Page 51 of The Unexpected

17

THE PARENT TRAP

Stella

In the library, I’m split open, leaning back against the hard, implacable chest of my uncle with my legs wide, my pussy filled with cock, while our handsome pastor presses into me from above.

But there isn’t just one cock in my pussy. There are two.

Hunter’s in me from below, while Lachlan slides in right above him.

Yes, their dicks touch.

Yes, their dicks rub against each other as we fuck.

Yes, we’re coated in each other’s slick, and god knows how many gallons of semen.

But no one cares because it’s so fucking hot.

It’s late afternoon as we fuck like animals, the double vaginal making me pant and scream. Gold light slants through the library’s west windows, making long bars across the Persian rug and the battered coffee table. I can taste dust and old paper, and—above it—the salt-slick musk of sweat and sex, thick in the air. My dress is bunched around my waist, nothing but Hunter’s hands on my hips keeping me from sliding right off his lap. His thighs are a vise, dark-wash jeans rough against the bare backs of my legs. My hair sticks to the nape of my neck, damp from the marathon round of being double-teamed. I can feel my own pulse throbbing inside my cunt, and if I tilt my head, I catch the glint of the tree leaves outside, bobbing about innocently as I’m fucked to within an inch of my life.

Lachlan crouches in front of me, shirt half-open, his collar askew in a way that would make a nun weep. He drives into me, and with every thrust his biceps flex under the rolled sleeves, a studied violence held just this side of control. Each time he bottoms out, I see stars. My moans are breathless and feral; I have stopped pretending to be quiet, stopped pretending I’m anything but a girl being double-teamed by two men who want to ruin me. Below him, Hunter’s cock pushes into the same hole as Lachlan’s, stretching me so wide I’m not sure if I’ll ever close again.

We’ve been at this for nearly an hour, rotating in and out of positions, chasing the line between pain and pleasure until I’m not sure which is which. My clit is sore from overuse, and my ass is still faintly aching from last night, but none of it matters—not with this much sensation, not with the press and slide and friction and heat of having two cocks in my vag simultaneously. Hunter’s fingers squeeze the base of my throat, making me gasp every time he pulses inside me; Lachlan alternates between fucking me and biting my nipple through the thin cotton of my dress. There’s a moment where they both bottom out at once and I think I might black out, just for a second, from the electric shock of being so utterly, obscenely full.

“Good girl,” Hunter whispers in my ear, voice shredded, “take it, star girl, show us you’re made for this.”

My reply is a strangled yelp—words are impossible with both of them inside me, but I mean, does anyone need language at a time like this?

I could die here and not even care.

That’s when the front door slams, the sound a gunshot that shatters the library’s low, hot fog. It ricochets through the hallways, echoes off the high ceilings, and instantly, every muscle in my body seizes. Hunter and Lachlan freeze in place, as if the library’s air turned to stone.

Then there’s a voice—a man’s, low and unmistakable, booming across the marble entryway:

“Stella? Hello? Anyone home?”

My father. Back from vacation. They’re early!

A shaft of terror lances up my spine and I almost shriek, but both men clamp down on me in an instant: one palm over my mouth, one hand on my hip, steadying, shushing. For three heartbeats, no one moves, not even to breathe.

The voice comes again, closer, just outside the library. “Hunter? You here?”

Hunter swears under his breath and with a fluid, military efficiency, everything happens at once: Lachlan withdraws, cock slick and twitching, then tucks himself back into his pants, wiping my wetness from his shaft before zipping up. Hunter quickly lifts me off his lap, sets me on the arm of the chair, then stands, pulling his own pants up, still wet and sticky, and begins buttoning his shirt. He does this all with the calm of a man who has covered up much, much worse.

I scramble off the armchair, dress falling down to my knees, but my panties are still somewhere in the tangle of chair cushions and I can’t risk looking for them. I try to finger-comb my hair, but it’s a mess, and there are tears of overstimulation running down my face, so I wipe them away as best I can.

Hunter grabs a decanter of whiskey from the side table, splashes some into three tumblers, then shoves the decanter behind a stack of old magazines, and wipes his hands on his jeans. Lachlan, miraculously, finds a Bible—King James, leather-bound, gold-edged—on the coffee table and sets it out between the whiskey glasses like we’ve just finished a lengthy scriptural debate. He smooths his hair and sits, folding his hands in his lap, face composed and serene. I drop onto the sofa, clutching my knees together, willing my pulse to slow to human speed.

There’s a frantic, slapstick minute of straightening: me wriggling the straps of my sundress back over my shoulders and trying to dab the mascara from under my eyes; Hunter slicking his hair back, buttoning up, and taking a long, staged sip of whiskey as he settles into the armchair; Lachlan adopting the posture of a man halfway through a theological monologue. The room still stinks of sex, thick and unmistakable, but I pray the ventilation will save us.

Then there’s a sharp rap on the heavy oak library door.

“Come in,” I call, my voice a thin, reedy version of itself.

My father steps inside: tall, black hair shot with silver at the temples, his tan still fresh from wherever he and Andie disappeared to, and a canvas carry-on in one hand. His eyes do a fast, practiced sweep of the room, taking in the three of us—the two men and his only daughter—with a cool, analytical calm. He smiles, but the smile is default, not real.

“Welcome back, Daddy,” I say, rising from the couch. My knees nearly buckle but I manage to walk across the room and kiss his cheek, trying not to think about the fact that I can feel my own arousal still dripping down my inner thigh. “How was your trip?”