tristan tonguing his entrance and my mouth around him and he spurts down my throat with a whisperedJesus, you two.
Tristan and I can’t possibly come any more,we can’t, but Mark forces one more orgasm each from us, using a powerful vibrator and his filthy, wonderful voice. He can’t wait to wake up and do this all over again, he can’t wait to fuck me in the ass while Tristan fucks my cunt, he wants to see if he and Tristan can fit in my cunt at the same time. He wants to watch Tristan and me fuck, and then he wants to punish us; he has more turns left with Tristan, he reminds me, and he wants to make me observe his sordid retribution while tied to a chair with a vibrating egg nestled inside me. He wants Tristan and me kneeling in front of him so he can fuck our mouths at the same time, and he wants us both under his desk when he’s bored, our lips parted and waiting. He wants to make out with Tristan while I suck on them both. He wants to eat my pussy while I’m still asleep and then let Tristan fuck it; he wants to tie me up and make Tristan edge me until I scream.
A wicked, perfect future he paints for us, and we grab at it with both hands.
And by the time everything is finished—the bed a rumpled mess and the vibrator tossed who knows where—we are mussed and spent and limp as rag dolls. Mark turns on the light and checks over our bodies, our happily abused flesh, to make sure nothing needs attention. Then he kisses both of us, warm and brief. Good-night kisses.
We fall asleep in a warm tangle, moonlight dancing in through the water above us.
* * *
I wake an hour later,abruptly alert and clearheaded, as if God himself had called my name to summon me from my dreams.
The moon is bright still, and even through the excellent soundproofing of the club, I can hear the faint thrum of music.
I look at the clock. Near midnight. I look back over at Mark and Tristan. At some point, someone had pulled the blanket over all of us, but Mark’s leg is hooked around the outside, like he’d gotten hot. Tristan, who is between Mark and me, is draped shamelessly over Mark’s chest, and his fingers are slotted through Mark’s, the linked hands resting at Mark’s side.
I know what Mark meant when he said that his jealousy was a hurt that he never wanted to stop. Because I feel so many things when I watch them holding hands in their sleep, when I watch their matched breathing, their soft, parted mouths. I feel greedy and covetous and wounded, yes, and also fond and protective and…happy.
And the one thing I do not feel, even in the smallest amount, islonely.
Its absence is an astounding thing. Weightless. Warm.
The watch.
The thought comes to me with a clarity that makes my pulse thud. This is the perfect time, the perfect window. Mark is deeply unconscious, there’s enough ambient noise humming through the club to cover my movements, and I have unfettered access to his things.
And I can save him. Save us all.
It’s too easy to slip out of bed, to walk silently through the room to the bathroom, where our costumes ended up in careless piles. I step over abandoned boots and fake furs and take the large silver watch off the counter. Mark is normally a bit neater than this, but we were in a hurry to get in the shower, to get to touching each other again. Understandably.
I find a short nightgown made of gold silk and pull it on. I continue walking through the apartment until I leave, as silently as a cat, and pad to my office.
There are a few things I keep in here that aren’t strictly necessary for evaluating antiques, and so I keep them under a panel in a drawer in my desk. A lock-picking kit, a small debugging kit. It’s the last that I pull out and set on my desk. And then I flick on my work light, a light meant for illuminating minuscule lines of filigree or ridges of oil paint impasto.
It works very well for someone prying off the front bezel of a watch and unscrewing the tiny screws the bezel reveals.
With my micro-screwdriver and micro-tweezers, I manage to get into the case of the watch, where—yes. Yes, that must be it.
I pull the tiny chip from the back of the case with the tweezers and hold it to the light, feeling the ridiculous urge to kiss it, like a priest with the holy host.
