Page 76 of Bitter Burn
Mark rubs her thighs. “I know, gorgeous, I know. Want me to help so you can hold on to me instead? Here, here.” He replaces her hands with his own, large enough that his splayed fingers nearly reach all the way to where I’m breaching her. She does as he suggests and grabs uselessly at his shoulders and neck and hair, all a fuss. And then my tip pops all the way through the cinch, and the three of us share a single, shattered inhale.
“It’s so hot,” I mumble. “Fuck. Sir. How.”
I don’t even know what I’m saying, but Mark seems to understand. “Now you know why I can’t get enough when it comes to you,” he agrees, the gentle tone he’d just used already melting back into something unearthly and malign. “There’s nothing else like it. Tight enough to choke your cock, and then all that smooth heat beyond. Go in deeper. Feel it for yourself.”
I slide in another inch or two with some clench-jawed effort, and then I begin to feel him, not just as lack of room but him, the unrelenting shape of his desire in her pussy.
“Oh,” she breathes, still palming and grasping at him. “I feel both—oh.”
Mark’s hands do their cruel work and part her even more, to the point where every detail is neatly exposed when I look down. The wet pink hole stretched thin around my intrusion. The vein running along the top of my dick. The heavy erection spreading her cunt open below me.
I run soothing hands up her back and down to her waist. I drop clumsy kisses on her shoulder and the nape of her neck. “I’m going to go all the way now,” I say. I sound like I’m being strangled.
She nods, and then I press and press and press until I’m fully seated and the three of us are a chorus of cleaved inhales and tormented exhales. Isolde is making a moaning kind of hum, somewhere between pleasure and pain.
“Does it hurt or does it feel good?” asks her husband.
“Yes,” she answers weakly. “Yes.”
I’m still doing my utmost to caress her and lavish her with touch, but time has elongated into one urgent, eternal shiver, and it’s exactly as Mark said, an indecent squeeze followed by a velvet cloud made of heat and illicit pleasure, and when I pull out and feel myself dragging along his erection, my knees nearly give out.
“Fuck, oh my God, fuck,” I pant. This would already be too much on its own, but with him inside her too, it’s fucking deadly, it’s the end of me, it’s slaughter by fuck, because I don’t think I can take another stroke and survive.
But between us, Isolde is shifting, testing, moving in the tiniest ways, her inner muscles clutching and flexing and sliding. There’s a mist of sweat along Mark’s throat and collarbone now, and the muscles of his chest and stomach are quivering, and I am much the same.
“I’m afraid if movement is what’s needed, then it must be you,” Mark advises me. His jaw is clenched hard enough that a muscle leaps along the side. “Slow at first. I can help with my hands.”
I close my eyes, suck in a breath. I’m going to come, and I’m going to come so quickly that there will be no doubt what fucking Isolde does to me, what it does to me to fuck her at the same time as Mark, to feel him…and perhaps that was the point after all. If the flight across the Atlantic, the declarations of love, the nights spent chasing away nightmares, and weathering the storm of Mark’s attention—if those aren’t sufficient enough on their own to prove that Isolde and Mark are the only obsessions of my sick and besotted heart, then here’s this physical proof. I’m undone just from being inside her.
But fate has spoken, and I must answer the call. I pull out at a slow, bone-humming pace, savoring the clench of her asshole and the swelter around my tip, the rub of Mark against me, and then push back in. Heat rushes up my thighs, and I have to put a hand briefly to Mark’s knee to catch my balance, because consciousness is becoming harder and harder to hold on to.
“I can feel you trying to rub your clit on me, dearest,” Mark says to Isolde, still holding her wide open for me to stroke into. “Does it feel good? Do you want more?”
“Yes, more,” she hums and leans forward onto his chest. The change in angle makes us both groan. “Breed me there, Tristan. I want to feel it.”
Darkness swarms over my vision as the blood rushes from my head and up from my feet, my entire body converted into a damp, trembling clutch of need.
“You heard her,” says Mark softly. “Give her more. It’s the least you can do with what I’m giving you.”
Even inhaling too deeply will make me come at this point, but I’m as unable to resist as I would be if he had me on marionette strings. I clench my stomach and pull out almost to the crown, looking down to see the sight of my erection sliding out of her perfect asshole, and then I push back in again, the ring of pink around my length only visible when the club lights flash the brightest. Mark’s hands frame the lewd view, and I can see how each thrust has me rubbing against him, our balls nearly touching whenever I’m all the way seated.
Isolde has begun pressing back against me, meeting my thrusts, and the roll of her ass, the arrogant hands helping her, the taut, muscled cincture that I’m piercing with my own thick need…
That’s it, it’s over, and somehow Mark knows, because somehow Mark always knows.
“Look at me,” he says in a low voice. “Thank me.”
I look up and meet his dark, glittering stare. Wordless pleasure, filthy pleasure, the primal sensation of fucking a slick hole—I’m being overridden by my body, overwritten by this blistering, phoenix-like ecstasy.
But his eyes are constant, they’re standard candles, fixed points of navigation, and whatever is left of Tristan Thomas in this moment must obey.
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“For what?”
“For letting me fuck your wife. For letting me breed her. For letting me fuck her ass. For letting me feel your dick inside her, sir. It feels so good against mine.”
A satisfied smile overtakes his features. “You’re welcome, puppy.”
