Her Billionaires(95)

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 ass burned and hummed, buzzed and clenched as Dylan’s thick rod worked in tandem with Mike’s hands and his mouth on her breasts 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 ass and pussy 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 he 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.#p#分页标题#e#

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.