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“Open her mouth,” Sin tells him. Emerson reaches around in front of me and opens my mouth for his brother. Sinclair takes his cock in his fist, stroking it idly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
“You can use her tits.”
Another low curse, and Sin guides his cock into my mouth. They’re both touching me now. Emerson moves his hands to my hair, and so does Sin. Desire runs down the inside of my thigh. He tastes different. Still good, but different. And he’s just as thick. Sin doesn’t take my throat, though. He holds still.
“Show him,” Emerson coaxes, and the fact that he’s telling me, the fact that I want him so much—
It grounds me.
I forget to be embarrassed and concentrate on getting Sin wet. On the contrasts, really. His ridges are different. The angles are different. The shape of his crown. I take a minute to wrap my mind—and my tongue—around him. Feeling him there. Sin groans.
“I know,” Emerson answers. “I’ll hold her in place.”
“Both of us,” grunts Sin, and then there’s a new pressure on my head. A heartbeat of waiting, and then Sin pushes his cock down my throat.
Emerson was being gentle.
Sin is wild. Impatient. Emerson has given him permission. My hands come up to his thighs and I hold on tight, but I don’t have to. There’s nowhere to go. They hold me while I choke and cry and gasp.
“That’s right,” Emerson says. “You’re taking him so deep. It aches in your throat, I know. But he’s so pleased. He can’t stop fucking you. You’re being such a perfect piece in my collection. The best one I’ve ever owned.”
This is the hottest I’ve ever been. It might be wrong, but it’s also right. I’m a piece of art. It’s okay to lose myself in this. That’s what art does. It stays in its frame, where it belongs, and pleases Emerson. When you’re art, you don’t have to make decisions. You just have to be good.
Oh, I like it. Oh, I want it. That thoughtless obedience. That’s what it means to be owned by him. He’s giving this to me. It hurts Emerson to do it. I know he wants me all to himself. But he’s making this gesture anyway. Making me choke on his brother’s cock. And somehow, it means something. They’re both the frame for me now.
I’m so wet and aching. I wish they’d touch me, but it’s not time yet. I’m here for Sin. I have to survive him. It scares me, but it subsides.
Whenever the fear rises again, I swallow. “Fuck fuck fuck,” Sin says. I do it again and his thighs tense.
“He’s ready, little painter,” he says to me. And then, to Sin: “Go ahead.”
Sin thrusts in deep, his hands locking around my head, and he—oh my god. He expands in my mouth. And then he pulls out and pulses cum all over my chest. Emerson’s fists tighten in my hair in a silent message. He demanded this from me. I’m doing this because he wants me to. Because I belong to him. Everything that happens tonight is because he’s allowing it. Because I trusted him. His hand in my hair says I’ll do this to you so many times, little painter. Don’t worry your pretty head.
Sin comes for a long time, like it’s been pent up inside of him for months. He finishes with a shudder and steps back to survey his work.
“Christ,” he says.
Emerson braces me against him while I catch my breath. Sinclair zips himself up and wipes my tears away with his knuckles. He rearranges my hair, then steps out. Sin returns a second later with a damp towel.
“It was fucking beautiful,” he says to Emerson.
“The work is like nothing else.” Emerson pulls me to my feet, holding me close against his body. He takes the towel from Sin and skims it over my chest, cleaning off the evidence from his brother.
And then he turns me again.
Toward Will.
“What do you think of her tears?” he asks. “I find the pattern particularly intoxicating.”
“I want to taste her.” Will’s eyes are hot, the color bright and burning. Into me. Into both of us. He stands where I left him, near his chair. Like the three of us were a painting for him. That’s not enough now.
“Ah,” Emerson says, understanding in his voice. “I see what you want. Do you, little painter?”
I shake my head. No one sees what Emerson can see.
Emerson puts his hand on the back of my neck and walks me over to Will. Then he moves behind me again, loops his hand under my knee, and pulls me open. Wider this time. Higher. I’m up on the ball of my foot.
“He wanted you like this,” Emerson murmurs into my ear. “He wanted to taste the piece this way.”
