Which was her form of nirvana, really.
No one bothered to make a pretense that they would do anything but double, so Laura rolled herself into a sitting position, completely uninhibited, as if it were routinely part of life to be naked in her own bed, wet spot testifying to an eroticism a few minutes ago she'd never thought possible, while her eyes feasted on the long, lean Mike and the shorter, muscled Dylan, both watching her with expectation and very, very obvious signs that they were eager for her.
Signs pointing up.
It was Dylan who gently nudged her to the side and slid under her, positioning her hips over him, guiding her to straddle. Her breasts, pendulous and full, brushed against his chest as she laughed, her hair falling over her shoulder and tickling his chin. His tip touched her clit, an agony she inhaled her way through, the feelings so raw and exquisite she wanted to plunge herself with him.
So she did. Angling her hips just so, she rode him effortlessly, his rod filling her slick walls and making her cry out to Mike. “You, too!” she gasped, ready for the forbidden once more, but this time completely at her call, at her request, as she opened herself up to them on equal footing. No lies, no secrets, no omissions.
The bed seemed to tilt slightly to the left, then right, as she felt Mike climb behind her, his hands on her as**s and then his voice. “Hey.” Hot breath on her neck, a kiss. “Do you have any lube?”
“There.” She pointed to the drawer next to her bed. She'd bought a new tube – and cleared out her electronic boyfriends – for tonight. Somehow, he managed to keep his knees in place, firmly planted on either side of Dylan's legs and her ass, and pulled the bottle from the drawer. In seconds she felt the delicious, wet, slippery warmth of fluid on her ass, her walls clenching with greed for all of him in her.
“Oh,” Dylan sighed as she tightened. And then Mike's finger sent an electric jolt through her as Dylan sat up and took her left nipple in his mouth, the combined sensations making her buck against Dylan and start to really f**k him.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” he teased, his words mumbled through a mouthful of her bosom. Coupled with Mike's finger's making slow, snail trails along the edge of her puckered ass, she felt swollen and captivated by the anticipation of what was about to happen, to have Mike in her, both holes full, all three joined by her flesh. Mike's finger slipped past her over-snug hole, the feeling so thrashingly hot she almost came, though Dylan held her still, anchoring her to the bed as Mike prepared to enter her. His oiled-up hands roamed her as**s and hips, a playful slap making her gasp finally break.
“God, Mike, just fill me. Please,” she begged, Dylan reaching up with his lips and fingers to bite and twist her nipp**les just as Mike centered the tip of his co**ck over her ass. Tapping at the gates, the feel of him perched on the precipice between in and not-in made her push back a bit, needing him to do this, wanting to be complete with them both.
Burning, Stretching, Fire. Then – ahhhh...
Like pouring something warm and enormous in her, she felt her body seize then relent, seize and relent, the dance almost too much, her throat yielding hitched gasps as she worked to hold both men. Mike's belly pushed against her lower back and ass, his hands on either side of her and Dylan, his balance perfect. It needed to be; one misstep and what was now a tortured pleasure would just be torture.
Taking Dylan's mouth with hers, she moved so carefully, Mike following her lead, until she felt them all tighten viscerally, as if nerves and pores and skin and need all pinpointed to the perfect climax. It was just standing there, as if summoned, and Mike pressed his stubbled cheek into her backbone and groaned.
“Ready?” Dylan said. It really wasn't a question, his face grimaced with excitement and the barely-held-back release he so obviously wanted. Her body utterly impaled by both men, thoroughly full and ready for explosion, they slowly moved, awkward at first and then finding their rhythm, the power of three bringing them all quickly to the edge, friction and sweat and slick and mouths and everything.
Her as**s burned and hummed, buzzed and clenched as Dylan's thick rod worked in tandem with Mike's hands and his mouth on her brea**sts and hips and then she felt it – that imperceptible roar that came from nowhere and told her she'd soon burst blood vessels around her eyes, scream until her throat ached, and shoot neurons from parts of her that weren't supposed to have them.
Dylan's chest hair was matted with sweat, hers and his and Mike's dripping into a thin sheen as she caught his eyes in the moonlight, his face dark and ready. “God, Laura, I'm – ”
Tip. She just...tipped, her as**s and pus**sy and body tightening, fingers digging into Dylan's shoulders then releasing as she drew long, deep scratches, etching some part of her pleasured agony into him, then releasing and grabbing the sheets, ripping them from the corners of the mattress as she howled. Howled. The sound was like a rutting animal and then she realized it wasn't just her, Mike's long form pushing against her haunches as she thrust harder, splitting her in two and finding a sweet spot deep inside that made her feel like a dwarf star, imploded and eviscerated, a climax of every muscle and of no unturned sensation.
Hot cream poured into her; she could feel the spurt, the rush, the bubbling overflow as her too-tight passages strained to accept what Mike and Dylan's bodies spat out. No one moved too fast or too hard, afraid to cause too much pain, in fear of ruining this sweet, primal moment as they just...howled. Laura's panting came first, her body going limp like a rag doll, collapsing on Dylan as Mike seemed to finish with one thrust and reactivated her clit, gently pushing it against Dylan's groin and giving her a shiver of an orgasm that was like a tiny, ice-cold breeze in a heat wave, perfect for a few seconds but never quite enough.
Mike hissed out his own climax, his hands kneading her back and then tensing, the feel of him deep in her wet and viscous. He, too, rested as if turned to putty, and soon Laura really was in a sandwich. The thought made her chuckle, which pushed Dylan out of her as her laughter engaged her abs.
Dylan joined her, and soon all three were amusing themselves with chuckles of comfort, of coming home, of satisfaction and of satiety. This was what Laura had dreamed of all these years. This bliss.
And nothing more.
Chapter Four
Dylan couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The past few weeks with Laura and Mike couldn't have been scripted to this kind of perfect. Maybe he was a bit biased, but he felt like he had really aligned the planets or pleased the gods or found the secret to the cosmos that day he'd read her profile, her sweet smile and creamy skin almost climbing out of the computer screen and saying, "You found me, Dylan. You found me."
As he sauntered into the fire station and unlocked his locker, he shot Joe, the chief, a look that must have been pretty wild, because Joe frowned and said, "You been hit by the dumb love stick, Stanwyck? Why you smiling like a lovesick dumbass?"
"Because I am a lovesick dumbass?" Dylan stripped off his Howard Jones t-shirt (man, his brother must have had a lapse in judgment in 1989) and slipped his arms into his freshly-pressed uniform shirt.
Joe smirked back. "That explains it. The lovestruck part. You've always been a dumbass, and no woman will change that." A couple of guys nearby chuckled and Dylan just rolled his eyes. The banter was part of the job. Joe motioned for him to follow into the chief's office.
The station looked like the set of Barney Miller, frozen in 1977 with the exception of Internet service and the computers. Scratched metal desks with cheap, fake-wood tops, battered filing and storage cabinets that were Army green and probably army-issued in the 1940s, or castoffs from the war. The floor was Army-green tile streaked with an off-white marble-like pattern that fooled no one; it was linoleum, cheap, and the second the custodians finished the annual stripping and waxing it was scuffed all over again, making Dylan wonder why on earth they bothered.
The place was clean as a whistle, though. When there was nothing to do the paramedics and fire fighters all had chore rotation, and Joe kept a tight ship. A veteran of Vietnam and the first Gulf War, he ran the place like a military officer and it showed. Response time was lightning fast, employee retention was nearly 100 percent, and they hadn't had a new hire in four years. The waiting list to work there was dozens deep.
Joe closed the door, but didn't sit down. He pulled out a manilla envelope and said quietly, "Murphy just found out his wife has breast cancer."
Cold descended over him. "Oh, shit." His heart rate shot up. No man should have to go through this. He and Mike had, though, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining what Murphy was going through.
"You know how hard it is, Stanwyck. And Murphy's dad has Alzheimer's. His wife's been taking care of him. They need to hire some kind of caregiver to help with his dad now, and they have the kids... If she gets the right treatment they think they caught it nice and early. We're taking up a collection, though." He handed Dylan the envelope and reached for the doorknob. "It's none of my business what you put in – just give what you can manage. No amount's too small."
You have no idea. "Of course."
