“I’m g-going to…I think I’m…” “Fucking hell, she’s coming, isn’t she?” Klay moans into the side of my neck. “I can feel her shaking. Don’t come yet, Ruger. She’s almost there.” “I can’t stop it,” he pants, slamming into me now, his thick, hair-covered body glistening with sweat. And somehow Ruger gets deeper. Goes harder. And he does it by gripping the sides of Klay’s jumpsuit to keep him steady for his ferocious drives, yanking him toward us in a furious rhythm—and all at once, a rush of pleasure sweeps me, tightening every nerve ending in my body like a bolt, my womanhood clamping down, a
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