Tomas sinks into the armchair opposite, legs spread wide, the bulge in his slacks doing absolutely nothing for my composure, his gray eyes tracking every swallow.
I focus very hard on the water.
I can't remember what I suggested he should order, but it seems to appear in record time. And not just bread. A whole situation arrives on a rolling cart that I wasn’t prepared for. Bread with the crust crackling under the knife, soft cheesecreamy and pungent. But also charcuterie fanned out like a still life, thin slices of prosciutto draped over fat figs, grapes clustered dark and glossy, a little pot of honeycomb sweating gold under the warm light. Strawberries. A chocolate thing in a ramekin that I can't identify but intend to eat entirely.
I eat like someone who skipped lunch, forgot about breakfast, and is thinking about having breakfast with three rich men. This suite, is bigger than any apartment I’ve ever stayed in, and I know it’s not cheap.
Tomas holds the yogurt-drizzled strawberry to my lips. I part them slow, tongue lapping the thick drip first, then suck the fruit deep, cheeks hollowing soft around the ripe burst. He gasps ragged above me, licking his lips deliberate and hungry, sea-gray eyes darkening like he's picturing my mouth pulling on his big fat cock that way.
Matteo traces the grape along my lower lip, cool and slick. I draw it in humming, teeth nipping the crisp snap, tongue swirling to free the pit clean. His breath hitches sharp, lips licked slow and wet, pale blue gaze burning as if my sucking mimics worshipping his long thick shaft.
Santos dips the pastry in honey, feeding it close. I sink teeth into flaky warmth, tongue flicking crumbs lazy from my lips. He licks his lips salt-sharp, groaning low "cazzo," knot visibly throbbing like my bite strokes his curved girth.
Cheese squelches creamy on my tongue next, olive pops briny slick, mango dribbles sweet chin-trail. Each time, they gasp unison, lips licked ravenous, cocks straining knots heavy—their raw hunger mirrors my every bite on their fat lengths, but I focus steady: food first, fueling my curves while they simmer desperate.
"This is the best thing that's happened to me all week," I whisper, finding it really hard to breathe, speak and do anythingelse around them. If I was slightly tipsy, this has sobered me up, that’s what I know for sure.
"Just wait," Santos says.
I point at him with a strawberry. "Let me finish the honeycomb first."
Matteo makes that almost-smile. Tomas watches me eat with the gray-eyed patience of a man who has nowhere else to be and no complaints about it.
The plate empties eventually. I set down the last strawberry stem.
I dust a crumb from my dress.
"So," I say.
"So," Santos says, and stands up.
"Do I get a safe word? Like 'taco' or something?" I wink, popping a grape, sweet juice bursting on my tongue.
I read Fifty Shades of Grey. I know how this works. I was always curious about it, but it wasn't something I could ever ask Ricardo to do. He was a vanilla guy, the type that only wanted it when he did, and it was over when he was finished. I did everything to please him, and he's the last person I should be thinking about right now.
My omega sighs. I get an opportunity like this and I'm thinking about that douchebag.
Santos laughs, low and rich, settling beside me close enough his thigh presses mine, heat seeping through fabric. "Taco it is. But you'll beg us not to stop,dolcezza(my sweetness).” His hand rests on my knee, sliding up inner thigh slow, fingers tracing seams, scent of saffron deepening, making my mouth water.
Matteo perches on the sofa arm, feeding me a strawberry from the bowl. Ripe flesh bursts sweet-tart on my tongue, juice dribbling warm down my chin. He wipes it slow with his thumb, pushes the pad past my lips gentle. "Suck it soft, omega," hemurmurs velvet, cock hardening visibly as my tongue swirls his rough skin, tasting faint salt. "Good girl. Feel that on your clit."
Tomas rises fluid from the armchair, silver musk sharp, kneeling between my thighs. His hands part my knees wider gentle, dress hiking to bare lace thong soaked dark. "No more jokes," he says gravel-reverent, gray eyes soft on mine, nose brushing my mound light. "You smell perfect."
Santos kneads my tits tender from behind, fingers rolling nipples. Matteo kisses me deep, whiskey-salt sweet. Their touches melt doubt; I feel princess-worshipped already.
Santos stands, pulling me up light. "Anything you're not comfortable with, we stop. Say the word." They nod solemn.
They lead me hand-in-hand to the bedroom, king bed draped silk, city lights glowing. "Our princess deserves royal treatment," Santos purrs. Matteo unzips my dress slow, silk pooling. Tomas unhooks bra, tits bouncing free heavy. Santos peels thong down, kissing thighs.
They strip one by one: Santos sheds shirt, chest hair dark, pants dropping curved cock thick. Tomas next, broad muscle, veined length heavy. Matteo last, lean power, long shaft straight.
Naked, vulnerable, I confess breathy, "I'm not a virgin, but I've never been with more than one alpha at a time.”
Santos smiles warm. "We can tell. By how wet you are for us,cuore mio(my heart).”
I smile shy-bold. "Where do we begin?"
Matteo's grin turns wicked, his pale blue eyes dropping to my mouth before traveling lower.