She settles her hands on his shoulders, his eyes half-close before her mouth touches his, and she kisses him.
From behind, I watch her fingers curl into his shirt as Wyatt’s hands slide up her thighs. His mouth parts under hers and she takes control, tilting her head and pressing in harder. The kiss is sensual and slow and raw. Her hips roll subtly as she melts into him, teasing me.
One of his hands rises over the curve of her ass, dragging the t-shirt higher until it’s bunched at her waist and she’s bare for me, the soft pink slit of her sex revealed.
The wanting in me is almost painful. I want to get up, unzip myself, grab her by the hips and fuck her deep. But I don’t move. I let myself watch. I let myself burn.
“Touch her,” I tell Wyatt, my voice coming out hoarse.
He obeys. He slides his hand between her thighs from the front, those rough, broad fingers finding her with practiced certainty, and her knees flex.
“Lift your ass,” I tell her. “Let me see.”
She obeys, hips tipping, ass lifting higher, making the heat inside of me surge until it’s almost painful.
Wyatt’s fingers move over her clit, teasing, then firmer, and her breath turns ragged, her kiss going messy as she tries to breathe through his touch.
“Fuck, she’s wet,” Wyatt murmurs. “I think she’s going to come if I keep doing this. Are you going to come, honey?” he asks her.
“Maybe,” she breathes.
All I can do is groan. I stand and walk forward so I can get a closer look. Max’s eyes cut to me over her shoulder, bright, heated, and daring. Her hair falls forward. Her cheeks are flushed.
I reach out and lift the hem of the t-shirt higher, holding it so it can’t drop.
“Pretty,” I say, and she shudders.
Wyatt’s hand slides higher, one finger pushing inside of her, and her head drops, forehead almost touching Wyatt’s, breath coming out in a gasp.
“Stop,” I tell him. “Don’t let her come yet.” She whimpers and looks back at me as Wyatt drops his hand, brow worried and furrowed. “She wants you to fuck her, don’t you, baby?”
I stroke a hand over her cheek and push my thumb between her lips. Soft, wet, full lips…Fuck.
“Uh-huh,” Max agrees. “Please,” she whispers.
Wyatt shifts carefully, mindful of his ribs, and rises from the chair, his hand working at his belt. Max stays bent, one hand still on the arm of the chair, ass still lifted, t-shirt still trapped at her waist by my grip.
I watch Wyatt free himself, and then he sits back down on the chair. I release her t-shirt and Max straddles him, carefully, lining herself up over the frankly impressive column of his erection. Wyatt’s palms slide up her sides, lifting the t-shirt up and off. He hands it to me and I throw it on the couch.
He presses the head of his cock against her, and Max’s mouth parts on a silent gasp. A low moan escapes me as Wyatt pushes in.
Max’s sound is sharp and helpless, a yip of surprise and pleasure. Her hands reach over Wyatt’s shoulders for the chair cushion, balancing herself, her fingers clawing into the padding. He fills her slow, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep.
“Fuck,” he groans, letting his head roll back, eyes closed, like he can’t even take how good it feels, and Max starts moving, lifting and lowering her ass as she rides him, her breath coming in broken pulls.
She’sso. fucking. hot.like this I honestly don’t think I can take it. The smooth softness of her naked body, full, firm breasts bouncing as she chases her pleasure. The way her mouth parts, eyes heavy-lidded. The obscenity of Wyatt’s cock pounding into her, and the way it makes her unravel.
“That’s good, baby.” I can’t hold back any longer. I unzip my pants, fumbling for my cock and start stroking.
Touching myself is relief and torture at the same time. My cock is so hard it aches, pulsing against my grip. I drag my fist down slowly, then faster, the first slick of precum making it easier. Watching her—them—is better than anything I could conjure on my own. Max’s body moving, Wyatt’s hands guiding her hips, the soft, greedy sounds she makes. It’s like every nerve in my skin is attuned to her.
I watch her face as she rides Wyatt. That soft parted mouth. The way her lashes drop.
She grinds down on Wyatt’s cock, angle shifting so he’s hitting her just right, and her hands slip from the back of the chair to his shoulders, nails digging in. Wyatt meets her thrust for thrust, hips lifting upward, sweat beading on his brow.
She grinds on the downstroke, and Wyatt’s breath catches, his hands clamping harder at her waist, thumbs digging into her flesh.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice breaking. He loses the careful pace for a second, and Max feels it, sinking down harder.
