“Yes,” I hiss, teetering on the edge. “Want them all to see what you do to me.”
Julian’s movements grow erratic, his breathing harsh. “Everyone watching while I ruin this tight ass with two cocks. Seeing how much you love it.”
I stroke faster, pressure building at the base of my spine. Julian slams into me with brutal force, hitting my prostate with each thrust. Our gazes lock, and something electric passes between us.
“Coming,” I warn, my voice breaking.
“Me too,” Julian groans. “Fuck, Elliot?—”
My second orgasm tears through me as Julian pounds into me one final time. I feel him pulsing inside me as I spill over my fist, our bodies locked together in shared ecstasy.
Julian collapses beside me, both of us panting as we try to catch our breath. I’m still trembling from the intensity of what we just shared, my body feeling both hollow and impossibly full.
After a moment, Julian pulls himself up and looks at the mess splattered across my stomach and chest. His eyes darken with renewed hunger.
“Look at the beautiful mess you’ve made,” he murmurs.
Without warning, he lowers his head and drags his tongue through the streaks of cum cooling on my skin. I gasp at the sight of him licking me clean, consuming every drop as if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
“Julian,” I whisper, my cock giving an impossible twitch despite my two recent orgasms.
He looks up at me through his lashes, his tongue making one final sweep across my abdomen. “Delicious,” he purrs, crawling back up my body until we’re face to face.
“Want to watch your king eat his own cum from your ass?” he asks, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that makes my insides liquefy.
Despite everything we’ve already done, I feel my cheeks flush. “Yes,” I answer, my voice barely audible.
Julian smiles, that predatory curve of his lips that tells me he’s about to devour me. He moves down my body again, positioning himself between my thighs.
“Push,” he commands, spreading my cheeks with his hands.
I do as he says, bearing down slightly. I feel his cum trickling out of me, and then Julian’s hot mouth is there, lapping it up with eager strokes of his tongue. The sensation is filthy and erotic, and I moan helplessly as he continues to feast on me.
When he’s satisfied he’s gotten every drop, Julian crawls back up my body and captures my mouth in a deep kiss. His tongue pushes past my lips, sharing the taste of both our release. It’s salty and musky, and I should be repulsed, but instead I find myself chasing his tongue, groaning into his mouth as I taste our combined essence.
38
JULIAN
The gold rim of my wine glass catches the light as I raise it, taking a measured sip of a particularly excellent Barolo. Two weeks since Elliot’s rescue, and the rope burns around his wrists have faded to pale pink lines. Progress.
“To new beginnings,” I offer, tilting my glass toward the center of the table.
Ristorante Del Mare’s private dining room provides the perfect blend of intimacy and opulence—crystal chandeliers, hand-painted Italian murals, and the gentle notes of a distant violin. It’s the type of place where the waitstaff appears precisely when needed and vanishes when not.
Elliot’s laugh ripples across the table, warming something previously frozen in my chest. He’s been doing that more lately—laughing. The sound still surprises me each time.
“Are we seriously not going to discuss the disaster at the Winters Gallery?” Knox grins at Bianca across the table, his blue eyes dancing with mischief. “Tell them about the fire extinguisher incident.”
Bianca points her fork accusingly at Knox. “That was entirely your fault. You can’t walk up behind someone working with oil paints and whisper ‘boo’ in their ear.”
“The canvas caught fire,” Knox explains to us, barely containing his glee. “And then she tried using water?—”
“On an oil fire, yes.” Bianca rolls her eyes. “We’ve established I panicked. But at least I don’t proudly display a velvet Elvis above my bed.”
Elliot chokes slightly on his wine. “You don’t.”
“He absolutely does ever since he found it a few weeks ago,” Bianca confirms, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Elvis in a white jumpsuit with actual rhinestones glued on. And he claims it’s?—”