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I moan loudly, tossing my head back. I feel the wicked curve of Finlay’s grin, the flash of teeth pressed against my neck, as his hands capture my breasts and push them up, up, to render me a sight to be seen, marveled at, lusted over, by the others, for Finlay to be envied and his positioned coveted, that he should be the one granted this power by the head chief.
Finlay plucks at my nipples, his cruel touch forcing them into tighter, harder peaks. I love and I hate this about him, that he’s such a need-focused deviant, in constant competition with anyone who’ll bite. And Rory likes to bite.
“You think you’re so inventive,” Rory drawls, sounding bored, but his eyes watch us avidly. “I’ve touched her like that a hundred times. There’s no part of the saint’s body I haven’t licked or sucked or fucked. So do your worst and think you’re the best. It makes no difference to me.”
But it is making a difference. The more Finlay massages my breasts, cupping them between his large, aggressive palms, shoving me tight toward his chest as though my body were nothing but an extension of his, the harder, the hotter, the flintier the gray that shines in Rory’s bright eyes.
No one winds him up like Finlay. No one gets under his skin like Finlay.
And the reverse is absolutely the truth as well.
I can see it, somehow, as though this were an out-of-body experience. Finlay and Rory glaring at each other, with me trapped in the middle, my body a tool to be used, a precious trophy designed to show how wet they can make me, how close to the edge they can launch me, how much of my breath they can steal. Finlay may be able to do it with his hard, grasping hands, clutching every inch of skin he can, but Rory does that to me with the most casual sweep of his gaze.
And I… I kind of get off on that.
Being used.
Being used by them in the twisted little games they play, only to back-slap one another later, in private, and murmur what a great time it had been for all.
Finlay’s hands continue their sweet assault on my body, skimming my sides and tucking into the tight lace of my panties. He doesn’t nudge at me to remove them, doesn’t try anything to get rid of the straining strip of scarlet lace.
Instead, he shoves his whole hand under the tight fabric and grabs my cunt like it’s his for the taking.
“God, you’re so wet,” he whispers, fingers sliding around the wet petals of my lower lips and aiming straight for my entrance. “She’s so wet,” he repeats louder, almost mockingly for Rory’s benefit, and I recognize from his tone that he’s shooting him a bright smile.
Rory’s eyes narrow. I know he’s playing it cool, that at any second he could attack. He could yank me out of Finlay’s strong arms and fuck me right in front of his gloating face. I swear these boys are so fucked-up that maybe it’s what Finlay even wants, maybe it’s the reason he keeps needling and pushing. That, like me, hewantsto see Rory fatally strike like a low-lying cobra.
Every part of me feels exposed and utterly filthy, drenched in sweat and my own desire to come. My legs are parted for the entire room to see, my modesty preserved by the small, pointless fabric straining under the bulk of Finlay’s inked hand.
His determination to devour all of me is dizzying, like he’ll crumple me up into a ball and carry me in his pocket as his and his alone. A finger teases mercilessly at my hole, slicking me with my juices, the sound of me ringing out obscenely into the thickening silence of the room.
Finlay’s breath is hot against my slanted neck, his mouth warm and full and sensual. He outlines my exposed neck with his tongue, licking me like he’s branding me, ending each line with a sharp, furious bite that makes me cry aloud. All the while, his fingers trail happily inside the confines of my panties, stroking my folds and rubbing circles into my clit — the first proper full-on action it’s enjoyed all evening — and I’m a sagging, quivering mess, a bag of bones and skin, no longer a body but a bundle of sensation, a being to be fucked.
Finlay guides his index finger to my entrance, and the ease with which it glides in makes me flush a deep, dark red. There’s no resistance. I’m totally wet and hungry for more. A second finger joins the first, and this time there’s a soft pressure, a faraway sensation of being breached. It’s like I’m not even attached to my body any longer, I just hear news about it at a later date, when I have the ability to process it objectively instead of when my systems aren’t overheating, aren’t igniting and frazzled with lust.
He adds a third finger and this is really where I stop. My breath hitches, sweat begins to spring along my forehead, which Finlay kisses away in an instant. My lower half is trembling, and I have the sudden awareness that I’m too tight, that Finlay’s never going to fit. My muscles clench around Finlay, as he continues his journey deeper into me.
Isn’t even his cock, I think blearily to myself,isn’t even his cock and I’m already fucked.
“How does she feel?” Rory asks. There’s a hush around the room, and my eyes flutter open to see that I’m its focal point. Luke, so normally unreadable, burns with as much lust as me, his jaw tight as his gaze traces my contorting body and the fingers stuffed deep inside me. Danny doesn’t seem to give a fuck that he’s still buck-naked, sprawled along the sofa with his chin on his hands, watching me and Finlay with a wide, gaping mouth.
Only Rory appears unaffected. His face is a cool mask as he observes us with nothing more than mild curiosity, like this has been a science experiment with unknown results. He even looks faintly bored. But one glance at the bulge in his pants informs me otherwise, that his deliberate calmness is all just an act, and that his body is in fact roaring with blood and arousal at one particularly telling place.
“Like fire. She’s so hot inside, like fuckin’ lava,” Finlay explains, finishing off with a groan as his fingers delve deeper into me. His bulk buckles over me, his chin resting on my shoulder, as though trying to thrust deeper at the most perfect angle, the one that pulls electric cries from me, that makes me call out again and again, like my moans are music for him.
Finlay slowly removes all three of his fingers, pulling them free from me and the lace confines. He holds the trio up to the light, marveling at the clear slickness coating his inked skin. Without warning, he positions them by my lips, and as though on instinct, I gobble them down to the hilt, sweeping my tongue over knuckles and nails, sucking down my juices like nectar from forbidden fruit.
Behind me, Finlay’s cock stirs against my spine. When I release his fingers, he moves with a prowling urgency toward my front, pushes me down into the nest of pillows and drags my legs toward him. I feel like a doll to be positioned, for others to take their pleasure in, and the thought of that — of being used and abused — makes me unspeakably aroused.
I don’t understand why I feel this way. Ordinarily I’d be delighted to tell any male of the species to get fucked if they tried mistreating or exploiting me. But when it comes to the bedroom…? No, I can’t deny it. It gives me strange, fluttery feelings, watching large men take what they want from me.
And Finlay is an expert in it.
He forces my legs to spread in a wide-open diamond. My thin panties have been stretched so wide by Finlay’s hands that they’re now misshapen and sad, drooping to the side and covering absolutely fuck-all. My folds are on display. My wet, shining, utterly slick hole is theirs to fuck and eye-fuck. And I imagine my clit, big and pulsing and aching for pleasure; it must be so red that it glows neon-bright in the dim lamplight of the bedroom. At least a neon clit would serve as a helpful guide for Danny, should Rory ever lose his faculties and invite him into bed again.
“Kinda like ye like this,” Finlay admits, eyes flashing. “You’re always so prim and pretty without even tryin’. So innocent and sweet wi’ yer big Bambi eyes. Noo ye’re fucking debauched, the hottest fucking girl oot there.” His gaze slides from my flushed face down my writhing body, the smooth mounds of my breasts shaking with every deep inhale my lungs manage.
He leans over me to stroke an errant lock of hair away from my face. “See whit ye dae tae me?” he asks, grabbing my hand and shoving it onto his faux leather pants. He’s harder than I’ve ever known him to be, a bar of pure steel beneath that skintight fabric.
But Finlay wants debauched and sinful over cute and innocent. And so I say, in a lazy, affected kind of drawl much like Rory’s, “I’m afraid I don’t see. Perhaps you’d like to show me instead?”
