Luna rode him with a fury born of twenty years of knowing this body, this rhythm, this man. Her thighs burned against the leather of his chair, her nails dug into the solid muscle of his shoulders. Each downward stroke was a claim, each upward retreat a tease. She watched his face, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes, dark and fixed on hers, reflected the amber lamp light. This was their old dance, familiar and deep, but tonight the music was different. It screamed.

Devan’s hands gripped her hips, not guiding, but anchoring. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her belly. “Look at you,” he growled, the sound vibrating up through where they were joined. “My wife.”

She leaned forward, bringing her mouth to his ear. “Yours,” she breathed, then bit his lobe. “Mine.”

His response was a surge upward, a hard, punctuating thrust that stole her breath. It was a signal. Before she could reclaim the rhythm, his hands shifted. They encircled her waist, solid as iron bands. In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted her off him and stood, her body weightless in his arms.

He threw her onto the bed.

The world tilted. Silk sheets, cool and rumpled, met her back. And beside her, heat. Peter lay on his side, propped on an elbow, his body rigid with renewed arousal. His cock stood thick and flushed against his stomach, a stark testament to the scene he’d just witnessed. The sight of it, so close, made her mouth water.

Devan was on the bed before she could orient herself. His hands were on her, rough, turning her. He flipped her onto her stomach with a force that was new. It wasn’t cruel. It was decisive. Her face slid across the sheets and came to rest against Peter’s hip. Her cheek brushed the hot, velvety skin of his inner thigh. The musky, clean scent of his arousal filled her nostrils. The head of his cock rested against her temple.

“Kiss.”

Devan’s command was a single, low word from behind her. It wasn’t a request. It was the final turn of a key.

Luna turned her head, her lips now a breath away from Peter’s flesh. She looked up, meeting the boy’s wide, stunned eyes. She winked. Then she blew him a soft, mocking kiss. Her hand came up, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. She felt him jump at her touch, a full-body shudder. He was so hard it felt like steel wrapped in silk.

She held his gaze as she lowered her mouth. She didn’t go for the head. She went lower. Her lips, soft and deliberate, pressed a kiss to the tight, heavy sac beneath. Peter gasped. The sound was a high, strangled thing. She kissed one, then the other, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt and musk there. He whimpered.

Behind her, Devan settled. She felt his knees press hers apart, felt the broad, familiar head of him nudge against her soaked entrance. He was dripping. She was dripping. The wet sound was obscene in the quiet room.

He pushed inside.

It was not the deep, measured penetration of their chair. It was a claiming. One long, relentless thrust that buried him to the hilt, that stretched her, filled her, stole the air from her lungs. A ragged cry tore from her throat, muffled against Peter’s skin.

Devan began to move. This was the new energy. Piston-like, deep, each drive of his hips slamming her forward, grinding her face into Peter’s groin. The rhythm was brutal, perfect. It was a hammer on the anvil of her, forging her into something new.

Luna opened her mouth. She dragged her tongue along the underside of Peter’s shaft, from root to tip. The taste was clean, sharp, male. She felt the thick vein throb against her tongue. With each of Devan’s thrusts, her mouth was pushed against him, her lips sliding, her tongue flattening.

“Good girl,” Devan grunted from behind her, his voice strained with effort. His hands were on her ass now, spreading her, holding her open for his assault. The slap of his skin against hers was a rapid, wet percussion. “Take it. Take him.”

She did. She took the pounding, the deep, internal bruising that felt like liberation. And she took Peter into her mouth. Not all at once. She swirled her tongue around the head, tasting the bitter pre-come that beaded there. She sucked just the tip, hollowing her cheeks, as Devan’s thrusts rocked her whole body.

Peter’s hands fisted in the sheets. “Oh, god. Mrs. Wu.”

The name, spoken in that broken voice, sent a fresh flood of heat through her. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, opening. She bobbed her head in a counter-rhythm to Devan’s fucking, a messy, desperate symphony. She could feel everything—the hard length in her mouth, the harder length pounding into her from behind, the sweat dripping down her spine, the raw, animal sounds coming from all three of them.

Devan’s pace became frantic, losing its military precision. He was chasing it now. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise. “Luna,” he choked out. Just her name. A prayer and a curse.

She felt his rhythm stutter, felt the deep, internal pulse of him as he came. His roar was muffled by the room, but the vibration of it traveled through his body into hers. He collapsed over her, his weight a crushing, delicious anchor, his hips still making small, involuntary thrusts as he emptied himself inside her.

Beneath Devan’s weight, with the taste of Peter on her tongue and the feel of her husband’s release flooding her, Luna’s own climax ripped through her without warning. It was a silent, seismic event. Her body clamped down around Devan, wave after wave of blinding pleasure turning her bones to liquid. Her mouth went slack around Peter, a low, continuous moan vibrating against his skin.

She was utterly, completely full. Of them. Of herself.

Slowly, Devan’s weight shifted. He pulled out of her, the sensation a slow, wet ache. He stayed on his knees behind her, one hand resting possessively on the small of her back, his breathing ragged.

Luna lay still, her face nestled in the heat of Peter’s thigh, her lips parted against his still-hard cock. She was spent. She was ravenous. She turned her head just enough to look up at Peter’s face. His eyes were glazed, his mouth open. He was trembling.

She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. Her hand, which had fallen limp, tightened its grip on him again. She wasn’t done.