Three Men and a Woman: Evangeline (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Rachel Billings

  Suddenly, he wanted, needed in a way he never had before.

  “Evvie,” he whispered, his lips already brushing hers, his hands at the single button of that sweet little jacket. “Evvie girl. I need—”

  To be inside her, to be buried deep.

  “Yes.”

  “Now, I mean.” His voice was rough, harsh. He had her jacket open, and he ran his fingers under the lace of her bra to swipe at one already pebbled nipple. But just that fast his hands were sliding up under her skirt, brushing her clit on their way to finding the elastic of her panties. “Now.”

  “Yes,” she said again, emphatically, like she understood what he meant and consented to it, even though he didn’t, couldn’t, fathom that she did.

  No matter. He tugged her panties down, knocking off at least one of those red high-heels in his urgency. “I have a condom,” he offered, determined to be not quite the idiot he’d been eight years earlier. He’d better find it, like now, because he already had his dick in his hand, hard and eager to find heaven.

  “You don’t need it.”

  “Wha—” He wasn’t all the way sure what she’d said—she’d been talking around his tongue.

  “It’s okay. The timing’s—”

  Good, he hoped she’d been about to say. Not right. He hoped it a lot, because he was inside her now, thrust deeply, buried balls-deep, just like he wanted.

  It took them both aback, that sudden, abrupt incursion. He paused, shuddering at the sweet bliss of it, the profound sense of coming home. He growled in ecstatic pleasure.

  He thought she was okay. Certainly, she was wet for him, her hot pussy a tight, tight fit but still slickly giving way. And she shuddered, too, letting out a satisfied moan. She had her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and her mouth opened readily for him when he thrust his tongue in again.

  She sucked on him, more enthusiasm than skill, and he lifted her up so she could circle her legs around him.

  He leaned back once to look at her. Last chance. “You sure?”

  She had a hard, greedy grip in his hair now, and he fucking loved it.

  “Yes,” she said. She put a little attitude into it.

  He couldn’t help but grin. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

  “If you’re done talking about it.”

  Okay, that was a little pissy.

  Like he had a job to do, if he was man enough for it.

  He fucking was. In-fucking-deed he was. He fucked into her, a long stroke out and back in hard, even deeper.

  It was fucking spectacular. He growled again, rolling his head in the glory of it. She whimpered some encouragement, and then he was gone.

  He flailed into her. He got one hand free from behind her and found a breast. He palmed her, loving the feeling of lace against his hand, then tore it aside to have her flesh. Her breast was full and firm, the nipple hard against his palm. He took it with finger and thumb and rolled it gently. Then firmly, vigorously, even, because she loved it. She gave him a rough, encouraging little “yes” and said his name with a helpless plea each time he went harder.

  Until finally there were no words but only his grunts and her mews of pleasure, more and more urgent until they weren’t mews anymore but rough, urgent wails, and she was coming. She rocked back hard against the door, doing her best to ride him, to meet him and open herself to his thrusts.

  She was a wild, incredible fuck, so quick to come. She drew him with her, the sweet spasms of her cunt bringing on his own orgasm. He growled and then roared, fucking ruthlessly into her, barely thinking to wrap his arms around her to keep from pounding her back hard against the door. He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her scent in, tasting her. Leaving his mark.

  Shuddering, he gave her his cum. He thrust deep and held, spurt after spurt bursting from him in wrenching spasms, filling her. She seemed aware of it, stilling her own movements, her wailing breaths quieting to gratified moans.

  He had wild, outlandish, unlike-him thoughts about the symbolism of that exchange, the giving of his essence into her body.

  It shook him a bit.

  Maybe he’d finally succeeded in fucking his own brains out.

  He still held her hard, still breathed her in with his face pressed into her neck. Struggling to get his head about him, he straightened a little. Without looking at her, he lifted her a bit so he could disengage and then set her on her feet.

  A couple more calming, centering breaths and he raised his head.

  Then, looking at her, he wanted her all over again. She was fucking sweet-hot-sex. Her breath was still a bit labored. Her breasts lifted with each inhalation, the one still cupped by her bra and the other bare, the nipple red and ripe from the working over he’d given it. Her skirt was still gathered up over her hips, her pussy just hidden from view, but the line of her shapely thighs pointed the way nonetheless.

  She looked back at him, her hands fallen now to rest on his arms, bent as he steadied her—or himself—with a grasp at her waist. Her lips were a little swollen, her eyes a little dazed.

  She looked replete, very well fucked. He knew he’d satisfied her. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt.

  But still—

  “I have finer moves than that. I swear I do.”

  She laughed, a sweet sound.

  “I can do better.”

  With a gentle caress, she held her hand against his face. “Better might kill me.”

  He held back a grin—maybe. “Me, too. But that’s not going to stop me.”

  He wanted to show her he knew how to be a gentleman, that he knew something about loving a woman besides a quick, needy fuck against a door. He wanted to be tender, gentle with her.

  Most of all, he wanted to be inside that sweet body again.

  Chapter Two

  Nothing would stop him, if Evangeline took his meaning correctly. And the little throbbing, stinging sensations he’d left in her body stirred into something different at the thought.

  Briggs wanted her again. Whatever was in his head about doing better, the basic fact was he wanted her again. She might not know much about sex, but she knew that. His cock was filling. Oh, not the way it had been before, hard and thrust up, dangerous. But thickening and lengthening, hanging heavily between his legs over the open fly of his pants.

  That was as far as he’d gotten before he’d taken her—just his belt unfastened and his pants undone. He still wore his suit coat. His neatly pressed dress shirt was still buttoned, his tie not even loosened.

  Okay, he was hot in his dress clothes. But if she was going to have the night with him, she wanted more. Twice now, he’d made love to her with his clothes on. She’d loved it, the swift, hard takings, the urgent neediness.

  But she wanted to touch him. She wanted—his skin.

  Tonight was a gift she was giving herself, a night she could spend with this man she loved.

  She was sure there wouldn’t be another. There couldn’t be.

  So she would take what she wanted from this one night.

  He held her, pulling her along as he walked backward toward that big bed situated along a set of windows facing the bluff. When he got her there, he kissed her. This was a sweet, enticing kiss, something gentle and heart rending. After a long time of it, he lifted. He cupped her face and rubbed a thumb gently along her lower lip. Then he ran his hands along her neck to her shoulders and started sliding her jacket away.

  “Wait,” she said. He’d touched her, tasted her, and she wanted the same. “Let me.”

  He checked her eyes, looking at her carefully, and then dropped his hands to his sides.

  He was giving over, letting her have, take, what she wanted.

  She grabbed hold of his tie and used it to pull herself up against him. Just as he had done against her, she nuzzled into him. She pressed into his neck, feeling the rough chafe of his end-of-day beard. She grazed along the collar of his shirt to the smooth texture of his well-tailored coat. Nestled there, she breathed him
in.

  She discovered the scents of a grown, successful man. The clean, pressed smell of his jacket, aroma of a masculine soap. But there—back at his neck, in his skin—she found it. That scent of Briggs, the one she remembered, the one she held imprinted. The hot sweat of boy in summer heat, the smell of his tanned skin as she’d leaned against him, pointing out the flaws in his handwritten manuscripts.

  She wanted more. She wanted to wallow in it. Tucking her fingers into his tie, she slowly loosened it, nuzzling into each little bit of shirt-covered chest along the way. When she reached the end of the knot, she slid it from his neck and dropped it to the floor. She did the same with his jacket, running her hands up under it, slipping it off his shoulders.

  Then she had him, just that broad expanse of chest covered by his thin summer-weight shirt. She put her hands on him, palming his shoulders, smoothing down his chest. He had mounds of muscle, sleek and firm, much more a man’s body than she remembered even from that night eight years before.

  He liked what she was doing. His nostrils flared with her touch, and his chest rose with heavy breaths.

  Her fingers went to his collar, and just has she’d done with his tie, she slowly opened his shirt. Only this time, what was revealed as she progressed was hot skin.

  She kissed him first in that small dent at the base of his neck. Lips first and then her tongue. She remembered he’d used his teeth on her neck, and she did the same, drawing him in to graze and then soothe with her tongue.

  Briggs shivered, and she smiled, pleased with her womanly power.

  She opened another button and feasted again. Then another.

  Soon she had his shirt entirely undone, and she savored the smooth contours of his chest. She remembered days when he was in high school—days beyond the time when the guys spoke directly to her. But she watched them, and she recalled seeing them shirtless as they played basketball. Chase and Giovanni had taunted Briggs, wondering if he would ever grow hair on his chest.

  He hadn’t, and she wasn’t sorry about it. She caressed him with her hands and her cheek, loving the smooth tight skin that overlay hard muscle. Then she touched him with lips and tongue—his sternum, the cut of his pecs, and then a small, male nipple.

  He shuddered with her touch and tore himself out of his shirt. His cuffs were still buttoned, but he had no patience as she reached for them. He roughly jerked his hands free, showing complete disrespect for the fine, no doubt expensive shirt.

  As soon as he was free, he took her jacket in his hands and started sliding it off.

  “No,” she said, not wanting to lose control, to have this sweet pleasure taken from hers.

  But he didn’t stop. “Trust me,” he whispered. “You’ll like this.”

  He got her jacket off and dropped it on the floor just as casually as she had his. Then he reached behind her, unfastened her bra, and slipped that away as well.

  She was naked then except for her skirt. He paused to look, whatever his intent had been. His breath was audible, a bit strained.

  Her breasts basked in his adoration. They tightened, and a tingly sensation brought the nipples to hard peaks.

  “You’re beautiful, Ev.” His words were a hot caress. “Fucking beautiful.”

  He took hold of her, his big hands spread along the curve of her ribs on either side. Then he slowly pulled her close.

  Her nipples touched him first, a delicate contact that sent a current of excitement shivering through her. She felt it in her depths, a heated, elemental stirring.

  His grip on her gentled then, giving her back control. She steadied herself on his arms, the hard bulge of his biceps filling her hands.

  Then she stroked him again, caressing that lovely, patently male chest—with her breasts. He was right. She did like it. She loved it.

  He did, too. She was close enough to him now that it was clear his cock was no longer just stirring but was hard and seeking. She rotated her hips a little, chafing the raw silk of her skirt against him.

  He liked that, too, and she loved the power she had to please him. But there was a limit to his willingness to let her indulge herself.

  His hands moved from a gentle grasp on her sides to a good, hard grip on her ass. He squeezed, generating a surprisingly erotic sensation. And more of it, as her brought her close so he could rut against her.

  Oh, that was a hot thrill—the stroking pressure against her clit and, more, his blatant desire for her. She nearly laughed with the pleasure of it, the glory.

  Like a cat, she rubbed herself against his chest. Harder now, so her breasts were compressed, so when she moved, her nipples pulled against the tight bond with his skin.

  She moaned, excited again as though he hadn’t just driven her to that hard orgasm. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, tasting him again, scenting him. Her arms had curled around his back, and she stroked there, too, running her hands over hot skin and thick muscles. She followed the vee of his torso to where it narrowed at his waist. Her fingers met the loosened waistband of his pants and, beneath, the elastic of his small briefs. Both were slung low now, having made way for his thrusting cock.

  She delved beneath it all, palming his ass as he did hers, but more intimately, skin to skin.

  He growled again, that stirring, base sound of his frank need. “Goddammit, Ev.”

  He took her mouth, possessing her with the thrust of his tongue. He yanked her skirt up so his hands, too, held bare, hot flesh. Gripping her hard, he cursed again. “Dammit. Dammit, Ev. I need you now. Again. Right now.”

  He said that like it was a bad thing. Evangeline couldn’t understand it. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, please.”

  “Jesus.” Briggs moved his hands to her hips and nudged her back a step. He went around her, leaving her facing the bed. His hands went to the back zipper of her skirt. His fingers fumbled at it, and he cursed some more. Finally, he got it open and let the skirt fall to the floor.

  He pushed at the small of her back. “Go,” he bade. “Lie down.” He directed her with curt words and urgent nudges.

  On her belly, he wanted her. Laid flat out.

  He was there the very same moment she was, pushing up into her, filling her from behind. “God, Ev. You’re so fucking hot. Your cunt is so fucking tight.”

  And he felt so good. She didn’t believe he could imagine just how good it felt to her having him inside her body, stretching her, making them one. Making her his. Becoming hers.

  Except that he did seem to understand. His hot words of rapture, the shudder of his body, told her so.

  His weight enclosed her. He lay fully over her, owning her as much by that fact as by way his cock pierced her.

  He was fucking her that way. No pause this time, no moment of adjustment, just quick, hard, full thrusts. He humped into her, mindless as a stallion mounting his mate.

  She realized he wasn’t entirely mindless, though. He chanted her name with each thrust. And he moved his hands, pushing beneath her until he had fingers at her clit and others at one breast. He took hold of her nipple and pinched with each thrust, the same way he stroked her clit.

  Relentlessly he pumped into her, grunting out urgent words at her ear, inciting her with those knowing hands, steering her into that same mindless haze. Flaunting his control of her.

  “Come, Evvie. I need you to come.”

  He spoke gruffly, his face nuzzling her back, her neck. He pinched harder, thrust harder.

  She felt so taken by him, enveloped, bound. Each thrust took him deeply into her, literally staking her as his. He ground into her, stimulating her ass with unexpectedly arousing results. His body covered her. His fingers drove her. His breath was hers.

  He fucked her harder, faster, urging her, entreating.

  It was beyond her power to stop it, to contain it.

  She started to buck, movements that would have been wild but for the dampening effects of his command over her. The orgasm that came was all the more powerful for it, intensified by her
helplessness to do anything but take it.

  She cried out, thinking she was done, but he pushed her further. She called his name, and he answered back with hers.

  But he wasn’t easing up, wasn’t telling her he was through with her. He was demanding more.

  He wrapped an arm around her, low across her belly. Holding her hard against him, he lifted her as he went back on his knees.

  He had her splayed out then, his thighs pressing hers wide, her body suspended by virtue of his cock impaling her pussy. He gripped her, his hands at her hips, his thumbs kneading her ass.

  He kept fucking into her, groaning and huffing out his pleasure.

  She knew she would have to come again, knew he wouldn’t give in until she did. She’d have known it by his actions—the way he found her clit again, the way the thumb of his other hand crept closer to her little anal opening.

  But his words left no doubt of it. They were crude, earthy, and urgent. “You’re not done, Ev. You’re going to fucking come again. Give over, goddammit. Come, you—”

  Bitch. He’d almost said it.

  She wouldn’t have cared if he had. She, who’d made love three times in her life, all of them on one sorrowful night, wanted to be this man’s bitch.

  She must have been saving up.

  “Briggs!”

  Maybe she was giving him permission, instruction, even. He took it that way, in any case.

  His thumb that had been creeping, teasing, hovered no more. He touched her, right there, at her anal opening, even as he fucked her. He circled, gently stimulating, talking to her all the while. Telling her how pretty she was, how hot.

  Her breath skittered out as he pressed in. He just barely penetrated, just enough for her to feel the circumference of the tip of his thumb, the rough scratch of his nail.

  “Briggs.” There was no instruction in it now, no certainty.