I nodded, curving into her delicate and cool touch, the sensation so foreign compared to Easton and Aaron’s firm and masculine hands. “You’re beautiful,” she said, pulling apart the final buttons, her hands skating over my lace bra and undoing its front clasp.
If it was possible for Easton to get harder, he did, his foreskin stretching drum-tight as he watched Julia lift my aching breasts in her hands. My hand, which had grown lazy, worked back into action as I tried to pull my attention off my tender nipples and toward his cock. She brushed her lips over one of my nipples and I inhaled at the soft touch of her mouth. “Here,” I said quickly. “Take it.” I needed to see her put that mouth on him. I needed to get the focus off me and onto him before I ripped all of my clothes off and begged someone to fuck me.
She lifted her mouth from my breast and moved toward his cock. I needed her to do it quickly, before my wave of arousal crested, or turned into insecurity, or some other card in this towering stack fell out of place. The fire in my head roared and when she wrapped her hand around him and lowered her head to take him in, I expected it to burst. She slid her mouth down on his shaft, her lips gliding over the thick rod, and I braced for impact.
Nothing. Nothing but the slow and mounting need to be fucked six ways to Sunday. Nothing but the love burning through me for my husband, who gripped her ponytail in his fist and stared into my eyes. He short thrusted up into her mouth—Julia De Luca’s mouth—and worshipped me with his stare. I lowered my face until it was beside hers, my nails skimming along his thigh, and flicked my tongue out and along the base of his cock. She tilted her head to one side and together we licked up along his thick shaft. I took in the swollen head, then she did, and when I looked back at him, his features were almost delirious with pleasure and arousal.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned. Pulling at my arm, he lifted his chin. “Sit on my face. I have to taste you.”
I sat back on my heels and pushed to my feet. Unbuttoning my slacks, I pushed my underwear and pants down, then ripped my shirt and bra off, stripping down to nothing in the middle of their backyard. From above me, I heard the slide of the door and realized Brad was returning. Empowered, I stepped onto the cushion and over Easton, straddling his shoulders and fisting his blond tufts as he kissed my hips and fought for access to my pussy. Slow footsteps sounded as Brad came down the steps.
“Kneel on the back cushions,” Easton gasped and I heard Julia gagging, looked down to see her face buried in his lap, his thick dick fully down her throat. I held on to his head for balance and knelt on the cushions on either side of his face, struggling to stay upright as I pitched dangerously over the back of the sectional.
“Here.” Brad’s voice came out of the darkness, his hands gripping mine, supporting me as I balanced over Easton’s face. My husband’s mouth settled between my legs, right where I was hot and aching, and I moaned aloud as his face buried in and focused on the most intense spot of my need.
“Does that feel good?” Brad’s voice was gruff and close.
I kept my eyes closed as my back arched in pleasure. “So good,” I panted.
He moved my hands to either side of his neck. “Keep your hands on my shoulders.” He leaned forward and his breath tickled my hair. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes,” I gasped without thinking, my nails digging into the thick fabric of his shirt.
He chuckled. “Forgive me for being careful, but this is a litigious era. I’m going to need to hear you ask for it. Better yet…” I flinched in surprise when his thumb grazed over my mouth. “Beg.”
“Please touch me,” I whispered.
I could feel his breath, the question uttered somewhere around my collarbone.
His hands were hot and thick, hitting the sides of my body and sliding down, then back up, his fingers flexing and gently curling around me. They rose, up from my ribcage and came forward, cupping my breasts and lifting them up. So different from her touch. So much stronger. Less tentative. More possessive and confident. “Ask your husband if I can touch you.”
Easton’s mouth, which had been pulsing against my clit slowed and he lifted his head back against the cushions and looked up at me. I found him in the dark, his features raw with arousal, his eyes hungry with need. “Can he touch me?” I asked, and it wasn’t a question. It was a plea. A beg. A wanton request from a woman so far over the edge that I’m not sure I would have been able to stop if he had denied it.