He jerks. Then stares down. “The fuck?”
“You’re my masterpiece,” I say sweetly, swiping another arc across one nipple. “Now shut up and let me work.”
Benji’s kneeling beside me, elbow-deep in the caramel, scooping it with his hands like he’s living his second childhood. He slaps a handprint on my thigh and smears upward, leaving a sticky, golden trail over my hip.
Rhys crouches beside the paint tubs. He runs one streak of strawberry across my collarbone with the tip of one finger. Precise. Like he’s signing his name.
Jett hasn’t stopped staring. He’s got streaks of pink paint across his chest, frosting kisses down his abs, and his cock’s already out, already hard, gripped in one possessive hand, daring someone to look directly at it.
I do.
He licks his bottom lip. “Turn around,” he orders. “On hands and knees.”
“Oh?” I smile. “Is that how we’re playing?”
Rhys tuts. “You’ll ask nicely.”
Benji kisses my shoulder, licks a stripe of honey off my skin. “Or beg.”
“I’ll do all of it,” I moan. “Just touch me.”
They do. All three.
Painted hands on my ass, my thighs, fingers pressing into sticky, slick skin.
Rhys’s fingers part me first, two, then three, unhurried but firm, and I can feel how wet I already am, how my own arousal is mingling with sugar and heat and pure, unhinged want.
Benji kisses his way down my back, licking paint and sweat and something feral from my skin. He pauses at my ass, kneads it, and hums.
“Make her come first,” Rhys says. “We agreed.”
“We agreed on nothing,” Jett growls, but his voice cracks and he kneels beside my face, thick cock tapping against my cheek. “But I wanna see that, yeah. Make her scream.”
Benji doesn’t need to be told twice. His mouth covers me like he’s been waiting all day to feast. And maybe he has. His tongue is wide and soft, slow at first, dragging through me, savoring the flavor of every single thing I’ve ever been. He laps up paint and slick and groans low in his chest when my thighs shudder around his head.
“Fuck, baby,” I moan, arching, rocking back into his face. “You taste the cake yet?”
“It’s all frosting,” he says, mouth full, before diving back in.
Rhys watches, hand tight around the base of his cock, lips parted, memorizing me for later. For punishment. For praise.
Jett’s hand tangles in my hair. “Open your mouth.”
I do.
His cock pushes past my lips, thick and angry, already dripping. I moan around him, spit slicking my chin, fingers digging into the plastic as Benji keeps licking and Jett fucks mymouth slow and mean like he wants to break me but he’s holding back. Just for now.
This is everything I wanted. Everything I craved. Paint-streaked thighs. A mouth full of Jett. Benji’s tongue inside me, Rhys stroking himself as he watches his patient get wrecked on the floor like art.
Like vengeance. Like therapy.
I don’t know whose idea it was, but it’s Benji who lifts me into position like I’m made of spun sugar and maybe molten sin. The paint’s smeared over us all now, strawberry across my stomach, caramel handprints on my ass, blue raspberry streaks where my thighs have been held open and eaten like dessert.
Benji lays flat on the plastic, cock thick and glistening against his stomach, arms open to receive me.
“I got you, precious,” he says, all warm low drawl and big hands on my hips. “Come ride your boy.”
I lower myself slow, paint-slick and gasping, until the thick crown of him presses into me. My whole body shivers. He fills me in that way only Benji can, big, slow, indulgent.
