"Someone might see," I manage, voice not quite steady. The balcony wall comes up high enough to hide most of us from view, but not completely. Anyone who looked up at the right angle might catch a glimpse.
"With us," he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot against my skin, "you'll need to get used to being watched."
The words send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with dark, forbidden arousal. Being shared between the three men. Being desired so openly, so completely, that privacy becomes optional. That boundaries dissolve because they want me enough to stake their claims regardless of who might see.
Heat pools low in my belly, slick and urgent.
Below us, the match is starting. Riders thunder across the field in tight formation, mallets swinging in precise arcs. The crack of wood against the ball echoes up to our balcony. The crowd roars their approval. The sun beats down, painting everything in shades of summer brilliance that feels surreal against what's happening in this shadowed corner.
Zakhar's hand slides between my thighs with confident purpose. Finds the edge of my underwear with unerring accuracy. Slips beneath the delicate fabric with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing.
His finger finds my clit immediately. Circles it once with perfect pressure. Twice. Building sensation with devastating precision, each touch calculated to drive me higher.
At the same time, I feel his erection grinding against my ass. Hard. Insistent. The thick length of him pressing through his pants, creating friction that makes me bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would carry across the open air.
"You're already wet," he says, voice rough with approval and desire. "Have you been thinking about this? About me bending you over somewhere public and making you come where anyone could see?"
I can't answer. Can barely breathe with his finger working me in slow, torturous circles while the world continues below us, oblivious to what's happening in the shadows of the private balcony. My hips move without permission, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's offering.
His free hand slides up my body with aching slowness. Traces my waist, my ribs, the curve of my breast. Cups me through the dress, and even through the layers of fabric I feel the heat of his palm like a brand. His thumb finds my nipple through the material, circling it in perfect rhythm with his other hand between my legs.
The dual sensation makes my knees weak.
"You need to be quiet," he murmurs against my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear.
The thought alone nearly undoes me. The idea of having to muffle my pleasure. Of biting back sounds while people mill around below us, watching horses and not knowing what's happening just above their heads.
His finger increases pressure on my clit. His thumb rolls my nipple with just enough force to toe the line between pleasure and pain. His cock grinds harder against me, creating a rhythm that matches the thundering hoofbeats below.
I feel the orgasm building. Tightening low in my belly like a coiled spring. Spreading outward in waves of heat that make my toes curl in my shoes and my breath come in short, desperate gasps.
"Zakhar, I'm—" The words barely make it past my lips.
"Hold it." His command is absolute. Brooking no argument. "You don't come until one of the teams scores."
"What?" The word comes out strangled.
"You heard me." His finger increases pressure but doesn't change rhythm, maintaining that maddening circular motion that's driving me insane. "Hold it. Watch the game. Wait for the goal."
It's torture. Exquisite, devastating torture that makes every nerve ending in my body scream for release.
I grip the railing tighter, knuckles going white against the metal. Try to focus on the match below even though every cell in mybody is focused on the sensation of his hands on me, in me, working me toward an edge I'm not allowed to fall over.
The riders chase the ball across the field in a blur of color and motion. White uniforms. Brown horses. Green grass. Mallets swing through the air with lethal precision. Horses wheel and charge with terrifying speed and grace. The crowd noise rises and falls with each near-miss, each brilliant save, each moment when it looks like someone might score but doesn't.
Zakhar doesn't stop. His finger keeps that maddening rhythm on my clit, varying pressure just enough to keep me right on the edge but never quite pushing me over. His cock continues grinding against me, the friction delicious and frustrating in equal measure. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to an already overwhelming experience.
"That's it," he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction. "Hold it for me. Show me how good you can be."
My thighs tremble with the effort of standing upright. My body is wound so tight I think I might shatter into a thousand pieces. The pressure builds and builds until I can't tell where pleasure ends and pain begins, until breathing becomes a conscious effort, until the world narrows to nothing but his hands and the desperate need for release.
A rider breaks away from the pack. Charges down the field with singular focus. Lines up the shot with professional precision. The mallet swings back.
I hold my breath.
The mallet connects with the ball with a crack that echoes across the field. The ball sails through the air in a perfect arc. Passes between the goalposts.
The crowd erupts in celebration. Cheers and applause thunder up to our balcony.
