Elle
The house doesn’t feellike a house—it feels like a declaration. Four names on a deed, four toothbrushes in the primary bathroom, four distinct scents mingling in the sheets.
We’ve nicknamed it our “love nest,” which should sound ridiculous coming from a woman who once alphabetized her suppressants and color-coded her business attire.
But here I am, ass up on the ridiculously expensive chaise longue that Caleb insisted would “perfectly frame that gorgeous body of yours,” with Miles’s hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I’m not thinking about quarterly reports or meeting schedules.
I’m thinking about how fucking full I feel, how the slick sound of him pumping into me echoes in our high-ceilinged living room, and how I never want this to end.
“Fuck, Elle,” Miles grunts behind me, his usual economy of language reduced to profanity and my name. “So tight. Always so perfect for me.”
I would respond, but coherent speech abandoned me three thrusts ago. Instead, I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper as he shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. A year together, and he still reads my body like it’s one of his financial reports—methodical, thorough, missing nothing.
Adrian kneels before me, his fingers gentle in my hair as he guides my face up to meet his gaze. The contrast between his touch and Miles’s punishing rhythm behind me sends electricity racing through my system. Adrian, ever the study in contradictions—controlled yet passionate, demanding yet giving.
“Open,” he commands softly, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
I comply instantly, mouth parting as he guides himself between my lips. The taste of him blooms on my tongue—crisp apples and clean cedar, uniquely Adrian. I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper, losing myself in the dual sensation of being filled from both ends.
Miles’s pace quickens behind me, his grip tightening on my hips as he drives into me with increasing force. Each thrust pushes me forward onto Adrian’s cock, creating a rhythm that has me moaning around my mouthful. I’m caught between them, suspended in pleasure, anchored only by their hands on my body.
“She’s close,” Miles observes, never missing a detail. “Her muscles are tightening. She’s fluttering around me.”
Adrian’s fingers tangle in my hair, not pulling but holding me steady as Miles pounds into me from behind. “Let us feel it, Elle,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “Let go for us.”
The permission—not that I need it anymore, not really—breaks something loose inside me. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing as pleasure radiates outward from my core. I cry out around Adrian, the sound muffled but unmistakable in its intensity.
Miles fucks me through it, relentless, his pace never faltering as I clench and pulse around him. Only when the last tremor subsides does his rhythm stutter, his breathing harsh as he chases his own release.
“Fuck,” he groans, pushing deep one final time. “Elle. Fuck.”
The sensation of him pulsing inside me triggers a secondary wave of pleasure, gentler than the first but no less sweet. When he finally stills, his forehead resting momentarily against my back, I feel the loss immediately as he withdraws.
Adrian pulls back too, allowing me to catch my breath. His cock is still hard, glistening with my saliva, but he makes no move to seek his own completion. Not yet. There’s a choreography to these moments that we’ve perfected over the months—a dance of taking and giving, of patience and reward.
Caleb appears at the edge of my vision, naked and gloriously aroused, his eyes dark with hunger as he takes in the sight of me sprawled across the chaise. “My turn?” he asks, the playfulness in his tone belied by the intensity of his gaze.
Miles steps back, making room, his hand trailing along my spine in a gesture that’s both possessive and appreciative. “All yours. She’s primed and ready.”
I should be offended by them discussing me this way, like I’m not here, like I’m some prize to be passed between them. Professional Elle Park would never tolerate such objectification.But I’m not just Professional Elle Park anymore. I’m theirs, collectively, enthusiastically. And god help me, I love when they talk about me like this—when they appreciate what they do to my body, how responsive I am to their touch.
Caleb stretches out on the chaise, positioning himself beneath me with fluid grace. His hands find my waist, guiding me until I’m straddling him, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance.
“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs, that trademark grin softening into something more intimate, more real. “Missed me?”
“Always,” I breathe, sinking down onto him in one smooth movement that has us both gasping. He fills me differently than Miles—slightly curved, hitting spots that make my toes curl with each downward thrust.
His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples already sensitive from earlier attention. “Fucking perfect,” he says, the crude words at odds with the reverence in his tone. “You’re fucking perfect, Elle.”
I begin to ride him, finding a rhythm that has him groaning beneath me. It’s different this way—I have more control, can tease him a little, can watch his face as pleasure washes over his features. Adrian moves behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders, steadying me as my pace quickens.
“Slow down,” he murmurs against my ear. “We’re nowhere near done with you yet.”
The promise in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I comply, easing my movements, drawing out each rise and fall to a torturous pace that has Caleb cursing beneath me.
“You’re evil,” he gasps, fingers digging into my hips. “So fucking evil.”
I smile down at him, enjoying the power I hold in this moment. “You love it.”
