Chapter 169: Am I Ment to Be Excited?

Thorne, watching from the side, wasn’t content to just watch for long. He climbed up onto the table beside her head, cock still hard, and she turned her face toward him without needing to be asked, lips parting, tongue already seeking him out even through the haze Edrik had brought her into.

"There she is," Thorne murmured, voice rough with something like pride, guiding himself into her mouth, and this time the angle worked. Edrik’s thrusts rocked her whole body in a rhythm that pushed her mouth down onto Thorne’s cock in counterpoint, as if the two of them had found some unspoken coordination between their bodies that had nothing to do with words.

She moaned around Thorne, the sound muffled and desperate, her eyes fluttering shut, and the vibration of it had him cursing above her, hips twitching forward.

"Fuck, yes, just like that," he breathed, one hand coming down to brush hair back from her face, almost tender even as his hips rocked shallowly into her mouth.

Edrik’s hands tightened on her hips, pulling her into every thrust now, driving deeper, faster, the slick obscene sound of their bodies meeting filling the small room along with her muffled moans and Thorne’s low groans and the creak of the table legs against the floorboards.

Sweat beaded along Edrik’s collarbone, his jaw clenched tight, blood from his lip dripping down to catch at the corner of his mouth, and he looked, for just a second, like something entirely without restraint, like the version of himself that existed only in the dark, stripped of every careful, measured thing he usually was.

"Fuck, Dove," he ground out, voice wrecked. "You feel, fuck..."

She couldn’t answer with Thorne’s cock in her mouth, could only moan around it, could only let her hips rock up to meet Edrik’s thrusts as best she could from this angle, her whole body alight with sensation from both directions at once: the drag of Thorne’s length against her tongue, the brutal, perfect stretch of Edrik buried to the hilt inside her again and again.

Her thighs started to shake first, the telltale tremor building low in her belly, and she pulled back off Thorne’s cock just enough to gasp out something that might be his name, might be Edrik’s, might be nothing coherent at all.

"That’s it," Thorne murmured, thumb brushing her cheek, watching her face with something hungry and soft all at once. "Let go. We’ve got you."

Edrik’s hips snapped harder, faster, chasing the sound of her unraveling, and when she came it ripped through her whole body at once, a long, broken cry tearing loose from her throat, back arching up off the table, thighs clamping hard around his hips as her cunt clenched down around him.

"Fuck, fuck, Dove..." Edrik’s control finally shattered along with hers, hips stuttering, and he came with a low, guttural groan, burying himself deep and staying there, shaking, forehead dropping to rest against her stomach as he caught his breath.

For a moment the room was quiet except for the ragged sound of three people breathing.

Thorne stroked a hand through her hair, gentler than she’d have expected from a man who, minutes ago, was growling at the other one for being too rough.

"You alright?" he asked, low, genuine, scanning her face.

She blinked up at the ceiling, boneless, utterly wrung out, a lazy, satisfied smile pulling at her mouth even as her chest still heaved.

"Mm," she managed. "More than, this is giving me a lot of ideas for the future."

"Should I be scared or excited, then?" Thorne whispered.

Dove laughed, wincing slightly. "No, you should be excited."

Edrik lifted his head from her stomach, blood-smeared mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile but close enough, eyes still dark, still hungry despite everything that had just happened.

Later, Dove lay between them with one hand resting over Thorne’s and Edrik’s arm warm across her waist. The room had settled into the little sounds of people getting comfortable.

Nobody was waiting for her to become entertaining again. She moved the pillow until her neck felt right, asked Edrik to shift his arm, and received a kiss instead of a complaint. The ease of asking stayed with her longer than she expected. She had wanted excitement, but she wanted this part too.

Thorne mentioned his father once, quietly, wondering whether the letter would reach the right place. Dove said she hoped so and held his hand. She did not promise something she could not deliver, and he did not ask her to.

In the morning, they washed, ate, and found Nolan near the dining-room doors. Dove asked about the dock while she could point to the exposed mud through the glass.

He had noticed the lake dropping over the previous week. Recent rain had not brought it back, but he had no confirmed explanation. No survey crew had given him an answer, and he would not invent one to make visitors comfortable.

Sprout could record the observation, not diagnose the water from a window. Dove told it to keep the note with its source and stopped before her imagination made every patch of mud into the start of a new disaster.

Today’s stock was durable socks, five sales for fifty normal coins. She asked whether the packs included sizes suitable for the hotel workers, then separated them from their personal bags before opening a small display near reception with Nolan’s permission.

Thorne brought her coffee. Edrik stood close enough that she could brush his hand while taking the cup, and she did so because she wanted the small contact after a good night.

A truck pulled into the service lot before she finished her first drink. Nolan looked through the glass, his expression hardening when the purchasing officer climbed out with a recovery crew.

Dove set the cup down and reached for her agreement. She had not yet completed her own hotel trade, and the man walking toward the door looked as though he already owned the load.