“She’s gonna come and I’m not inside her?” Jett growls. “That’s fucking criminal.”
Benji groans. “You are inside her. Look at her mouth, man. She’s taking you just like she’s taking us.”
Rhys laughs, but it’s a shredded sound. “She can handle it. Can’t you, pet?”
I try to answer but can’t, Jett drives forward, choking off my response with his cock, and Rhys slams up and grinds while Benji bucks beneath me with more urgency.
“I’m gonna, fuck,” Benji’s words are swallowed by a groan so deep it rattles in my ribs.
And then he’s coming. His hips jerk beneath me, his cock pulsing thick and so deep inside me I can feel every rope of it flood me, hot, sweet, and messy between us. He holds me tight as his hips roll through it, whispering praise through gritted teeth.
“Good girl. So good. Show us how pretty you come when you’re loved.”
I’m right there, trembling, soaked in sweat and streaks of body paint, and the extra stretch of Rhys.
I come so hard I black out for a second. It’s not even a scream, it’s a full-body seizure of pleasure, one hand clawing at Benji’s chest, the other grasping uselessly at the air.
Rhys slams in deep and stills, his growl right in my ear as he spills inside me. He’s shaking. I can feel it. His teeth graze my shoulder.
“She’s mine,” he whispers. “Mine. I want to fucking brand you.”
And then he does, his hand smearing the cake-flavored paint across my lower back as he bites my shoulder.
Jett makes a sound like he’s being denied oxygen. “Fuck, fuck. Look at me, mine.”
I blink up, dazed, dizzy, wrecked. He drowns me with it, thick and hot and endless. He curses, drops, and leans forward to rest his forehead to mine.
We’re all breathing like we just survived something fatal.
Benji strokes my thigh as I collapse on his chest, still trembling.
Rhys is holding my hips like he’s considering keeping me right there forever.
Jett’s hand stays on my jaw, thumb swiping his release from my lips like a fucking claim.
I can’t stop smiling.
Paint. Come. Sweat. Bite marks.
My boys.
My mess.
My ending.
And god, what a filthy, beautiful ending it is.
I can’t move. I don’t even want to. I’m puddled on Benji’s chest, coated in sweat, come, and strawberry paint. My thighs are quivering, my lips are numb, and I think I left my soul somewhere around orgasm number three.
Benji hums, hands gentle where they stroke my hips. His voice is warm syrup when he murmurs, “Hey, precious. You still with us?”
I nod. Or I try to. It’s more of a blorp.
Rhys is behind me still, but I feel him ease out with slow care and an audible breath. He brushes my hair off my back and runs the backs of his knuckles down my spine. “Deep breath, Delilah. Let me see you.”
I peel my cheek off Benji’s chest and blink up, wrecked and gooey. Rhys crouches next to us. His fingers go straight to my pulse point, his gaze scanning like I’m the most critical patient in his care. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“I don’t know, Rhys, I’m too full of art and jizz.”
