Chapter-99: George likes to kiss her lower mouth
Markus withdrew his finger, and the sound of his belt buckle clinking was lewdly loud. He positioned himself at her soaked entrance, and with a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
Her resulting shriek was one of pure, unrestrained ecstasy. The bed began to rock in a relentless, pounding rhythm.
Markus's powerful thrusts drove her body into Brutus, who was now frantically working his own arousal, his eyes glued to the place where his father disappeared into the woman they shared.
"Take me…" Brutus groaned and his voice strained. "I need to feel you…" Markus grunted pulling out abruptly, his own need evident. He gestured for his son to take his place. Brutus needed no second invitation.
He sheathed himself in her damp heat, his pace frantic, desperate. Mohini's moans became continuous, a high pitched keening that spoke of relentless, overwhelming pleasure. They switched again, and again, a well practiced dance of mating.
Markus took her from behind, his hands gripping the lush flesh of her hips, the slapping sound of skin on skin echoing Martin's own pounding heart. Brutus fed his length into her mouth, and her hungry, sucking moans were the sweetest music.
Martin listened, his own arousal a painful, neglected throb, his fist clenched white on the table. He heard the sharp, ragged cries that signaled their climaxes. Markus's roar, followed by Brutus's choked gasp.
The long shuddering sigh of completion from Mohini…. Silence…. Heavy breathing…. The rustle of clothing... Sometime later, heavy footsteps approached. They were clumsy now, sated. Rough hands hauled him up from the table. He let his body go limp, a dead weight.
They half carried, half dragged him to the bedroom, stripping his clothes away with dispassionate efficiency before dropping him naked onto the mattress beside his wife. The door closed.
They were gone. The room smelled of mating, of sweat, of them. He lay still for a long time, listening to Mohini's breathing slowly even out into sleep. The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the window when he finally moved.
He turned onto his side, looking at her. She was a mess. Her hair was a dark tangle across the pillow. Her lips were swollen, her skin flushed. The evidence of their use glistened on her inner thighs.
She had never looked more beautiful to him. He leaned in close, his lips hovering just above hers, catching the scent of wine and mating on her breath. He placed a single, tender, chaste kiss on her mouth.
Her response was instinctual, even in the depths of sleep. A soft, delicious moan vibrated against his lips. "Mmm… again…" she slurred, her body shifting languidly. Martin pulled back.
He slipped from the bed, his own need a distant, secondary thing to the complex swirl of emotions in his chest. He paused at the door, looking back at the sleeping form of his wife, the wife who belonged to all of them, and yet, in this strange way, only to him.
The shadow of Martin's figure faded down the street and the silence that rushed in to fill the house was a living, breathing thing. Mohini ran a hand over the silk of her saree, feeling the expensive fabric whisper against her skin.
It was a costume of innocence, a beautiful lie wrapped around a body thrumming with a very different intention. Her husband saw a devoted new wife. Her boss, George Duster, would see something else entirely.
An hour later, the scent of his expensive cologne and polished mahogany filled his office.
He didn't rise from his leather chair, just watched her over his fingers, his gaze a physical weight that started at the delicate gold embroidery on her peach colored saree blouse and traveled down, lingering on the way the fabric hugged her hips.
"Mohini, you're looking… radiant today."
"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice a practiced, demure tone. She clasped her hands in front of her, making the fullness of her melons press together above the snug choli. His eyes, dark and hungry, didn't miss the movement.
He stood then, a large man who moved with a predatory grace that made her heart beat faster. He didn't speak, just closed the distance and captured her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss that was nothing like the perfunctory peck Martin had given her.
It was all tongue and possession, a taste of whisky and power. A low, involuntary moan escaped her throat, and she melted against him, her hands coming up to grip his broad shoulders.
Oh god, yes. This is what I needed. When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. "Sit on the desk," he commanded her with his voice gravelly. She complied, her silk Lehenga rustling as she hopped up onto the polished surface.
He pushed her back until she was leaning on her elbows, then he was on his knees, pushing the layers of her skirt up around her waist. He hooked his hands behind her knees and draped her legs over his shoulders, pulling her core to his mouth in one swift, shocking motion.
The first hot, wet stroke of his tongue against her clit made her back arch off the desk. Aaaah! The cry was loud, erotic, and she didn't care. He feasted on her, his tongue a relentless, clever instrument that licked and probed and suckled until she was a writhing, moaning mess.
Her neatly pinned hair came undone, spilling around her shoulders. "Tell me," he growled against her wet flesh, his breath hot. "Tell me about your wedding night." The words tumbled out of her between gasped moans.
"M-Martin was… ah…!… So drunk... Passed out right after… right after the photos…" George's tongue swirled and she cried out, her hips bucking against his face. "His father… Markus… he came to check on me.
Oh, fack, right there! He said I was too beautiful to be alone." She panted, the memories fueling her arousal, making her slicker for the man currently devouring her. "He… he touched me. Then Brutus came in. My brother in law… They said it was a… a family tradition!"
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