Chapter 203: Her Husbands Were Terrible Influences - Part 1

Dove feels Thorne’s fingers at the front of her shirt, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to watch the fabric part beneath his knuckles. Behind her, Edrik’s mouth finds the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, and he breathes out slow against her skin before his lips press there, open, warm.

"Both of you," she starts, but the sentence dies when Thorne pushes the shirt off her shoulders and it pools somewhere she doesn’t track, because his mouth is already moving, trailing from her collarbone downward, and she forgets what she meant to say.

Edrik’s hands slide around her ribs from behind, unclasping what needs unclasping, and the two of them move like they’ve done this before, like her body is a door they both know the hinges of. She doesn’t know where to look. Thorne kneels slightly, tongue tracing the slope of her breast, teeth grazing just enough to make her hips jerk forward into nothing, and behind her Edrik’s mouth works lower, lower, following the line of her spine one vertebra at a time, unhurried, reverent.

She reaches for Thorne’s face, finds his jaw, tilts it up because she needs his mouth on hers, needs something to anchor her, but he resists for one more torturous second, flicking his tongue over her nipple first, drawing a sound out of her that isn’t a word at all. Then he rises and kisses her, finally, deep and slow, and she sighs into it, relief and want tangled together.

Edrik’s hands spread over her hips from behind, thumbs pressing into the dip of muscle there, and he drops to his knees without a word. His breath ghosts over the back of her thigh first, a promise, before his fingers find her, slow, testing, parting her gently.

She gasps against Thorne’s mouth.

"Easy," Thorne murmurs, pulling back enough to watch her face, and she can feel the corner of his smile against her lips, smug, delighted at whatever expression she’s making.

"Don’t," she breathes, "don’t you dare look so pleased with yourself."

Edrik’s fingers find her clit and circle, light, deliberate, and whatever she was about to say collapses into another gasp, sharper this time. Thorne’s still watching her, that same insufferable almost-smile, and she can’t stand it, can’t stand the smugness or the words she knows are about to come out of his mouth, so she lifts her hand and presses two fingers against his lips instead.

He goes still.

"Shut up," she tells him, breathless, and pushes her fingers past his lips before he can argue.

Thorne makes a sound around her fingers that she feels more than hears, a low vibration, and his eyes go half-lidded, dark, like she’s just handed him something he didn’t know he wanted this badly. His tongue moves against her fingers, slow, obscene, and she feels that same rhythm travel straight down through her spine.

Her other hand drops between them, finds the laces at his waist, undoes them with a kind of urgency her fingers in his mouth don’t match, unhurried there, frantic here, and when she finally gets her hand around him he’s already hard, hot, heavier than she expected, and he groans against her fingers, hips twitching forward into her grip like he can’t help it.

"There," she whispers, more to herself than to him, finding a rhythm, her hand sliding slow and firm along his length while her other hand matches the pace inside his mouth, two fingers pumping shallow and steady, and he’s trembling under the attention, eyes fluttering, hips rocking in small helpless increments to meet her hand.

Behind her, Edrik groans low against her shoulder blade, clearly watching, clearly enjoying the sight of Thorne falling apart at her hands, and then his fingers push into her, two of them, slow and deliberate, stretching her around them, and her whole body arches back into him.

"Fuck." The word slips out around her own hand’s rhythm, around Thorne’s mouth still working against her fingers, and Edrik chuckles low against her ear, a sound dark with satisfaction.

"That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of her ear, teeth catching her earlobe gently. "Right there?"

"Yes," she gasps, pushing her hips back to meet the slow drag of his fingers, "yes, Edrik, there, yes."

He curls his fingers and she feels it everywhere, a jolt that runs up through her stomach, and her hips roll back instinctively, grinding against him, and that’s when she feels how hard he is too, thick and insistent against the curve of her ass through what’s left of his clothes. She rocks into it, shameless, chasing the friction, and he groans against her neck, teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point.

"Keep doing that," he breathes, voice rough now, control fraying at the edges, "keep doing exactly that."

In front of her, Thorne’s hips are stuttering against her hand, his moans muffled around her fingers, needy little sounds that she can feel more than hear, and she tightens her grip just slightly, strokes him a little faster, matching it to the rhythm her other hand keeps inside his mouth, and he twitches hard, eyes screwing shut, hips bucking forward.

"Good," she whispers, and it comes out breathless, wrecked, nothing like the command she means it to be. "Good boy."

Thorne groans at that, loud enough that it escapes around her fingers despite himself, and the sound of it, the way his whole body shudders, sends a fresh wave of heat through her that has nothing to do with Edrik’s fingers working steadily inside her, though those certainly aren’t helping her stay upright.

Edrik’s free hand slides around to her front, finds her clit again, and he presses two fingers against it in slow circles while the two fingers inside her keep their steady, devastating pace, and she loses the rhythm of her own hands for a second, her hips rocking back against him on instinct, grinding herself onto his fingers and against the hard line of him at the same time, and he lets out a groan that sounds almost pained.

"Dove." Her name, rough, barely more than an exhale against her ear. "Keep doing that, just like that, fuck."

"Yes," she gasps again, chasing the feeling building low and tight in her belly, pushing back into his hand, grinding her hips in slow desperate circles against the thick line of him. "Right there, Edrik, don’t stop, please don’t stop."

Thorne’s hips are moving faster now, fucking into her fist in small frantic motions, his moans growing less controlled, more open, and when she glances down at him through her lashes his eyes are nearly black, fixed on her face like he can’t look away, like watching her unravel is better than anything she could be doing to him with her hand. She strokes him harder, tighter, and he makes a sound that’s almost a whimper, hips stuttering.

"That’s it," she tells him again, voice shaking now with her own building pleasure. "That’s it, just like that..."

Edrik’s fingers curl inside her again, pressing against that spot that makes her vision white out for half a second, and his thumb doesn’t stop its circling on her clit, relentless, and she feels the pressure coiling tighter and tighter, her thighs trembling, her rhythm on both men faltering as her own climax rushes up too fast to stop.

"I’m..." She can’t finish the sentence. Her hips grind back hard against Edrik’s hand, against the thick, desperate line of him beneath his clothes, and he groans something unintelligible against her neck, hips jerking forward to meet her, chasing his own release against her, grinding into the curve of her ass with a kind of helpless urgency.

"Come on," Thorne breathes around her fingers, voice wrecked, eyes locked on hers. "Come on, Dove, let go..."

And she does.

It crashes through her all at once, her whole body locking up, a cry tearing out of her that she doesn’t bother to muffle, her hips grinding back hard against Edrik’s fingers as she comes apart, and she feels herself gush, hot and sudden, soaking his hand, soaking down her own thighs, and Edrik groans like the sound and feel of it alone is enough to undo him, his hips stuttering hard against her, grinding through his own release with a rough shuddering moan muffled against her shoulder.

Her hand on Thorne doesn’t stop, can’t stop, her grip tightening instinctively as her own climax wrings through her, and he comes with a strangled sound around her fingers, hips snapping forward one last time, spilling hot over her knuckles, her wrist, shaking through it with his forehead dropping to rest against hers, breath ragged and hot against her mouth.

For a long moment none of them move. Edrik’s chest heaves against her back, his mouth still pressed loose and open against her shoulder, his fingers gentling now, just resting inside her, inside the aftershocks still fluttering through her. Thorne’s forehead stays against hers, his breath shuddering out slow, his eyes finally closing like the sight of her was almost too much to bear and now he needs the dark to recover.

She slides her fingers from his mouth, slow, and he catches her wrist before she can pull away entirely, presses a kiss to her knuckles, to the mess still on them, and the gesture is so unbearably tender after everything that her breath catches all over again.