Chapter 52: Encore Performance
The shower ran in the other room, a steady, hissing white noise. Alex stared at Anya’s face, her thumb still stroking his cheek. Her smile was a sleepy, sun-warmed thing. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her skin was damp, salty.
He kissed the corner of her eye, tasting the ghost of that single tear. He kissed the bridge of her nose. Her smile softened, her eyes closing again.
His lips traveled, a slow pilgrimage down her temple, along her jaw. He could feel the frantic rabbit-pulse in her throat. He kissed the hollow there, gently, where Toby’s thumb had pressed. Her breath hitched, a different kind of gasp.
He moved lower.
His mouth found the first bruise, a blossoming plum-colored smear just above her collarbone. He kissed it, his lips barely touching the tender skin. She sighed, a long, releasing sound that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. Her hand slid from his face to cup the back of his head, her fingers threading into his hair. Not guiding. Just holding.
He worshipped the marks. Each one. The sharp red lines from his nails on her ribs. The deeper, mottled patches on the swell of her breasts where his hands had kneaded and claimed. Alex kissed them all, his lips whispering apologies and benedictions against the evidence of another man’s possession. With each touch of his mouth, he felt her body soften further, melting into the ruined sheets. The tension leaked out of her, replaced by a boneless, sated warmth.
His journey downward was slow, deliberate. He nuzzled the sensitive skin of her belly, feeling the slight, tense tremor there. He kissed the sharp curve of her hipbone. The scent of her, of them, was overpowering here—musky, rich, profoundly intimate.
He shifted on the bed, sliding down until his shoulders were between her thighs. They fell open for him, a heavy, welcome weight against his sides. He looked at her, his vision framed by the lush, toned expanse of her inner thighs he adored. She was glistening, swollen, utterly spent and open.
He didn’t hesitate.
He lowered his mouth and licked a slow, flat stripe through the slickness. The taste was complex—her, unmistakably, but layered with Toby’s essence, salty and foreign. It was the taste of the entire evening, concentrated. He closed his eyes and took it in, committing the brutal, sweet truth of it to memory.
Anya made a sound above him, a broken, grateful hum. Her thighs tensed slightly, pressing against his head. “Yes,” she breathed, the word barely audible.
The shower shut off.
Alex didn’t stop. He became meticulous, focused. His tongue traced her folds, seeking every trace, cleaning her with a devotion that was both servile and fiercely possessive. This was his right. His duty. His darkest communion. Her hips gave a feeble, reflexive roll against his mouth. Her hands were fists in the sheets now, knuckles white.
The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, followed by Toby. He had a white towel slung low around his hips, another in his hands as he rubbed it through his short hair. He looked refreshed, his skin pink from the hot water. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene.
Alex was buried between Anya’s legs, his shoulders working. Anya had one arm flung over her eyes, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, a faint, trembling smile on her lips.
Toby leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just watched, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face. He let out a low, quiet chuckle. “Well, goddamn,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Alex heard him but didn’t stop. If anything, he became more thorough, more intense. This was for her. This was for him. Toby’s presence was just another facet of the act.
Anya lowered her arm. She turned her head on the pillow, her blue eyes finding Toby in the dim light. She looked wrecked and radiant. “Hey,” she said, her voice raspy.
“Hey yourself,” Toby replied, his tone warm. He tossed the hair-towel back into the bathroom. “You look… thoroughly used.”
“I feel it.” Her smile turned wicked. “It’s perfect.”
Toby’s gaze flicked to Alex, then back to her. “So, what’s the plan, boss? I should probably head out, let you two… decompress.” He said it easily, no pressure.
Anya was quiet for a second. She looked down at the top of Alex’s head, at the way his body was curled in service between her legs. She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair again, a possessive, loving gesture.
“Stay,” she said, looking back at Toby. Her voice was soft but left no room for argument. “It’s late. You live across town. The sofa’s big. Stay.”
Toby raised an eyebrow. He glanced at Alex, a question in his eyes.
Alex pulled back for a moment, catching his breath. He looked up, his chin slick. He met Toby’s gaze, then looked at Anya. He saw the quiet command in her tired eyes. This was her domain. Her choice. He gave a single, slight nod.
Toby shrugged, the easy smile returning. “Alright. Don’t mind if I do. I’m pretty wiped.” He ran a hand over his chest. “You got an extra pillow?”
“Hall closet,” Anya murmured, her attention already drifting back to the sensation of Alex’s mouth returning to its work.
Toby padded out of the room, the floorboards creaking faintly under his weight. They heard the closet door open and shut, then the soft thump of a body settling onto the large sectional in the living room. A comfortable sigh. Then silence.
They were alone again, but the apartment now held a third presence, a sleeping giant in the next room.
Alex redoubled his efforts. His tongue circled her clit, now hyper-sensitive, making her jolt and gasp. He slid two fingers inside her, feeling the lingering, slick evidence of Toby’s visit. He curled them, matching the rhythm of his tongue. He was reclaiming her, not by erasing what happened, but by participating in its conclusion, by tending to the aftermath.
Her thighs began to shake. They tightened around his head, not in a dominant scissors hold, but in a spasm of building tension. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants. “Alex… oh, god, right there… don’t stop…”
Her climax, when it came, was quiet but deep. A silent, open-mouthed gasp, her body bowing off the bed for a second before collapsing back, utterly liquid. A series of soft, continuous shivers coursed through her. He gentled his mouth, licking her through the gentle pulses until she pushed his head away with a weak hand. “Too much,” she whispered. “Sensitive.”
He rested his cheek on her thigh, breathing hard. The taste of her, of them, was all he knew.
After a minute, she nudged him. “Come here.”
He crawled up the bed, collapsing beside her. She immediately turned into him, molding her sore, marked body against his side. She threw a leg over his hips and buried her face in the crook of his neck. She smelled of sex and his saliva and her jasmine soap underneath it all.
“You,” she mumbled into his skin, “are my favorite thing in the world.” Her words were slurred with impending sleep.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her carefully, mindful of the bruises. He kissed her hair. “You are my world,” he whispered back.
They lay like that, listening to each other’s breathing even out. From the living room, a deep, rumbling snore began, rhythmic and undisturbed.
Anya giggled softly, the vibration tickling his neck. “He snores.”
Alex smiled in the dark. “He does.”
Silence settled again, warmer this time. The moon had moved, throwing a different pattern of light across the floor. The record player in the corner had long since stopped.
Just as Alex felt the heavy pull of sleep, Anya spoke again, her voice a sleep-thick murmur.
“He’s staying over, kotik.”
“I know.”
“He’ll be here in the morning.”
“I know.”
She nuzzled closer. “We’ll make him pancakes.”
Alex held her, the weight of her leg over his, the scent of another man on her skin and in her sheets, the sound of that man sleeping on their sofa. The reality of it was vast and strange and, in the quiet dark, perfectly calm.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And they slept.
The deep, black quiet of the apartment was absolute. Then it wasn’t.
A whisper, like rustling silk, pulled Alex from the depths. A giggle, stifled but bright, followed. Then a soft, rhythmic slap… slap… slap of skin on skin, steady and slow.
Alex opened his eyes. The bedside lamp was off, but moonlight through the large window painted the room in monochrome. Anya was beside him, but not as he’d held her. She was on her stomach, her face turned toward him, her expression blurred with sleep and a new, gathering pleasure. The sheet was pooled at her waist.
Toby was there, behind her, a mountain of shadow in the moonlight. He was on his knees, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her onto him with each deep, languid thrust. The slap was the meeting of his body against the full, perfect curve of her ass. Each impact made her jolt forward slightly, a soft gasp escaping her lips.
Her eyes, half-lidded, found Alex’s in the gloom. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, utterly awake.
“Hey sweetie!” she whispered, her voice throaty but clear. “Sorry we woke you.” She didn’t sound sorry at all. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the movement making Toby groan and sink deeper. She leaned over and planted a warm, open-mouthed kiss on Alex’s stubbled cheek.
She lingered, her lips at his ear. Her whisper was a hot, secret cloud. “He’s just claiming his rights, kotik. A lover’s rights. He can fuck me whenever he wants. You know?” She pulled back, searched his sleep-softened face, and giggled. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated mischief.
Toby’s pace remained a relentless, deep-sea rhythm. He watched them over Anya’s shoulder, his expression serene, possessive. He gave a small, acknowledging grunt. “Told you we’d wake him,” he muttered to Anya, his voice a low rumble.
“He doesn’t mind,” Anya breathed, sinking back down onto her elbows, presenting herself fully to Toby’s use. She looked over her shoulder at the massive man moving inside her. “Do you, Alex? You don’t mind your girl getting what she needs.”
Alex’s mind was cottony with sleep, but his body was instantly, painfully alert. He watched the hypnotic motion, the way her back dipped, the moonlight catching the sweat beginning to gleam at the base of Toby’s spine. He could smell it—sex, sleepy skin, the cool night air.
“No,” Alex heard himself say, the word rough from sleep. “I don’t mind.”
“Good boy,” Anya purred into the pillow. Toby’s hands slid from her hips up the slender channel of her back, applying gentle pressure to keep her arched. His thumbs found the bruises he’d left on her sides earlier, tracing them. She shivered.
“Still sore here?” Toby asked, his voice conversational even as he moved within her.
“Mmm. A little. It’s a good sore.”
“Remember how you got them?”
“I remember.” Her voice was dreamy. “I remember everything.”
Toby leaned forward, covering her body with his, supporting his weight on his forearms on either side of her. This new angle made Anya’s breath catch. The deep, slow strokes became even more profound, more intimate. He was no longer taking her; he was savoring her, with the weary, endless patience of the night itself. He nuzzled into her hair.
Alex watched the intimate collapse of space between them. He saw the way Anya’s fingers twisted in the sheets, then relaxed, utterly surrendering to the weight and the rhythm. This was different from the frenzied possession of earlier. This was domestic. This was a man making himself at home in his lover’s body because he could, because he’d earned it, because she’d told him to stay.
The slap… slap… slap was the only clock in the world.
Minutes stretched. Toby would occasionally murmur something into Anya’s ear, too low for Alex to catch. She’d nod, or smile against the pillow. Once, she reached a hand back to stroke the side of his leg, a gesture of affection so casual it stole the air from Alex’s lungs.
Finally, Toby’s rhythm stuttered. A low, strained sound gathered in his chest. He pressed his face into the space between Anya’s shoulder blades, his body locking. She pushed back against him, a soft, encouraging noise in her throat. He held there, shuddering, for a long time before collapsing heavily beside her, one arm flung across her lower back.
Silence, save for their breathing.
Anya let out a contented sigh that seemed to come from her toes. She didn’t move. She lay there, pinned gently by Toby’s arm, spent and smiling at the ceiling. After a moment, she turned her head toward Alex.
“You okay?” she whispered.
He nodded. He was more than okay. He was stranded in a strange, beautiful ocean, and the currents were pulling him deeper. He reached out and touched a strand of her hair, spread across the pillow between them.
Toby shifted, rolling onto his back with a gratified sigh. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Man,” he exhaled to the dark ceiling. “Midnight snack.” He turned his head toward Alex. “Hope the couch is still mine. I am officially done. Toast.”
Anya laughed, a rich, happy sound. “It’s yours. Go to sleep, you animal.”
Toby gave her hip a light, familiar pat through the sheet before standing. He padded, naked and unconcerned, out of the bedroom. The floor in the living room creaked, followed by the soft rustle of cushions as he found his spot.
The floor in the living room creaked, followed by the soft rustle of cushions as he found his spot. A final, contented sigh echoed down the hall. Then, a deeper silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city through the window.
Anya didn’t move from her stomach. She turned her cheek on the pillow, her blonde hair sticky at her temples. Her eyes found Alex’s in the near-dark. They were heavy-lidded, soft at the edges, but her gaze was utterly clear. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.
“So,” she whispered, her voice a raw, pleased thing. “You gonna clean your girl up?”
Alex was already moving. He didn’t speak. Words had dissolved into a single, focused need. He pushed back the tangled sheet, the moonlight washing over the full, stunning landscape of her back, the dip of her waist, the glorious swell of her buttocks. She was glistening.
He shifted down the bed, his movements reverent and hungry. He settled between her thighs, the heat radiating from her. The scent was immediate and potent—Toby, yes, but beneath it, her. Always her. He inhaled, committing this version of her to memory: used, owned, absolutely his.
He leaned in. He didn’t start gently. He pressed his mouth fully against her, his tongue driving in a slow, firm stripe from her perineum up through her slick, swollen folds. The taste was overwhelming. Salt, musk, the distinct, bitter tang of another man’s release. He swallowed it, his throat working.
A low, shuddering moan vibrated through Anya. She pushed her hips back minutely, a silent plea for more. “That’s it,” she breathed into the pillow. “Get it all, kotik. Every drop he left in me.”
Alex obeyed with a frantic devotion. His hands came up to grip the soft flesh of her thighs, spreading her wider. He adored these thighs. He worshipped them. He buried his face deeper, his tongue searching, probing, lapping. He cleaned her pussy with thorough, languid strokes, then focused lower, tracing the sensitive pucker between her ass cheeks with the blunt, wet tip of his tongue.
She gasped, her body tensing. “There… oh, god, Alex…”
He feasted. He lost himself in the topography of her. The smooth skin of her inner thighs, the softer flesh where thigh met cheek, the very center of her. He swallowed until the foreign taste was gone, replaced only by her essential flavor. His own arousal was a distant, irrelevant throb. This was the pinnacle. This was communion.
His nose brushed against her as he worked. One hand released her thigh to slide underneath her, his fingers finding her clit, already stiff and sensitive again. He pressed a slow, circling rhythm there as his mouth continued its diligent work lower down.
Her breathing shattered into sharp, erratic hitches. Her fingers clawed at the sheets. “Don’t… don’t stop… I’m gonna… right there, just like that…”
Her climax built not as a wave, but as a sudden, seismic shift. Her body locked, a tight, trembling arch. A punched-out, silent cry contorted her face before sound escaped—a high, thin wail that she smothered in the pillow. Her back muscles corded under her skin. Her thighs squeezed against his head in a weak, final imitation of the scissors hold he loved so much.
He held her through it, his mouth soft now, gentle, drinking the fresh pulses of her release as they mixed with the last remnants of Toby’s. He gentled his fingers until her shudders subsided into minute, aftershock tremors.
Total stillness followed. Her body went completely limp, a puddle of satisfied flesh. Her breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of imminent sleep.
Alex didn’t move. He rested his cheek against the soft skin of her inner thigh, his face damp. He inhaled the scent of her skin, her sex, his own saliva. The moonlight had moved, casting her left buttock in silver, the right in shadow. It was perfect.
Exhaustion slammed into him, a warm, weighted blanket. His eyes grew heavy. The idea of moving to his pillow was an impossibility. This was his place.
He nuzzled closer, letting his head droop until his forehead rested against the curve of her buttock. One arm draped over her thigh, his hand splayed possessively on her hip. His other arm was tucked under him. He was a comma against the fuller sentence of her body.
She was already asleep. A soft, muffled snore escaped her. It made him smile against her skin.
He closed his eyes. The last thing he knew was the smell of her, the heat of her, the perfect, crushing weight of his devotion. He loved her butt. He loved her thighs. He loved her, endlessly, in this exact, ruined, perfect way.
Sleep took them both, tangled and sticky in the moonlit room. The city hummed its indifferent lullaby. From the living room, another, deeper snore answered back.