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The Warm Up

The soft glow of the television painted shifting blue hues across the darkened living room. An action movie played, full of explosions and screeching tires, but the real drama was unfolding on the plush, oversized sectional. Craig sat squarely in the middle, one arm dr*ped possessively around Misty’s shoulders. Her head rested against his chest, but her brown eyes weren’t fixed on the screen. They were tracing the form of the man sitting at the other end of the couch.

Tatum. Craig’s best friend. A man built from the same granite and ink as her husband—tall, his muscular frame relaxed into the cushions, a sleeve of intricate tattoos visible down his arm. Her gaze lingered on the confident curve of his smile as he chuckled at a line in the movie.

Craig’s fingers, resting on her shoulder, began a slow, deliberate stroke along her collarbone. He dipped beneath the thin strap of her tank top, his touch a silent question. She felt the low rumble of his voice against her back before she heard the words. “Movie boring you, baby?”

Misty shifted, turning her face up to his. The playful glint in his blue eyes was unmistakable. He knew. He was always two steps ahead. “Just… distracted,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

His grin widened, his beard scratching gently against her temple as he leaned down. “By the better show?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand slid from her shoulder, down her arm, and came to rest on her bare thigh, his thumb making slow, concentric circles on her sensitive skin. The touch was a brand, a claim, and a permission slip all at once.

Her breath hitched. This was the game. The silent communication that had been building for weeks. She let her leg fall open a fraction, an invitation for his hand to wander higher. Then, emboldened by his confidence and the dim, safe anonymity of the room, she let her gaze drift back to Tatum.

This time, she didn’t look away.

He was watching them now, the movie forgotten. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, held hers. There was no surprise in them, only a simmering, knowing intensity. Misty felt a flush creep up her neck. She slowly brought her own hand to her other thigh, mirroring Craig’s movements, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her yoga pants.

A Shared Gaze Craig’s chuckle was a low, possessive sound. “See something you like?” he asked, his question aimed at Tatum, but his eyes stayed locked on Misty’s face, watching her reactions like a fascinating film.

Tatum’s smile was slow and easy. “The view’s definitely improved.” His voice was a deep baritone that vibrated through the room. He didn’t move from his spot, but his entire focus narrowed onto them, a voyeur given a front-row seat.

Craig’s fingers pressed a little deeper into Misty’s thigh. “Why don’t you give him a closer look?” he murmured into her ear, his breath hot. “Show him what’s mine.”

A shiver of pure, electric submission raced down her spine. This was it. The precipice. With shaky resolve, Misty slowly pushed herself up from Craig’s chest. She kept her eyes on Tatum as she shifted, turning to kneel on the cushion between the two powerful men. The fabric of her pants stretched taut across her backside.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she reached for the hem of her tank top. She pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion, dropping it to the floor. The air in the room felt cool on her heated skin. She wasn't wearing a bra. She heard Tatum’s sharp intake of breath, saw the way his jaw tightened. But it was Craig’s groan of approval that fueled her.

“Beautiful,” Craig said, his voice thick. His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs stroking the dip of her waist. “Now, show him how you touch yourself when you think about this.”

The Performance The command sent another wave of heat through her. She brought her hands to her own breasts, her touch hesitant at first. She cupped their weight, her thumbs brushing over her hardening nipples. She let her head fall back, her brown eyes closing for a moment as she sunk into the sensation, into the awareness of being so intently watched by two sets of hungry eyes.

When she opened them again, her gaze found Tatum’s. The intensity there was overwhelming, a mix of raw appreciation and restrained desire. She held that connection as she let one hand trail down her stomach, over the waistband of her pants, and pressed her palm firmly against the heat building between her legs. A soft moan escaped her lips as she began to rub slow, firm circles through the fabric.

“That’s it,” Craig encouraged, his own hands moving from her hips to stroke her back. “Let him see how wet you get for us.”

Tatum leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze unwavering. “Look at you,” he breathed, the words full of awe. “So responsive.”

The dual attention was intoxicating. Craig’s dominant presence at her back, a solid wall of support and command. Tatum’s captivated stare from the front, a mirror reflecting her own escalating desire. She arched into her own touch, the pressure building, a sweet tension coiling deep in her belly. She was putting on a show, but the pleasure was utterly, devastatingly real. Every flick of her fingers, every gasped breath, was both a performance and a genuine, unfiltered reaction to being the singular object of their shared, intense focus. The line between voyeurism and participation had blurred into nothingness, leaving only the visceral, passionate connection burning brightly in the dark room.

Chapter 2 Craig’s hands tightened on her hips, a silent command. “On your knees, baby. Show him what that pretty mouth can do.”

The shift in position was electric. Misty slid from the couch cushion to the soft rug, the coarse fibers a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. Tatum didn’t move, his dark eyes tracking her every motion as she settled between his spread legs. The thick bulge in his jeans was impossible to ignore, a clear testament to the effect of her performance.

“Go on,” Craig urged from behind her, his voice a low, possessive growl. His fingers traced the line of her spine. “Take your time. I want to watch you work.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she worked the button and zipper of Tatum’s jeans. He lifted his hips to help her, his gaze never leaving her face. When she finally freed him, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Craig hadn’t been exaggerating. Tatum was thick and heavy, the skin taut and smooth. The sheer size of him sent a fresh wave of dizzying arousal through her.

She leaned forward, her brown eyes flicking up to meet Tatum’s. She held his intense stare as she tentatively licked the broad head, tasting the salty pre-cum that had already gathered there. A low groan rumbled in Tatum’s chest, his hands gripping the couch cushions.

“Look at that,” Craig murmured, his tone full of pride. “She’s a natural, isn’t she, Tatum?”

“Fuck, yes,” Tatum breathed, his voice strained.

Encouraged, Misty took him deeper, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth. She focused on the rhythm, on the weight of him on her tongue, on the sounds of their ragged breathing filling the room. One of her hands wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking in time with the bobbing of her head. The other hand crept between her own legs, resuming the frantic circles against her clit, the dual sensations overwhelming.

“That’s my girl,” Craig praised, his hand moving to cup the back of her head, not forcing, but guiding. “Taking him so well. You love this, don’t you? Showing off for us.”

Misty moaned around Tatum’s length, the vibration earning another sharp hiss from him. The taste of him, the musky scent of his skin, the feeling of being completely surrounded by these two dominant men—it was a potent, heady mix. She lost herself in the act, her shyness burned away by the fire of their shared desire, becoming the confident, sensual woman they both saw in her.

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