It’s not them I’m afraid of. It’s the consequences of this insane plan I’ve set into motion. “No, Sir.”
“In that case,” he says, his voice tightening with displeasure, “What are you waiting for?”
A valid question. I pull the zipper down, and the silk fabric falls to the floor. I step out of it, belatedly remembering to pick it up. Cat will kill me if I damage it. I fold the skirt with shaking fingers and set it beside my corset.
And now I’m in a skimpy thong and nothing else.
West circles me. Heat blazes in his eyes, but when he speaks, his voice is even. “What should we do with you now, I wonder?” He ponders me for a long instant and retrieves one of the sturdy wooden chairs, positioning it in front of the couch. “Sit down,” he orders.
The chair is classically styled with heavy armrests and a straight back.
There’s a mirror behind the couch. Clever West. The only way I can avoid my reflection is by keeping my eyes closed.
Somehow, I doubt that West and Rob will allow that. The placement of the chair is hardly an accident.
I perch on the edge of the seat, crossing my ankles, more out of habit than modesty. I fold my hands on my lap. My fingers twitch, and I want to fiddle with my nails. It takes a surprising amount of willpower to stop myself from fidgeting.
“Sit back in the chair,” West instructs. “Bring your knees up toward your chest.”
I spread my legs and bend my knees so my high heels rest on the wooden seat. Cool air caresses my overheated pussy. I’m displayed for them, spread open, bared to their gazes. My cheeks grow heated. The gusset of my panties is soaked. In this position, it’s impossible to hide the evidence of my arousal from them.
I start to squirm.
West’s voice cracks like a whip. “Stay still.”
I freeze, reflexively responding to his command.
Rob takes a seat on the loveseat to my left. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my bound breasts, my swollen pussy, barely covered by my panties, and my curled toes. His gaze is a brushstroke, painting heat and desire where it lingers. Anticipation builds inside me again.
They want me. Their bulging erections serve as a testament to their arousal, the same way my soaked panties do. Whatever other lies I’ve told throughout this evening and whatever other disguises I’ve worn, this is the truth I can’t conceal.
I want to taste them. I want them to taste me, to devour me. To feast on the heat building inside of me. I want to scream my need out loud.
West’s voice snaps me back to the present. “Tell me what you want, kitty cat.”
My mind is reeling from the millions of sensations going off in my body. I don't know if I can tell him what I want; I don't know if I can form the words. My lips are parted, panting, but no sound emerges from them. I need to answer. I must answer. My thinking mind is a faint echo, buried under the lust of my primal desires.
Tell him, Mel. Tell them both.
“I want you to eat me out.”
West smiles, a ray of sunlight breaking through stormy clouds. “What a fantastic idea,” he says, sinking to his knees in front of me. “Keep your hands on your knees. I want your eyes open. Watch yourself, kitty cat.”
Weston Fontaine is kneeling in front of me.
He’s reaching forward and moving my panties to one side.
My heart beats a little faster. My breath comes quicker in anticipation of his touch.
Then his mouth collides with my pussy.
I arch back further than I thought possible. I’m practically pushing myself into his face, and I’m past the point of caring. Looking past West, I can see Rob watching us. His erect penis strains against his trousers. I can feel his desire radiating toward me.
They want me. They want me. The words keep repeating in my head like some unrelenting chant of disbelief.
West’s tongue sweeps a long, slow path up my slit. He flicks my clit once, twice, and then backs away. He turns his head, his lips trailing kisses along my thighs.
My boss licks my pussy. My other boss watches. Oh fuck me, this is so wrong. So forbidden. So wanton. If I’d stayed that night in Paris, was this where we’d have ended up?