Page 48 of Shipwrecked

The next time you get on your knees and open your mouth, I’m sticking my cock in it.

“Cover it in what?” I ask.

Cillian’s eyes flare, but I realise what he was offering. I touch my mouth. “Okay.”

Cillian glances behind him, and I watch, enthralled, as he moves position. He sits pressed against my knee, and leans over both me and Mathieu, a hand planted on the bedding on the other side of Mathieu. He pushes us both over so that he’s blocking the view of us bar our legs from the outside. He takes his other hand and places it over my mouth. His fingers are long. My entire jaw is in his grip.

I go still, staring up at him.

Mathieu props himself up on an elbow. He studies the way Cillian’s holding me, then my eyes. I only see that out of the corner of my eye. The entirety of my focus is on Cillian. My body starts singing, Use me use me use me. I’m here for the ride, you steer.

“Since your mouth is going to be covered, this is your code word.” Mathieu guides my hand to Cillian’s wrist and taps twice. “If you can’t catch your breath, or it feels uncomfortable or scary, you do that, and we’ll stop. Even if you just get bored with being touched and want to stop, you tap. Okay?”

I nod.

“Practice it for us,” Mathieu says.

I tap Cillian’s wrist, and he releases my mouth.

“Good.” Mathieu makes a happy sound.

Cillian’s hand slides back into place.

“Bon appétit.” Mathieu says something else in French that I don’t understand. His hand is back on me. A touch through underwear shouldn’t be so electric, but after a mere few strokes I’m scrabbling at Mathieu’s forearm, trying to beg through Cillian’s hand.

“We’ll prioritise the rest of the food and drinks tomorrow,” Cillian says. “And any other tools that we can salvage. Then we’ll move on to the rest of what’s in there.”

Mathieu replies with something about timing and schedules. Other stuff I can’t coherently follow.

I vaguely understand they’re talking to cover up any other sounds. If Mathieu didn’t have my lower body pinned, I’d be arching off the ground, humping his hand. My lashes flutter shut. Cillian’s grip tightens. “Eyes on me,” he corrects.

My eyes flash open and jump to his face. His grip softens.

Mathieu’s hand is doing maddening work. All on top of my clothes. I don’t get the chance to complain about the distance; Mathieu kisses my shoulder, and the flutter of sensitive nerves sends me over the edge. Mathieu pumps me through my orgasm. Cillian smothers the moans. I tremble, pinned by the two of them, my body convulsing with shocking force.

In the lingering aftershocks, I breathe heavily, a layer of sweat clinging to me. I’m still keeping my eyes open. On Cillian.

He breaks eye contact, looking at the mess in my underwear. Mathieu brushes Cillian’s hand with his fingertips. Cillian releases me, slowly. Mathieu hooks a finger beneath my chin and turns my face towards him. “Good?” Mathieu checks.

I’m bottomed out. “Good,” I pant. “Thank you.”

Mathieu looks amused. “Thank-yous are given as returned favours.”

I reach for him. Cillian catches my wrist before I can get a hand into Mathieu’s shorts.

“He’s tired,” Cillian says.

“I’m not.”

“A sleepy hand job sounds just as appealing as an energetic one,” Mathieu says. But he scans my face, studying me. “Hm.” An awful premonition rises at the sound of that hm. It’s the same cadence he used when he decided I was too drunk to hook up with at the club.

“I’m not tired,” I object. “Let me. Let me.”

“Hmmm.” Mathieu cups my face. “You do look very tired. And you’re trembling.”

“This is ridiculous. Why didn’t you object five minutes ago then? If I’m so tired.” I pin an accusing look on Cillian, who still has my wrist captured.

Cillian doesn’t look sorry or fazed.