“Faster,” Dante says through his teeth.
“No,” I say.
His jaw tightens. His hands flex on my hips, then lock there.
The tendon in his neck pulls sharp under his skin. A tremor runs through his arms. His hips twitch once beneath me, then stop.
He stays still because I told him to.
Cole’s fingers match my rhythm. Every forward roll, he presses. Every time I lift, he circles. The dual stimulation builds in layers, Dante filling me, the piercings dragging, Cole relentless on my clit, his mouth on my neck leaving marks I’ll find tomorrow.
“You feel incredible,” Cole murmurs against my ear.
He shifts his hips enough for me to reach. His cock is hard against my lower back, pressed between our bodies, and I wrap my hand around him. He hisses at the contact. I stroke him in the same rhythm I am riding Dante, our bodies falling into the same beat in a hotel room in Boston the night before a championship game.
“I can feel his hand,” Dante says, looking at where Cole touches me just above where he is buried inside me. “I can feel him touching you while I’m inside you.”
“Good,” I say.
“It’s driving me insane.”
“Good.”
I increase the pace. The slow roll sharpens into something more urgent, my hips snapping on the downstroke, taking him deep enough that the sixth barbell presses high inside me. The pressure sends a bolt through me that makes my whole body clench.
“There,” I gasp. “Right there, don’t move—”
Dante holds still and lets me use him. His hands stay on my waist. His body becomes the anchor under mine, his cock the pressure I chase with increasing desperation. Cole presses harder, faster, his breath ragged against my neck.
The orgasm builds low and deep, a tightening spiral that coils harder with every roll of my hips, every brush of Cole’s fingers, every piercing dragging against the place inside me that is about to break.
“I’m close,” I say. “Don’t stop. Either of you. Don’t change anything—”
Cole presses. Dante’s hands tighten. I snap forward, and the spiral breaks open.
I come with both their names in my mouth, the orgasm clenching around Dante in waves that make him groan beneath me. His hips finally break discipline and thrust up into the contractions, the piercings hitting every oversensitized place while Cole’s fingers ride the aftershocks.
“God,” Dante breathes. “I can feel you coming. Every wave. The piercings—”
“Move,” I tell him, still shaking. “Now you move.”
He does.
His hips drive up into me with the force of a man who has been holding back for ten minutes and has just been given permission. Hard. Deep. The piercings hit places already swollen, already aching, already too sensitive, and the overstimulation converts into a second wave building on top of the first. I cannot tell whether I am finishing or starting again.
Cole shifts behind me and pulls my shoulders back against his chest. Then he reaches down between us with both hands, one on my clit, one flat against my stomach, holding me in place while Dante drives into me from below. I am pinned between them. Cole’s chest against my back. Dante’s hips between my thighs. They hold me exactly where the pleasure turns sharp, deep, unbearable.
“I want you to come,” I tell Dante, my voice raw in my throat. “Inside me. I want to feel it.”
His rhythm breaks. The thrusts become shorter, harder. His hands bruise my hips. In front of me, his face strips open, jaw slack, eyes blown, every careful line of Dante Voss gone under my hands as I tell him to let go.
He comes.
The sound he makes is my name, fractured and spoken into my collarbone. His hips drive off the mattress, his back arching away from the headboard. His cock pulses inside me, and every throb is amplified by the piercings, metal dragging through already raw nerves. The feeling of him finishing inside me while Cole’s fingers stay on my clit pushes me over again, a smaller orgasm, an aftershock, my body clenching in answer to his.
I lean forward and kiss him. I taste the salt on his mouth. His hands soften on my waist, the grip becoming a hold, and I breathe against his lips.
Then I turn my head.
