Page 179 of What We Bury

Milo laughs softly, the vibration of it buzzing against my lips. He slides his hand into my hair, gripping just enough to make me shiver. “You like when he talks to you like that?” he whispers, glancing past me at Holden.

“Yes. I love it.”

Holden’s fingers find the edge of my panties. He pauses, lifting his head to meet my eyes. “Yes or no, wildcat.”

“Yes.” The word comes out broken. “God, yes.”

“Fuck,” Milo breathes, pulling back to watch. “Look at you two together. So hot.”

Holden doesn’t rush. Just slips the cotton aside and teases his fingers along my seam. I’m already wet—embarrassingly so—and when he feels it, a low sound rumbles in his chest.

“She’s soaked,” he tells Milo, like he’s reporting a finding. Clinical, almost, except for the heat in his voice.

“Of course she is.” Milo grins, kissing my jaw. “Our girl’s always ready for us. You love being fucked. Don’t you, kitten?”

I can’t answer. Holden’s fingers are stroking me now, slow, teasing circles around my clit that make my thighs shake.

“Words,” Holden reminds me, his voice rough.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Both of you. I want both of you touching me. I love it when you fuck me.”

“What do you like about it?” Milo’s hand slides under the oversized shirt I’m wearing—one of Holden’s, stolen after the first night he slept over. “Be specific.” He palms my breast through my bra.

“I like that you can’t help yourself. That you want me so much it makes you lose control. I like how big your hands are on me, how you hold me down, how you make me feel—” I cut off because Holden’s got two fingers inside me now, and he’s curling them with perfect fucking expertise, rubbing that spot that makes my vision kaleidoscope and my thighs clamp around his wrist.

Milo’s watching, his hand still under my shirt, thumbing over my nipple until it goes tight and aching. His other arm has found my back, holding me up as I arch into the impossible pleasure of both of them at once.

“I love that,” Milo says. “I love making you come undone.” He leans in close, his lips almost brushing my ear. “But you like being used. Don’t you, kitten? Like knowing you’re all ours?”

“Yes. Fuck—yes,” I cry, my body arching helplessly toward the pressure of Holden’s hand.

“That’s what I thought.” Milo captures my mouth again, swallowing the sounds Holden’s pulling out of me. It’s coordinated, almost—not practiced, but instinctive, like their worst impulses understand each other perfectly where I’m concerned.

I’m dimly aware of Holden shifting, sliding off the couch to kneel between my legs. He tugs at my panties, and I lift my hips to help him pull them down. The cool air hits my skin, and then his hands are spreading my thighs.

“Oh God. Yes.”

His mouth is on me. Hot and wet and devastating. He licks into me like he’s starving for it, tongue flat against my clit, and I cry out, my hand flying to his hair.

“There you go,” Milo murmurs, watching with dark eyes. “Let him make you feel good. That’s all you have to do.”

Milo’s lips return to mine, and I lift one hand to his hair and hold him to me while I ride Holden’s tongue, grinding helplessly.

Every time I start to break, Milo is right there to kiss me, swallow my cries, keep me from floating away.

Holden slides another finger inside me and the stretch is perfect, brutal and slow. He fucks me with his fingers, tongue working my clit, and I almost tell him to give me a second. But I don’t because I don’t know how to survive feeling this much at once.

I can’t think. I can barely breathe. Holden’s tongue is relentless, circling and flicking and sucking, and when he curls his fingers just right, I shatter.

The orgasm hits—sudden, overwhelming, pulling me under. I hear myself crying out, feel my body arching off the couch, Holden’s hands pinning my hips down as he works me through it.

When I finally come back to myself, I’m trembling. Holden pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking far too satisfied.

“Good?” he asks.

I laugh, breathless. “What do you think?”

Holden sits back on his heels and looks at Milo over me—that same silent thing from the couch, a question and an answer folded into one glance. “She’s barely warmed up,” he says, like he’s briefing a colleague.