he trails his hands up her legs.
She laughs softly, licks her lips, then whispers something meant for only his ears. I know I should move. Move away. Not intrude. But as both men stand, I find I’m rooted to the spot, breathless with anticipation. My heart thunders and my core aches, and I wish that Carson was here right now. Because I wouldn’t be watching, I’d be giving. Giving myself over to him. Giving myself over to the thrill, just like the woman in front of me.
One kisses her mouth and the other the nape of her neck, two pairs of hands roaming everywhere. She sighs. She whispers. Arches between them, her body pliant, her knees growing weak. Or maybe those are my knees threatening to buckle as I reach out a shaking hand, steadying myself against the wall.
Four hands lift her dress from the hem, the brush of the fabric a caress I can almost feel. The sound of it dropping to the floor echoes deeply inside me.
An arm wraps her waist, fingers slipping down her stomach and into her underwear. From the front, lips and fingers tease her breasts until she begins to moan and writhe, the press of two hard bodies the only things keeping her upright.
But not for long.
“Yes!” Her eyes are dark, and her excitement is palpable, her cry ringing through the room as she’s spun from one to the other for a passionate kiss before she’s pressed down to the table between them.
Her body convulses, her hands reaching out, her whispers of encouragement too far away to hear. Belts clink, a whoosh of leather sounds as they’re pulled from the loops. But I’m not watching them. I’m watching her, fingers grasping, and her body wracked by shallow, excited breaths as she’s kissed and licked, as her breasts spill from their lacy cups as the other manhandles and mauls her underwear. Four hands make the scene all the more torrid, all the more exciting as I stand, stock-still, blood rushing through my veins with a mixture of excitement and shame.
Pants are opened, cocks freed, her mouth not the only part of her greedy to be filled, her thighs opening in invitation.
She begs.
She cries out.
I suck in a sharp breath feeling like I’ve gone too long without. Too long without a breath. Too long without sex as I stand here, imagining myself in this scene. Picturing Carson staring down at me with such possession from his position between my spread knees.
Could I do it? Place me in this position, with one man, with two? Satisfy this sweet, sticky need snaking through me?
Cries turn to moans. Because it’s hard to shout when your mouth is full.
She looks . . . delirious. Blissed.
I force myself to turn away as the men swap their positions.
This should turn my stomach, this sordid scene, yet it doesn’t. This voyeur feels nothing but envy and desire. The heady fusion of fear and thrill.
My reactions aren’t at all in keeping with how a good person—a mother—should feel as I turn and stumble from the room, pressing my back to the cool of the wall, the only thing about the moment that feels solid or real.
I tell myself I need to pause to catch my breath. To try to make sense of why I watched, why I stood there, my insides pulsing emptily. And not because I need to press my thighs together in lieu of the overwhelming desire to slide my hand between my legs.
Two heart beats later, I swear I feel a change in the air: something not quite tangible yet something so real that a frission of anticipation sweeps across my skin.
I lift my gaze, and hope sings inside me because Carson Hayes is stalking towards me. I don’t take a moment to process how or why or anything logical because all I can think is the man looks lethal in a tuxedo. His dark eyes spear me to the spot as he secures the button of his jacket like it’s a declaration of war.
I lick my lips as he draws closer because I don’t know what to say. Because I want to feel his mouth against mine. My insides are plump with the thought of it, my skin almost seeming not to fit any more.
He comes to a halt in front of me, and though I find I can’t lift my gaze, I still devour the sight of him. The dark fabric coating his strong thighs, the pleat knife sharp.