ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (164 page)

Nando has also perked up; I can almost feel his ears point like a dog’s in curiosity.  “Sucks, man,” he says, but he’s staring out the window as if he’s lost in his own little world.  “They say guys are jerks, but damn, doesn’t anyone ever wonder how they become that way?”

Justin finishes pouring the mix into a muffin pan and pops it into the oven.  “Preach,” he tells Nando, and plops down on the couch next to me.  I can feel his body heat seeping into me as our thighs touch.

“How about you?” Justin asks me, stringing his arm along the back of the couch, along the back of my neck.  If I lean back now, my head will be on his arm.  I wonder what that feels like, but my stomach has dropped down through my feet and it’s plummeting towards an unseen bottom.

“I, uh, haven’t.  Yet.  So how about them Rangers?”

I expected shock.  I expected outraged gasps.  Instead, what I see flicker and settle on the faces of the two musicians is curiosity.  Curiosity about me.

“Never?” asks Nando and gets up from the corner to join Justin and I on the couch.  I can feel my body curling in on itself; I want to hide.  That’s when Justin grabs my hand.

“Don’t close up,” he says, dark brown eyes looking deep into mine.  And then he lifts my hand slowly to his lips.  When he plants that kiss, I feel my whole body meld into the luxuriousness of the feeling.  “You have something special,” he continues.  “And I—“ he looks over at Nando, “We would be honored if you would share it with us.”

Oh my.

Justin lengthens my hand into my arm and drapes it over his shoulder; he is solid underneath it, with the softly rounded muscles of someone who is long familiar with vinyasa practices.  He pulls my face into his, and then his mouth is on mine, soft and tempting, probing and warm.  He tastes good, like cupcake mix.  I lick his lips.  We draw away a little, lips throbbing.  He traces my face with a hand, those musician’s fingers setting my nerve endings ablaze.  Behind me, Nando draws his hand down my spine and presses himself into my back.  I can feel the boy fullness of his chest pressed against me, his lips on my neck.

I am being kissed by two guys.  I have hands stroking my arms, Nando reaching over me, making a cradle with the breadth of his arms, unbuttoning my shirt with his long fingers.  Justin slides it off my shoulders, and I’m sitting there in nothing but my bra and jeans before them.  Justin tilts me back until I’m almost one morphed beast with Nando, and we’re kissing each other.  He’s different, more insistent than Justin, his tongue darting against mine, stabbing me, doing his drummer thing in my mouth.  Sounds grosser than it is.

All too soon, I’m naked.  And nervous.

“Hey,” I say, hardly recognizing the hoarse voice croaking out of me, “That’s not fair.  I’m naked, and you guys aren’t.”

Nando and Justin share this wicked naughty smile that leaves me breathless.  They make me comfortable on a few pillows, and then crawl over until they’re crouching on their haunches on the couch, facing one another.  And then I see them reach out for each other, take each other’s faces, and press their mouths together.

Oh.
Oh
.

I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by this turn of events.  But I can say that I am turned on by it.  They’re tearing off each other’s clothes as only guys do, like the clothes don’t matter, and when they’re both stripped to the waist and done clutching each other with near violence, I’m licking my lips.  There’s a throbbing between my legs that I’m starting to address with the heel of my hand, and when they look at me, their mouths wet and small welts rising on their shoulders, they’re hungry.

Nando growls, and I squeal with laughter, faking escaping to the floor.  I’m on my back, and Nando’s on top of me, the long press of him in between my legs, his teeth on my breasts through the bra.  And then Justin’s behind me, unclasping my clasps, unhooking the waistband of my panties, baring me to the wanting eyes of the room.  I turn and now Justin is in Nando’s position, and he’s everything I expected him to be.  I run my hand up his stomach, to the sparse hair on his chest, and then Nando comes up behind him and frees his hair.  The long curls tumble down his back, and it’s like we’re in a biblical Jewish tribe, and he’s our leader.  We’ve taken him down to his roots, and we’re both kissing him, and he’s got his eyes closed, those long lashes driving me crazy.

I kiss them.  They kiss me.  There is a point where I am on the floor between them, my fingers stroking their nipples in tandem, and then we rise from having our backs to the floor and I’ve got my hands in their pants, working those cocks with my hands while they suck on each other’s necks.  Is this me?  I wonder as they lay me down and minister to my body.

I’m rising up out of myself; I cannot believe that this is Justin, the object of most women’s eyefucking and fantasies, who’s curly brown head is in between my legs, lapping me, thrashing his tongue in a focused spot, allowing me to uncurl and free myself from inhibition.  There is a Nando behind me, tweaking my nipples into focused points, marking my neck with little bites, and when I reach my moment, it is a moment I can see glistening all over Justin’s mouth.

I like it.  Is that wrong?  I like that now, every time he sings, I will be able to see his mouth as it is now, wet with my juices.  I like that I’ve filthied him.

He doesn’t wipe his mouth before he kisses Nando, and now I’m on Nando, too, and they share me through a tumble of tongues.  Nando leads Justin to a chair, and when he sits, his cock is pointing up towards the ceiling.  He grasps it in his hand and works himself as Nando gathers my still-trembling form from the floor and walks me over.  It’s time.

Both guys grasp each one of my hands as I settle down onto Justin, my mouth releasing an unconscious little O as I feel the unfamiliar fullness fill me.  Justin closes his eyes, tilting the longer waterfall of his hair back as he feels me slide around him.  I lean forward and press my breasts on him, leaving my behind exposed.  To my shock, I can feel Nando’s mouth there, licking me, little muscles I didn’t know I had working in response.

I’m wet everywhere.  I am the wettest person alive.  Soon, the reason for those ministrations becomes clear, and I’m split two ways, from the front and from behind.  They go slow, which is good because I am unaccustomed to having one, let alone two men in my body.  I can feel them sliding against each other inside me, and they can, too, as is clear from the way they’re looking at each other across my shoulder.  And then Justin looks at me, and I know his moment is close and building because his mouth has gone slack.

There is a hot spurt inside me and I hear Justin’s voice as I never heard it before, a strangled animal sound, and I know I’ve unleashed him.  Nando stills, pulls out of me, and I get off of Justin.  I lay back against him and Nando finishes himself off, directly onto my chest, hands working lightning fast.  Sated, we all lay, hand to hand, on the floor, and the first one to break the silence is Justin.

“Good jam session, everybody,” he says, and we all laugh, our strained voices a whisper of memory in the room.

THE END

In Bed With My Best Friends

              “Dirty wop!” snarls the blond kid at the heap in front of him.  A head pokes out from the bundle of clothes and limbs, a head with a mouth that’s not afraid to be smart, which is fairly ballsy on account of the circumstances.

                      “Didn’t that insult die out a hundred years ago, you big gorilla?” Sandrino asks, lock after lock of dark hair falling into his eyes.

                      Not wanting to be reminded that not only is he not of particular intelligence, the blonde with the bad attitude tries to tamp down the inherent knowledge that the new kid in his class, new by way of Italy or Mexico or some country where they make them that dark in general, where they have the metric system, for heaven’s sake, is smarter than him.  Already Sandrino is excelling in all of his classes, is the teacher’s favorite, and has become a mild curiosity among the girls of the class.  They love his accent, it’s so exotic, and the blonde is tired of their cooing.  They didn’t even notice when he broke his arm and had to wear that stupid itchy cast for three weeks.  Nobody likes to be the tossed-aside playtoy, so the only logical course of action is to damp the brightness of the new toy.

                      Following this course of logic, the blond kid calls for backup.  He didn’t necessarily have it planned that way, but clearly, the element of surprise with which he approached his initial attack has worn off since Sandrino is now talking back to him.

                      “Hey guys, the heathen just said that Jesus sucked dick.”

                      “What?!” Sandrino is aghast.  He could have understood anything else, even the jealousy behind the blonde’s kicks and pummeling, but as three more boys come running from all the corners of the playground, he knows that he is in trouble, big-time.  He hoped to antagonize the blonde so that he would have the excuse of turning him into a pulp, but four against one?  Sandrino knows that those are bad, bad odds, even for him.  Especially here, in this Bible-thumping town where saying what the blond kid just said is akin to actually nailing the Savior to the cross.

                      He runs.

                      There is no war cry, no battle yell; instead, Sandrino has concentrated all of his energy and focus on running towards the other end of the playground as fast as he can.  Behind him, he can hear the sharp slap of sneakers on concrete as the four boys give chase.  He knows he must outrun them, or else pay the price, but his legs are not fast enough; he is not the biggest in the group, and he does not yet have the necessary speed.  Suddenly, the ground gives out from under him and he goes sailing through the air, the sharp shock of what is happening flooding his body with adrenaline and hopelessness.  This is it.  He has tripped, fallen, and in another second, they will be upon him; everything will be lost.

                      He has time only to turn his head before a large figure goes to stand before him, blotting out the sun.  He cannot see who it is, but he can hear a girl’s voice say, “Why don’t you just piss off?”

                      His pursuers have stopped short in front of the girl, whose slightly knotted red locks are the only thing Sandrino himself can see.  They hesitate, uncertain of how to proceed now that their prey has a defender.

                      “He said bad things about Jesus.”

                      “No he didn’t.  And even if he did, what, it’s up to you now to beat him up?  If you’re so God-fearing, then let God be the judge.”

                      The blond kid’s anger is clearly on the rise.  He did not expect to be challenged, or to have actual logic thrown in his face; he is of the type not to want to listen to logic because he does not have any way of answering that will make sense.  He can sense the gang behind him hesitate, intimidated by the red-haired girl who looks so formidable with her hands on her hips.  He takes a step back, and by doing that, he loses.  The girl with the upturned nose splashed with freckles leans forward at the waist, looks him right in the eye, and says, in the most condescending way possible, “Run away now, Blondie.  Run away.”

                      Anger snaps through him quick, and he thinks about answering back, but then she stomps a foot and the whole horde of chasers scatters.  Shaking her head in their wake, the redheaded girl turns around and offers Sandrino a hand.  “Those losers,” she fumes as he dusts off his pants.  “I’m Amy.”

                      “Thank you, Amy,” he says, looking at her for the first time and being overwhelmed by the feeling that he will forever be safe in her presence.  She is the kind of girl who always wants you to prove your friendship, he can tell, and he promises himself to continue doing so for the rest of his life.  “I am Sandrino.”

                      She considers him for a moment.  “Yeah, you’re the one who just moved here.  Quite a welcome those little idiots gave you.  Never mind them.  Come have lunch with me and Paul,” she says, gesturing to the shady side of the metal fence where a different blond boy is sitting beside a spread of sandwiches and juice boxes.

                      “Paul and I,” Sandrino corrects, then wants to smack himself on the mouth because he has just offended his one friend in the entire school.

                      Amy considers him thoughtfully, and he is sure that this is the part where she turns on her heel and never speaks to him again.  Instead, her face breaks out into a smile that cracks her face from ear to ear, a delightfully toothy grin that warms her entire face.  “You’re going to be quite a project, aren’t you?” she says, grabs him by the hand, and runs over to introduce him to Paul.

                      And sometimes, friendships are made just like that.

*                    *                    *

                      Some days are harder than others.  Some days you just have to ignore your internal buzzing in the vague hope that your brain will stop circulating thoughts through the posts of your mind like a conveyor belt.  Paul has not slept in weeks.

                      It’s the images.  Bronze skin, heated by the sun, deliciously warm to the touch.  Long brown hair, knotted a little, but luscious and wavy, wrapped around his wrist like a handcuff, like a chain, like a promise, soft in its ironclad grasp.  Paul dreams of his best friends now in a way that he never has before, and he could shoot himself for it.