Chapter 243: Delicous Meal Between The Three

Edrik’s tongue plunges deeper. Dove’s eyes roll back. Her body convulses.

And still, she doesn’t tell Thorne to move.

"Come here, boy," she gasps out, and her hand lifts, fingers curling in a beckoning motion toward Thorne. "Let me take care of you."

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s on his knees in front of her before she even finishes the sentence, dropping off the chair like gravity finally won, and his cock is right there, inches from her face, thick and flushed and shining at the tip. She reaches for him, wraps her fingers around the base, and the groan that tears out of him sounds like relief and agony all at once.

She takes him into her mouth.

He’s long enough that she has to work for it, has to relax her jaw and tilt her head just right, but she’s done this before, she knows exactly how he likes it, and she sinks down over him with a wet, obscene sound that makes him buck forward before he catches himself. His hands hover near her head, not quite touching, trembling with the effort of holding back.

Dove’s inner voice screams yes, finally, the thick heat of him stretching her lips, the salty tang of his pre-cum hitting her tongue like a drug. She sucks harder, hollowing her cheeks, letting the wet sounds echo through the room while Edrik’s tongue fucks her cunt relentlessly from behind. The air smells like sex—musk, sweat, her own slick—and tastes like Thorne’s desperation on her lips. Every slurp vibrates through her, mixing with the wet lapping between her thighs.

Edrik pulls back just enough to growl against her folds, "That’s it, wife. Suck our boy’s cock while I ruin this pussy. Look how he leaks for you—pathetic, dripping like a bitch in heat." He slaps her ass again, harder, the crack sharp and the sting blooming hot, making her clench around his tongue. Thorne’s hips jerk involuntarily, shoving deeper into her throat, and she gags wetly, eyes watering, but she doesn’t pull off. She wants it. Needs the control, the way both men are hers right now.

Thorne’s inner thoughts fracture: Fuck, her mouth is heaven, so tight and hot, but he can’t come yet, not until she says, the denial twisting his gut into knots of pure need. He watches Edrik’s head bob between her legs, hears the obscene slurps, smells her arousal thick in the air, and his balls ache with the urge to thrust.

Dove moans around Thorne’s cock, the vibration making him curse, and reaches back to fist Edrik’s hair, grinding down on his face. "Deeper, Edrik. Make me come on your tongue while I choke on him." Edrik obeys with a hungry snarl, tongue spearing inside her, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. The room fills with the symphony of it—wet flesh, ragged breaths, skin slapping skin as Edrik strokes himself faster.

She pulls off Thorne’s cock with a pop, strings of spit connecting them, and looks up at him with dark, commanding eyes. "Stroke it for me. Show me how bad you want to paint my tongue." Thorne’s hand flies to his shaft, jerking in time with her words, precum slicking his fist. Edrik rises behind her, lining his thick cock up with her dripping entrance. "Gonna fuck you now, wife. Gonna fill you while you suck him dry."

He slams in, one brutal thrust that knocks the air from her lungs and shoves her forward onto Thorne’s cock again. The stretch burns sweet, his girth splitting her open, and she screams around the shaft in her mouth. Edrik sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, balls slapping her clit with every drive. The couch creaks under them, the scent of their sweat and cum growing heavier.

Dove’s mind spins with power and lust: They’re both mine, breaking for me. She reaches for Thorne’s balls, tugging gently, then harder, edging him. "Don’t you dare come yet. Not until I say."

Edrik leans over her back, biting her shoulder, pounding deeper, his dirty talk filthy and constant. "Feel that, Thorne? Her cunt’s gripping me so tight while she gags on you. You love watching, don’t you? Love being our cuck while I breed her."

Thorne nods frantically, hand flying faster on his cock, the denial pushing him to the edge of madness. Dove feels it building in her core, the dual assault overwhelming—Edrik’s cock hitting that spot inside her over and over, Thorne’s taste flooding her senses. She pulls off again, voice hoarse. "Now, Thorne. Come down my throat."

He erupts with a broken shout, thick ropes pulsing onto her tongue, hot and bitter-salty, and she swallows every drop, milking him with her lips until he’s shaking. The sight and taste push her over; she clamps down on Edrik’s cock, orgasm ripping through her in waves, cunt pulsing, thighs quaking, a raw wail tearing from her throat.

Edrik follows seconds later, burying deep with a guttural groan, flooding her with hot spurts that leak out around his shaft. They collapse in a tangle of limbs, hearts hammering, the room heavy with the aftermath—sweat-slick skin, the taste of cum lingering on her lips, the quiet gasps as they come down.

Dove strokes Thorne’s hair, Edrik’s arm around her waist, the three of them bound in the quiet intensity of what they’d just shared. Thorne’s eyes meet hers, raw and grateful, and she smiles, already craving the next command.

Before letting the evening go any farther, Dove checked that their water and lamp were within reach. Thorne lifted the unused repair bag off the bed and set it aside himself. She liked seeing him put it down without being asked again, as if staying with her had finally become the thing he was doing rather than something left over after work.

Later, the room had a stretch of quiet in which Dove could sit with him without thinking of anything clever to say. She watched his hand resting over hers and let herself imagine tomorrow’s breakfast. Bread toasted properly. Coffee. A visit to his father that ended when Thorne wanted to come home, not when he finally ran out of things to repair.

Edrik returned before the watch changed. He said the kitchen cupboard now opened without a fight, stole the last piece of bread, and accepted Dove’s fond complaint without defending himself.

Then the neighborhood alarm sounded.

All three went still. A man’s voice carried from the street, calling the nearest warehouse by name. Armed men had forced their way in while the night workers were loading supplies.

Dove looked at the bags beside the rear door.

Then another voice shouted that the raiders were wearing security badges.

Dove turned toward the radio. She needed to know whose orders those men were following before somebody came here to "help."