Page 280 of What We Burn

“Milo, oh God, don’t stop⁠—”

I’m grinding against Milo’s face with zero dignity. My nails rake down Holden’s back through his shirt and Holden’s fingers pinch my nipples and every point of contact is another wire in a circuit that’s building toward overload. I can feel Milo smiling against me—the bastard—even as he doubles down, sucking my clit while his fingers slip inside me, working back and forth.

“You want more, wildcat?” Holden’s voice is rough as gravel.

He’s already undoing his belt. Freeing himself with the same efficient precision he used on Milo minutes ago. I nod—frantic, shameless—and reach for him. He leans down and murmurs something in Milo’s ear that makes him groan. Then Milo repositions himself so Holden replaces his fingers, pushing in deep, stretching me wide. The moan that rips out of me is guttural and raw and entirely without shame.

Milo doesn’t stop. He adjusts the angle—his face buried between me and Holden, tongue working my clit while Holden fills me with slow, deliberate strokes. The geometry is filthy and imperfect and the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Every thrust from Holden pushes me harder against Milo’s mouth, and Milo takes it—takes all of it—one hand gripping my thigh, the other dug into Holden’s hip, his tongue relentless.

The orgasm tears through me, a brutal, high-voltage hit that leaves my thighs trembling and my vision edged in white. There’s a good five seconds where I don’t know my own name.

I clutch Holden’s arms for something to anchor me, but he keeps moving in perfect, measured pulses, drawing out every aftershock until I have to bite my own wrist to keep from howling in the kitchen. Milo moans against my cunt, lapping everything up, greedy and relentless, not stopping even when I start to squirm away because it’s too much, way too much.

“You want this?” Holden grunts, and it’s Milo who moans in response.

Then Holden’s pulling out of me with a wet sound. I sob a little at the loss, at the way my body feels so fucking empty for half a beat before he’s hooking his hands under me and lifting me off the counter.

“We’ve got you, wildcat. Just getting into a better position.”

He lowers me onto the rug we keep in the middle of the kitchen floor. My back arches, nerves still sparking.

“Please. I need⁠—”

“I’m here, kitten,” Milo says, leaning over me and kissing me deep as he lines himself up, and for a second it’s just the heat of him and the pressure as he slides in and I feel myself stretch to make room for all of him. My hips jerk and I moan against his mouth because suddenly I’m so, so fucking full.

But it’s Holden I can’t look away from. He’s above us, hand stroking himself with a focus that aches, blue eyes fixed on where Milo and I are joined. There is nothing clinical or neutral about him now—the mask is off, and what’s left is hunger, pure and unfiltered and naked in a way that makes me want to claw the world open just to see how deep it goes.

Milo shifts back on his knees, dragging me with him so my hips tilt upward. Then he’s looking at Holden, and something passes between them that makes my entire body ache.

Holden comes around behind Milo, looming over him while Milo pushes inside me and grinds his hips like he’s angling for a higher score. Holden drags his shirt over his head one-handed without breaking rhythm. His arms are banded in veins, hands flexing open and closed. When Milo thrusts in deep, Holden grabs his hair in one hand and fists himself in the other, jerking in slow, deliberate strokes inches from Milo’s face.

“Open your mouth,” Holden says, positioning himself beside Milo.

Milo turns his head, eyes huge, and then without hesitation, tips his head back and lets Holden slide his cock between his lips. The stretch of Milo’s throat when Holden feeds it to him is obscene and beautiful and I can’t look away. He moans around Holden’s dick, fucking me harder like he’s drawing some insane strength from having his mouth full.

Watching Milo deep-throating Holden is better than porn, better than the most fucked-up fantasy, because it’s real and right here and happening with all three of us raw and unscripted. Holden’s face is savage with want, jaw tight as he drives into Milo’s mouth and then drags himself out, pausing each time to let Milo lick the head, sloppy and eager. Milo’s hands are locked around my hips, using me for leverage as he fucks into me harder, even as he swallows Holden down. The air is hot with sweat and moaning and the obscene slapping of flesh on flesh.

“You like that, baby?” I ask.

Milo pulls off for a second, his mouth red and slick. “God, yes, kitten. Can’t get enough of you or him—fuck—I’m in heaven.”

Holden grabs his jaw and pushes himself deep. Milo chokes, then grips Holden’s thigh and pulls him closer, opening his throat and taking all of him. I nearly come again.

“Milo.” Holden’s hand tightens on the back of his skull, guiding, controlling. “Don’t lose focus. Take care of our girl while you handle me.”

Milo grunts assent and fills me with another brutal thrust, balls slapping against me wetly.

“Touch yourself, wildcat. I want to see you come again.”

I do. My clit is aching, swollen and begging, so I reach down and work myself as Milo fucks me and Holden fucks his mouth and together they make every part of me their instrument. The feedback loop is obscene—a pornographic Möbius strip of pleasure feeding pleasure. I’m watching two of the men I love devour each other with lust so raw it feels like we’ve invented a new language for want.

Holden’s holding nothing back, using Milo’s mouth the way I’ve felt him use mine—testing the limits, finding the edge and holding there until Milo pushes for more. Milo welcomes it. He’s rutting into me with abandon, throat full, spit slicking his chin and down his chest. He looks fucking destroyed, and I’ve never seen him so happy. I work my clit in tight circles, frantic, desperate, and I come so hard on Milo’s cock that I ruin his rhythm, body locking up so tight my toes curl against the floor.

It sets off a chain reaction, with Milo spilling himself inside me, groaning around his mouthful of Holden. Then Holden bears down, growling through his teeth as he erupts—jet after hot, violent jet, and some of it spills messily out of Milo’s lips and onto his chin, dripping onto my thigh. The sight makes me clench hard on Milo, milking him for every last spasm, and I ride it out with a cry that’s part laughter and part animal need.

We collapse, crumpling into a heap of sweat and limbs on the kitchen rug.

“Holy shit,” Milo says, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling like it owes him restitution. “We broke the kitchen.”