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

by Rachel Billings

  Because he didn’t care. He held over her, his breath coming harder, letting her know how he restrained himself, waiting for her acknowledgment.

  He didn’t care. If he made her pregnant, she would just be all the more his. But she was already all the way his.

  That’s what he was waiting for. That was the declaration he expected.

  He didn’t care for the delay when she faltered. He growled, his eyes blazing, and once, he pulled back and then thrust into her, hard, completely.

  He held again, his gaze fierce, expectant, commanding.

  She tried to turn her head, but he thwarted her, his grip hard in her hair. “Delilah!” It was a curse, a threat. An entreaty.

  “Austin.” She couldn’t hold back. Her body ached for him. She was stretched so tightly around him that even his breathing seemed to stimulate her, the smallest movement magnified at her center where he had her. The need was great there, after that incredible, devastating taking. He owned her now, had tamed her body to his, and now she needed him. She arched, sinuously moving her body, and he growled again.

  She closed her eyes to the intensity of it, the overwhelming power. “Yes,” she said, but it was a whisper, and her eyes were closed to him, and it wasn’t good enough.

  He nudged his hand in her hair until she opened herself to his gaze. His face was a harsh grimace. “Again,” he bade. “Say it again. To me. To my face. And louder.”

  He accompanied those words with another hard thrust. She kept her eyes open, lashed to his, as he drove into her. “Yes!” she cried, and he fucked her again. “Yes! Yes!”

  They were gone then, both of them, together. He wrapped himself around her and flailed into her, fucking her wildly. She clutched him to her, bucking beneath him to meet every thrust. She cried his name, and he answered, incoherent in unrestrained passion.

  “D.J.!” he roared. “Fuck! Love! Deej! Fuck, fuck!”

  He rolled once, bringing her on top of him, holding her hips securely while he lifted up off the bed and fucked into her. Then back, hooking her knees with his arms, spreading her, making her helpless against the force of his possession.

  Finally he lifted his face again, drawing her gaze, demanding it.

  He was all she could see, those blue eyes, the face grim with need, and those muscled shoulders, that hard body that mastered hers, owned hers.

  “Come, dammit,” he bade, stroking roughly into her. “Come for me.”

  It wasn’t in her power to refuse him. From under her knees he’d grasped her forearms. He held her trussed, subject to his mercy.

  It took her then, a powerful, nearly painful rush of orgasm. She howled, wanting to beg him to stop, to give surcease, but not having the words. Not having the consciousness, even, to form the thought.

  She had only pure instinct, the feral urge to protect herself. “No,” she wailed. “No, no!”

  But he kept driving into her. “Yes,” he said, urgent himself now. “Dammit! Yes, yes!” Then he was coming too, even as he forced her higher. She bucked and thrashed, her body riven, helpless in this hard come. It was the same for him. He roared out his climax, his body jerking and spasming.

  And she felt it, on that barest edge of awareness. His hot cum spurting hard into her. The relief of his release and the slippery easing of his thrusts as his semen soothed her pussy. His essence, that portion of himself, given over into her.

  They were both moaning as they came down from it, their hard grips on each other loosening, their rasping breaths gradually gentling.

  After a long time of it, Austin lifted his head. His gaze was soft on hers now, his lips tenderly skimming her face.

  “Delilah,” he sighed. “Pretty girl.”

  Carefully he lifted out of her and off. He reached down to grasp a light blanket, then lay beside her and covered them both. He put his hand on her face, gently now, and turned her so they could see each other.

  They watched each other as the light softened, the days just a little shorter now. Austin stroked her cheek with his thumb, his blue eyes intent.

  Finally he spoke. “Wherever Nick is, I’m guessing he’s aching to kick my ass right now. But he’s just going to have to get used to it.” His eyes searched hers. “Right, D.J.?”

  They would do this again, he was saying. He would have her again.

  At least he was asking. Sort of.

  * * * *

  Delilah had given a small smile and a smaller nod when he’d spoken of Nick. Austin didn’t have a clue whether there was any part of Nick anywhere capable of forming any kind of feeling at all about what he’d just done to the man’s sister.

  But he knew, without doubt, that if Nick had still been alive, Austin would have done just the same. Whatever he’d have had to take from Nick—whatever ass-chewing or beat-down Nick had tried to give him—he’d have stood up to it.

  Delilah was his. There was just not a bit of question about that, a bit of doubt.

  He was pretty sure she got the concept. He wasn’t certain one way or the other whether those words, “Mine! Mine!” had slipped past his lips. They’d been hammering around in his head while he’d been fucking her brainless. Even if they hadn’t escaped, even if he hadn’t hollered them out loud, he thought she’d heard the message.

  She got what he was doing when he’d come inside her. He’d fucking swear to it. Not since, well, not since Sissie Ford, though that was a thing D.J. definitely didn’t need to know, had Austin had his dick inside a woman without using a condom.

  But he was done. Yeah, he was pretty sure he’d used his last condom.

  First, she was his, and nothing was going to be between them when he got a chance to sink into that fucking hot cunt again. That had been a fuck like never before, and they fucking weren’t done. He may have never had anything like it up until now, but he would again. With Delilah. Whenever he could finesse her into it.

  Second, he fucking didn’t give a fuck if she got pregnant. He’d fucking say fucking hallelujah. She probably wouldn’t conceive, though. She was bright and sensible, and she’d just had Linc and Ben sniffing after her. How far they’d got didn’t bear thinking about. No matter, she probably used some kind of birth control.

  The point was, he hadn’t asked. Because he hadn’t cared.

  And it was a point that hadn’t been lost on her. And having got the point, she still didn’t stop him.

  He was done. He was in love, and she loved him back. Even if she was a little chintzy with the words. He’d work on getting her over that.

  His cock started to stir. It was time for a little more finessing. But she’d sweetly dozed off, and he couldn’t hold back the grin—nothing proclaimed “well-fucked woman” like lights out.

  So he left her there and pulled his boxers out from his bunched up jeans. They were fresh enough—he’d showered before he’d ridden over. He tiptoed out of the room and went downstairs. He used her bathroom there and then searched her kitchen. Her place was reasonably organized, but not obsessively so.

  It was a state he could live with. His friends and partners sometimes accused him of being over-the-top compulsive about such things. And it was true, there was a point at which chaos sent him over the edge into crazy. But he didn’t consider himself unreasonable about it.

  Anyway, he found a tray and loaded it up with their dinner. He grabbed a beer for him and the rest of the wine for her, and headed back upstairs.

  They could use a little sustenance before round two.

  Chapter Eleven

  Delilah woke to the brush of wine on her lips. It was possible she needed more time. She’d fallen asleep in those mellow, post-coital moments after Austin had talked of Nick. There hadn’t been any loving words, any tender soothing to take the edge off that powerful, body- and soul-rending fuck. It had been just as she’d anticipated—consuming, devastating. And his only acknowledgment of it was the determination that it would happen again.

  She thought it was entirely reasonable that a girl would want
a little moment.

  And it didn’t seem right that, after that wild fuck, the touch on her lips of a finger dipped in wine, followed by a moist tongue tracing that same path, would be enough to have her breath catching.

  It was, though. It freaking was.

  Just those two caresses and her breath hitched, coming out in a hard little moan. Foolishly, she thought he might not notice. Playing possum, she kept her eyes closed. But that didn’t stop her nipples from tightening, and she couldn’t suppress the erotic shiver that had her muscles tensing.

  He was close—she could feel his breath on her cheek—but he lifted his head. She refused to look, but she knew—just fucking knew—that he was taking her in. Like a panther sensing his mate in heat, he was onto her.

  “Sweetheart? Pretty girl?” His words were cajoling, just the least bit indulgent, amused. “Do you need me again?”

  Shit. Fuck, yeah.

  How could just that—a soft, wine-laden touch of her lips—have her panting for him again? She refused to acknowledge it. But her body gave her away, the way she quickened, the way she—yes, dammit—panted.

  He was a man of action. He lifted off the bed—practically leaped off it. She was pretty sure he’d brought food, and she heard him set the tray down on her dresser. Then he was back, on his knees beside her.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her over to her back. He slid a hand under her head at the base of her skull and lifted her up. Waiting, impatience brimming in each breath, he gave her a little shake until she opened her eyes.

  His gaze was hot, fierce, and he kissed her the same way. Taking her mouth, foraging deep, rough and swift. He pulled back to look briefly at her again and then moved his mouth to her breasts to give them the same treatment. Rough, greedy, he used mouth and hands, rubbing her tits and pulling hard at her nipples.

  Like a marauding Viking he lifted again, glorying in his conquest. He moved to kneel between her legs and shoved her up, diagonally across the bed, her head practically hanging over the far corner.

  Then he lay down between her legs, nudging a shoulder under each thigh. He pressed up hard, his shoulders lifting and opening her legs, and took her with his mouth.

  This wasn’t a gentle tease of tongue polite against her clit. He ate her. Invaded. Consumed.

  He lashed at her clit, long, determined, merciless strokes. Then he pushed up her cunt, fucking her with his tongue. He added fingers, stretching her open for deeper penetration, then taking over as he went back to her clit. He worked her in both places then, his tongue aggressive and his hand worse—his fingers, all of them now, fucking her deep, then knuckling her, a wicked distention as he nearly fisted her.

  He couldn’t quite fit inside her, but he went for all he could get. He stretched her pussy so hard it pulled at her clit, making the tension there so extreme that the touch of his tongue was all but too much.

  And then it was too much. He jerked his fist, driving further into her, and thrashed his tongue over the raw nerves of her clit. Instinctively, desperately, her body sought escape. She pressed her feet into his back, then into the bed, lifting up and trying to push herself away.

  He wouldn’t have it. He growled and grasped her hips, locking her in place with his implacable, muscled hold.

  Having her at his mercy, he finished it. Until she wailed, until she screamed, he ate her, fisted her.

  When she came it was a hard, wracking devastation. Her body shuddered and bucked wildly, flailing everywhere except where he held her. Where he still mastered her, still controlled her, inflicting that calamity of sexual stimulation.

  He drove her beyond what she thought she could take. Beyond what the screaming would serve to relieve. Until there were supplicant moans and submissive tears.

  He stopped then, finally. He leaned over her, drawing his hard cock along her thigh, letting her know his state. Of need. Of demand.

  Brusquely, he pushed into her. Almost impersonally, he stroked until there was an easy glide of his cock, wet with her pussy juices.

  Then he withdrew and rolled her over. Silently, he circled his fingers over her anus. He had moisture there—from her cunt? His mouth?—and he rubbed it around.

  He didn’t speak. He just used slow, relentless force to push his cock into her ass.

  He lay over her, his face nuzzled between her shoulder blades, his arms circling along hers until his fingers clasped hers.

  With a quiet grunt he thrust into her.

  She moaned, a protest and an affirmation.

  It was wicked. It was dominance and subjugation, supremacy and surrender. It was feral and base and the most erotic thing she’d ever felt.

  He nuzzled into her shoulder, her neck, scraping with his teeth, tasting and breathing her in. Imprinting.

  He thrust again, and she cried out, scrabbling with her fingers, into the sheets, into his grasp. His body tightened, all that hard muscle of his torso tense, compelling, pressing over her.

  Then he fucked her. Steady, determined strokes that drove them both. He struck hard into her, exerting exquisite stimulation to her sphincter, finding a sexual nerve center she never knew was there. And deep, filling her, taking her in that primal way, claiming her to her core.

  She wouldn’t have thought it. He didn’t touch her anywhere except as he covered her, as he gripped her hands and thrust into her ass. But he built her to a slaying climax, even as his own—flagrant in its intensity, its power—threatened.

  He got them there together, his last violent thrusts into her accompanied by her whimpering, groaning surrender and his grunting, fervent victory.

  Hot again, into her core, he filled her. Took her. Made her his.

  * * * *

  Austin got up and washed. Delilah’s upstairs bath was a little girly, with baskets of fragrant stuff, fruity foaming gels for the hot tub, and towels that looked too soft and fluffy to actually be absorbent.

  He thought maybe she could use something a little girly now, so he filled the tub with warm water and shot in some mango junk with a scent that wasn’t too off-putting.

  Then he went back to her room, found her curled on her side again, cocooned in a light blanket. He walked around the bed so he could see that her eyes were open. She peeked out at him, maybe a little wary.

  “Come on, pretty girl.”

  He reached under the bedding and scooped her up, preempting any protest she might muster. Toting her into the bathroom, he settled her into the tub.

  He figured she might have some tender parts that needed soothing. He wasn’t sure about her temper.

  Her little sigh of pleasure confirmed he was right about the one, at least. She sank into the bubbly water. Searching the countertop, he found her one of those prongy things women used, and she stuck her hair up in it, managing to look cute and hot at the same time. She lay back, and he helped get her little bath pillow comfortably under her head.

  Then he knelt beside her and fished under the foam until he found her hand. He brought it to his mouth for a kiss and kept hold.

  Now, about that temper.

  She wasn’t giving much away. If she thought he’d gone over the line, fucking, using her so hard, ass fucking her, for God’s sake, she wasn’t volunteering it.

  She looked into his eyes, then dropped her gaze to where his mouth toyed with her wet fingers.

  He didn’t want to apologize. He didn’t want there to be explanations or excuses. He wanted her to get it. To accept what was between them and be with him about it.

  Her silence started to piss him off. He’d just spent the most incredible couple hours of his life. They’d had fucking mind-blowing, over-the-top, unimaginably spectacular sex. He’d pushed her—he knew he had. But it was a freaking earth-shattering, game-changing experience.

  He’d loved that first fuck, the pure bliss of being inside her and making them one, making her his. Nothing had ever been sweeter than that. Then he’d come back to her from the kitchen, and just that one touch had lit her. He’d
seen it, the moment it happened. A touch on her lips and it was like fire to a fuse. Nothing more than that and her body had exploded into heat. Tonguing her, sucking her, after that, had been a wild ride.

  She liked it hard, he was sure of it. She’d wanted him to work her clit like that, had reveled in it. She’d wanted the finger fucking and even that later thing, when he’d practically fisted her. He’d pushed hard into her, stretching her as far as possible, and maybe even a little more than that. She might have a primitive fear for her own survival that had driven her to attempt escape. There’d been a moment when she’d almost got away from him.

  But then she’d come. She’d given him that screaming, crying, flailing orgasm like he’d never before witnessed.

  It had fucking stirred his soul. Whatever primal, male core was in him, whatever kernel of Neanderthal fucking animal manhood had descended to him from his caveman ancestors, it fucking blazed.

  He’d never fucked a woman in the ass before. He’d given a little anal stim during a fuck a couple times. He found it made women a little nervous, maybe worried that he’d be tempted to shove his big cock up there.

  He got it. He’d been a jock—he’d seen his share of cocks, and he knew they weren’t all created equal. It seemed perfectly reasonable to consider taking certain cocks up the ass—not that he would, but, just saying.

  But he figured, for most women, there’d be a line, and his cock seemed to cross it. Not for his girl.

  He couldn’t say, really, if she’d tried to make any objection. Or, worse, what he’d have done if she had voiced one. All he could say was that, if she hadn’t wanted it, she hadn’t protested loudly enough.

  Truth was, he wasn’t sure it would have mattered. He’d fucked her, then rocked her world with his mouth and his fist. What happened after was unstoppable. It was a clawing need to have her in that most base way, that most domineering and blatant possession. It was gut-felt, bone-deep.

  Pure, primitive brain function.

  Nothing at all cerebral that he could have talked about. There could be no polite inquiry.