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31
“What?” I whisper, because this angle is strange. Standing in one spot, observing the dark blond crown of Rory’s head as it drops lower and lower. Finlay’s arms squeeze around me intently, and his chin digs into my shoulder as he watches Rory, too.
“So wet you want me to lick you dry, yes?” he murmurs, repeating my own words back while cocking his head to the side. I feel myself flush — had I really said those exact words? God, I’m obscene when I want to orgasm.
And true to his word, Rory grabs my hips closer and begins to lap at my folds.
I want to take a photo and frame it forever. Rory Munro is on his knees before me. I’d already felt ready to collapse, but now… now… I have to pin Rory into place, clutching his glinting hair between my fingers like treasured gold. His tongue is long and slow against me, supping all of me with a tongue so tight and firm it feels like being fucked. When his tongue inches inside me, and he’s glancing up at me with victory in his silver eyes, it takes all my strength for my legs not to buckle. My inner thighs tremble and graze Rory’s ears, and I roll my hips into his awaiting mouth as pleasure roils through my body once more.
Behind me, I hear footsteps approach down the corridor. Finlay’s head whips around, staring intently at the closed door, and he releases a soft, “Fuck.” As the footsteps fade, I allow myself a small, tightly held breath. Finlay’s hands grab at my breasts, and I realize from that one act and the possibility that someone could walk in and see the three of us entwined together, writhing and moaning, that somehow I’m even wetter than before. Perhaps Rory knew best, after all: maybe I do have a raging exhibitionist streak.
Rory’s tongue certainly knows best. He knows instinctively where to place it, where to drain me like sweet nectar, like my juice is sweetness on his tongue, of which he craves more and more. I spread my legs wider, his blond hair tickling my inner thighs, while he gazes up at me from below in slack-jawed wonder. My release shines across his face, and it should be obscene, this whole entire session should be the pinnacle of depravity, but somehow staring at Rory’s soft, aristocratic beauty and the juices eagerly devoured and spread across his face, the overwhelming emotion I feel is love.
He gives me one last long lick, and I place my hands back down on his head to steady myself. The pleasure that feasts on my nerves is unexpected, and as Finlay behind me plays with my breasts and Rory on his knees kisses my clit, orgasm rocks through my body and vanquishes me so completely. I cling to Rory, my fingers digging into his scalp, trying to hold myself steady as my body lurches against his searching tongue. I cry aloud again, but having already been desecrated by my previous orgasm, my sobs this time are pitiable and broken, and Finlay doesn’t even clamp his hand against my lips.
Rory struggles to his feet. He kisses me soundly, so that even as my body racks and rolls, I’m engulfed with my own heady pleasure, my release pressed flush against his tastebuds and tongue as it’s pushed snakelike into mine.
I stare dazedly at Rory when we part. I have no ability left to speak, to praise, to thank. I have no ability to do anything, except stagger and slump onto one of the nearby computer chairs, my legs spread wide and the chair spinning lightly beneath the sudden weight.
“Feel like that was somethin’ that shoulda be on one o’ these screens,” Finlay mutters, collapsing into another chair. “Y’know.” He frowns, looking frustrated, as though realizing in the stifling room that his words are barely coherent. “Like, y’know. Porn. Except real. Except better.”
Rory leans against one of the computer desks, his arms across his heaving chest. “Porn is tragic.” He gazes at me intently. “Nothing compares to the real thing. Nothing.”
I swallow, glancing down at the thick, firm outline shadowing his pants. “You’ve still…” I nod, my voice struggling. “You should come.”
“I’m a strong, resilient man,” Rory drawls, and I sense the subtle sarcasm in his words, in the frenetic desire to come that’s currently pulsing through his veins and keeping his magnificent cock upright. Finlay’s erection also hasn’t lessened. “Orgasms are not tit for tat.”
“Aye, speak for yerself,” Finlay grumbles, shooting Rory a fierce look that makes me laugh. “The sassenach gets tae come twice and we didnae come at a’?”
“That’s feminism,” I lightly point out, and despite his distress, Finlay’s lips manage to twitch. But still, he looks so broken, and every few seconds he distractedly grinds the heel of his hand against the bulge of his stiff cock, as if to tell it off for its impatience.
“We’ve already stayed here too long,” I point out, glancing at the door. “It’s a miracle no one’s barged in yet.”
Finlay crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, if they dae, they can sit their arses doon and watch the show. I didnae gie a fuck, I just want tae come.”
I bite my lip and then glance over at Rory. His eyes are hooded and dark with lust. He won’t ask — he never does, because in whatever strange universe he grew up in before I came along, asking is supposedly beneath him — but his eyes say everything I need to know.
And although Finlay talks a big game, I have no doubt he’d be mortified if anyone saw one of the political Top 30 Under 30s or whatever, frantic and begging to come in an unlocked St. Camford’s computer lab. Which means I need to do this sooner rather than later.
With one last cautious look at the door, I drop to my knees. There’s an almost audible intake of breath as I slowly crawl across to them.
“Sassenach,” Finlay groans. “Fuck.” He grinds his palm into his cock desperately, trying to keep it under control.
“Stop,” I tell him, and as if I’ve somehow enchanted him, Finlay’s hand falls readily to his side. I glance at him from under my eyelashes. He likes me like this, I think wonderingly, as his gaze feasts on my all-fours stance. “Stand up.”
Finlay staggers upright, leaning against the same computer desk as Rory. I pad across to them as though we have all the time in the world. When I hear footsteps outside the room again, Rory glances over his shoulder. But again the footsteps drift away, and my heart resettles somewhere near my throat.
The good thing about our current position is that, from behind, Rory and Finlay look like two guys standing together talking. So if anyone were to come in, it’s easy to quickly calculate ways for us to hide.
It gets harder when I undo their clothes, however. When I unbutton waistbands and pull down zippers. The sounds of sex are too apparent, too obvious, and become more so when Finlay and Rory are standing there in silk black boxer-briefs, jeans and kilt pooled at their ankles.
“I thought Scotsmen wore nothing beneath kilts?”
“It’s a one-aff,” Finlay mutters. “Won’t happen again.”
My fingers stumble over silk, tracing the firm, hard outline of their cocks. Throats tip back and tight, hissing breaths are released, as though somehow my touch is an agonizing pleasure. Rory’s hips begin to shift against my warm hand, his whole cock thrusting intently against my open palm.
Finlay’s eyes have slid shut, his breathing labored as I rub my hand up and down his clad length. Feeling daring, I lean forward, taking the waistband of his boxers between my teeth. He opens his eyes then, staring down at me in awe, his hands delicately caressing my hair like he doesn’t know what else to do with them. I nip my teeth between the stretchy waistband and pull. His cock springs free in an instant, every warm throbbing inch of it beating beside my cheek as I yank his boxers past his thighs. It hardens even more beside me when exposed, and all Finlay can do is mutter a steady stream of the wordfuck.
