Chapter 7: Claimed
Tim leaned against the doorjamb, the wood digging into his shoulder. He didn’t feel it. All he felt was the raw, physical hammering of his own heart against his ribs, a rhythm mirrored by the wet, rhythmic slap of skin from the bed.
Tyler was buried in her.
Krissy’s head was thrown back, her long blonde hair a tangled fan across Tim’s pillow. Her eyes were screwed shut, her mouth a perfect, gasping ‘O’. One of Tyler’s hands was fisted in the rumpled quilt, knuckles white. The other was under her, fingers splayed across the small of her back, holding her steady as he drove into her with a frantic, piston-like rhythm.
“Fuck, Krissy,” Tyler grunted, the words thick and slurry. “Jesus Christ.”
“Harder,” she whispered, then said it again, louder. “Harder, Ty. Please.”
He obliged. The bedsprings screamed a protest. Tim watched his best friend’s bare back, the muscles corded and slick with sweat, watched the powerful rise and fall of his ass as he fucked Tim’s wife. Krissy’s legs were wrapped around Tyler’s waist, her heels digging into the back of his thighs. Every thrust made her massive tits jounce and sway, a mesmerizing, pale expanse of flesh that Tyler’s chest smashed against with every downward plunge.
Tim’s hand drifted to his own jeans, palming the rigid, aching length of himself through the denim. A bolt of shame shot through him, hot and immediate, but it was drowned an instant later by a wave of possessive, bizarre pride. Look at her. Look what she’s doing for me. He had told Tyler to go to the bedroom. He had set this in motion. This was his, even if he wasn’t the one inside her.
“You like that?” Tyler panted, his voice rough. “You like me fucking you like this?”
“Yes,” Krissy keened. Her eyes opened, glassy and unfocused, and for a terrifying second they locked with Tim’s from across the room.He froze. Her gaze held his—defiant, desperate, pleading. Then a particularly deep thrust from Tyler broke the connection, and her eyes rolled back, a choked sob escaping her. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”
Tyler’s rhythm began to falter, growing jagged, desperate. “I’m gonna… shit, Kriss, I’m close.”
“Do it,” she urged, her hands clawing at his shoulders. “Come in me. Fill me up.”
The words, filthy and direct, acted like a lightning strike on Tim. His wife was telling his best friend to come inside her. The visual, the auditory reality of it, was too much. He unzipped his jeans, freeing himself, his fist closing around his own heated flesh. He stroked in time with Tyler’s thrusts, a shameless, silent spectator.
With a final, animalistic groan that was more roar than voice, Tyler shoved himself deep and held there, his entire body shuddering. Tim could see the tension seize him, could almost feel the hot, pulsing release happening inside Krissy. Tyler collapsed onto her, his face buried in her neck, his breath coming in ragged, broken gusts.
The room was suddenly quiet, save for their heavy breathing. The scent of sex and sweat and lavender lotion hung thick in the air.
Tim stayed where he was, his own need a painful, unfinished ache in his grip. He watched as Tyler, after a long moment, pushed himself up on trembling arms. He looked dazed, bewildered, like a man who’d just survived a crash. He pulled out of Krissy, and the wet, intimate sound made Tim’s jaw clench.
Krissy lay perfectly still, a spent doll against the sheets. She slowly brought her knees together.
“Holy shit,” Tyler breathed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He looked from Krissy to the doorway, finally noticing Tim. His expression flickered—confusion, guilt, then a lazy, satiated pride. “Fuck, man. I… sorry. I guess I got carried away.”
Tim forced a tight smile, tucking himself back into his jeans with deliberate casualness. “Don’t be. You did what you came to do.”
The double meaning hung in the air, awkward and heavy.
Tyler clumsily gathered his clothes from the floor. He wouldn’t look at Krissy. “I should… I should get back. Madison’s probably wondering.”