Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“What—no! I have nowhere else to go!” My father drops the knife and looks around frantically for a way to put out the fire. Of course, there is none, so he strips off his shirt and tries to pat out the flames. But it’s already too late.
The last time I see my father is when we’re driving away and I watch his silhouette among the flames, looking like the devil himself, still trying to quell the fire.
And when I hear the roof cave in with a sickening crash, I don’t bother looking back.
I simply allow Ruger to pull me into his lap. I meet Klay’s reassuring eyes in the rearview mirror and I know that with the past in ashes, we’re going to build a beautiful future.
Epilogue
Ruger
Five Years Later
I close my eyes and listen to the breath rattling in and out of my lungs.
The sound of ocean surf seems distant, even though our house is right on the beach. Klay is out there with Wendy. Swimming. They love to swim, especially in the turquoise waters of Mexico. I’m usually out there with them, reminding them to wear sunscreen, but today is a special day. My birthday. So they’re giving me the gift of a slow tease. Divine torture.
I’ve been roped to this headboard for hours without a stitch of clothing on. A homemade sex tape featuring me, Klay and Wendy plays on the flatscreen. It’s been going for hours, the sounds of moaning and wet smacks filling the airy bedroom. My cock is like a monument pointing straight up from my lap and I’ve about reached my breaking point.
Cracking an eye open, I watch myself ride Klay from behind like a horny beggar, my hips pumping desperately, sweat dripping from my forehead to his back. I’m grunting, keening, grinding out their names in a chant. And all the while, Wendy kneels in front of Klay, stroking his dick, slowly, petting her pussy with the opposite fingers. Watching us with lust and approval and encouragement in her gorgeous eyes.
She leans forward to kiss Klay, but he keeps having to break off to moan.
Because of what I’m doing to him.
Now, I shift my hips on the bed, pulling at the restraints, searching anxiously for some kind of friction or relief, but there’s none to be had. The frustration and anticipation make me hotter, though. Puts a fine sheen of sweat all over my body.
One afternoon a couple of years ago, the three of us discovered how much I love being teased while watching Klay and Wendy fuck. Klay told me he’d let me join if I could watch for twenty minutes without laying a finger on my shaft—and by the time those twenty minutes were up, I was burning alive. We almost broke the bed after that.
The game has escalated a lot since then—as it has today—and I love it. Crave it.
We don’t play it all the time. Our relationship is loving and committed. Equal in all ways. No one is ever left out. No one is ever jealous. We each have an important role. Without one of us, the balance would be off. And the love we have for each other only grows stronger with each passing year here on the beach.
After the night Wendy torched her childhood home, we went back to her house, packed her things and drove to Mexico. From there, she sold her house and invested in our bungalow on the beach. She works as a manager at a nearby boutique hotel, which comes very highly rated, due in part to the signature scent given to each room. Sometimes me and Klay worry she misses her old job in scent branding, because she operated on a much larger scale, but she always finds a way to reassure us.
My whole heart is here. With you. My men.
I covet this life and I’ll never wish for a second to be anywhere else.
I hear Wendy’s voice saying those words and I sigh warmly, trying to will her into the doorway. Her and Klay. I need their mouths and hands on my skin. Did someone turn up the volume on the television? I can’t tell if the sound of panting is coming from me or the speakers—
“Had enough, mate?” Klay asks, sauntering into the room, board shorts riding low on his hips, his skin bronzed from the sun—as is mine—thanks to our job taking tourists out on chartered fishing tours. When we arrived in Mexico, neither one of us knew a damn thing about fishing, but Klay faked it until he made it, getting us jobs as crew members on a vessel. When we’d made enough cash and knew the trade, we bought the boat and started running tours ourselves. We spend our days on the water now, in the wheelhouse together, usually plotting out how we’ll make Wendy moan when we arrive back on land.