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I lock my eyes on her expression as she moans in ecstasy when Ben sinks into her. She claws into my chest as I thrust deeper into her and Deacon pushes himself down her throat.
We pull away and push back in like a goddamn depraved dance, and she loves every second of it.
Ben takes his phone out just like we all agreed and films our cocks going in and out of her. I see her face twist in even morepleasure at the realization this is being captured forever for us to enjoy.
“You look so fucking sexy,” he says, holding the camera to her ass. “So full of our cocks. You’re taking it like a goddamn queen.”
“I’m going to come,” she cries out before Deacon shoves himself down her throat again.
We look at each other. This is fucking go time. Ben throws the phone down.
“Come for us, baby.” I growl into her ear. “And we’re going to fill you to the fucking brim with our come.”
She whimpers and starts shaking. I lose it, feeling her pussy suctioning my cock, suctioning my come out of me. I explode inside of her and see goddamn stars. I watch as rope after rope of Deacon’s release coats her mouth and chest and Ben’s body freezes, thrusted deep and coming into her ass.
Emily’s entire body is shaking, and she collapses into my chest where I hold her as her hips buck again and again on my cock until every last drop is out of me and in her. I can feel her juices soaking down between my legs as finally her body calms down.
Ben collapses down on the bed next to us and Deacon sinks to the floor.
We fucking did it. Coming at the same time was probably the most ambitious plan we’ve ever executed together and that includes every single grad school project. But we fucking did it.
I start to laugh, in awe. Emily starts chuckling too. Deacon and Ben join in. The four of us have lost our damn minds. And if losing my sanity feels like this fucking good, then I never want it back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Deacon
I look at the pan in amazement. The pancake actually seems to look somewhat like a pancake. But what the hell do I do now?
“How do I know when it’s done?” I whisper to Graham. He’s smart, he should know these things.
“How the hell should I know?” He whispers back. Okay, I take that back. Not that kind of smart.
“Shit,” I curse as I flip the pancake off the pan. “Why has no one ever taught us how to cook?” I mutter angrily.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Emily laughs from where she is curled up in our leather armchair, sipping coffee and looking like a dream. She stands up and stretches long, my Knicks t-shirt rising high enough to show the lacy pink underwear she’s wearing, noticeably different from last night because this woman is always prepared and, of course, she brought a fresh pair of underwear. She’s the kind of competent person who probably can’t believe that three grown men don’t know how to cook a damn thing.
“Are you pretending to know how to cook for me?” She grins, walking over to us. I love seeing her like this in our apartment, relaxed and thoroughly fucked rather than pounding late-night coffees to get our work done so she can quickly leave.
“We know how to cook.” Ben pushes his hair back defensively. “We’re sophisticated and know how to do everything an older man might know how to do.”
She laughs a loud, open laugh and I savor the sound. “I’ve known plenty of men who couldn’t cook a damn thing and had a few decades on you. It’s just nice that you’re trying.” She comes next to me and scootches me over with her hip, taking the pancake batter from me.
“Here, I’ll show you.” She drops a slab of butter on the pan and then pours the batter. “When it starts bubbling, then you know it’s time to flip it. Then it’s almost cooked. Just get a nice brown on the other side and you’re good.”
“Okay, and what if for example, three hypothetical brothers might prefer blueberry pancakes? When would they put the blueberries in?” I signal to the blueberries I have uselessly sitting on the counter.
She grins, “Blueberry pancakes are my favorite, too. You’re in luck, you can just plop them in right now.”
I do as I’m told and drop them in. When I look up, she’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite pinpoint.
“Yes, Foxy?”
“Your parents never cooked pancakes with you?”
I shrug. “Not the pancake types, I suppose. Or the cooking types at all. I’m not sure they know how to use ingredients for something other than a cocktail.”
“Hm,” she looks down into her coffee.
