Four Hands Are Better Than Two

Whitney’s first shift back after weeks away still feels raw, every nerve awake. She’s just hung up her coat when Spencer appears in the doorway—lean frame, cocky half-smile, slicked with the vanilla oil that still clings to her skin from the morning’s client. “Codey’s on the books at two,” Spencer says. “Figured I’d keep the streak going.” Whitney’s gut twists. Codey Steele. Six feet of smooth muscle and low groans. She pictures his cock sliding through Spencer’s oiled fingers all these weeks and something hot sparks low in her belly. She should take him back—her client, her fingers, her rules. But the thought of ripping him away after he’s clearly been getting what he needs? That feels worse. “Keep him until he says otherwise,” she mutters. Spencer’s eyebrow shoots up. An idea crackles between them, dirty and electric. When Codey steps into the room—towel slung low, smell of cedar soap and expensive cologne—he finds two pair of eyes already stripping him bare. They strip first. Slick sheets of Nuru gel coat warm skin; breasts press to calves, bellies glide over ribs. Spencer’s cunt, freshly waxed, drags up the back of Codey’s thigh, leaving a shining trail; Whitney’s hand cups his balls while she kisses the inside of his knee. He shudders, helpless. Oil-slick palms glide over the rigid length of his cock together, then apart, then together again. Whitney takes the head into her mouth just long enough to make him buck, Spencer’s tongue flicking over the stretch of his perineum in perfect sync. Every moan that leaves him sounds caught, dangerous. They ride him slow—one straddling his face, the other sinking down his length until their hips snap with wet rhythm. Sweat mixes with gel; the table creaks like it might split. Codey’s hands grip whoever’s closest, fingers digging bruises into soft flesh while two tongues battle for his tongue, two cunts pulse greedily around whatever they can claim. By the time they’re done, Codey’s panting, open-mouthed, cock twitching against his stomach in aftershocks. Two women grin down at him, slick and glistening, waiting to hear whether they’ve just ruined the possibility of choosing only one.