The Bullion Brothers: Billionaire triplet brothers interracial menage by Tania Beaton Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tania Beaton
with it. Her neck craned towards him. She planted big, wet kisses wherever she could reach his face or his neck, but he pulled away from her each time.
I tingled all over as he pulled her skirt right up, enough that I could see her white cotton panties. Her stomach rolled under her sheer black tights. I was finding it hard to keep still. The tops of my thighs were hot and wet.
When he tore her tights open, rubbed the darkening cotton of her panties, her hips writhed and snaked. Mine, too. As his fingers pressed along the center and the fabric clung to the folds of her crotch, her thighs opened and stretched apart, and my fingers found their way into my own panties.
I had to bite my wrist to keep from making a noise as he pulled up the wet, white gusset and ripped it. His fingers dove into her swollen lips, hooked inside her and hammered in and out. My own fingers did the same.
Her back arched, and her head lolled from side to side. She bit her lip as he pulled her thighs wider apart. She leaned back against him. I saw a spark of his wicked grin as he pushed her back.
Then he hauled the front of his pants open.
My fingers opened my weeping folds and rubbed over my thrumming clit as he grabbed the back of her hair. His eyes flashed right into mine as he jammed his cock in her mouth. I don’t know how she didn’t hear me as my dam burst.
I bit into my arm and gushed into my hand as all of my muscles spasmed in orgasm. I knew then how much I wanted him. I didn’t care if it was wrong or right.
My stupid Mom stayed with the Asshat, so, as soon as I possibly could, I got a place at a community college in Manhattan and a job in a bakery. In Orange, New Jersey, I shared a tiny, dark brown room with a billion roaches.
Half the time that I had for my studies was in the mornings and evenings, rattling on the train to and from Manhattan. I had to try to read or even write essays standing up and jammed between grey commuters.
Relationships for me were rare, brutish and short. I had a particularly horrible breakup with a boy who was more interested in my weight than I was—and not out of any concern about my health. I quickly began to suspect that he was much more interested in my weight than he was in the person inside it or anything else about me.
After the screaming about stupid possessions, I was exhausted and miserable as well as being about to flunk college.
Even after all the work, all the damned double shifts and all the money that I’d sunk into it, I was going to flunk out. My professor told me, “You need to get some proper sleep. You aren’t putting enough effort into your work.”
Well, duh! I was putting in more than enough effort, it’s just that most of it had to go on working to pay for my classes, my books, and my rent. Even though I lived way out in my tiny, toxic room in an Orange, NJ brownstone that should have been condemned in the 1900s, I still had hardly enough money to feed myself.
Wandering dejected around downtown Manhattan on a sunny afternoon, I felt totally alone and miserable. Lost in familiar surroundings. Like a zombie, I passed the hip lunchtime shoppers in Union Square. Meandering up Broadway and past the Flatiron in the hazy heat, I barely registered the spicy scents of lunch vendors in the amiable bustle around Madison Square Park.
Following nothing but my feet, I drifted alone through the crowds, up Madison and across to Park Avenue. Down by Grand Central, I saw a Hamptons Jitney minibus pull up. On a whim, I jumped on the little bus and took off for an afternoon at the beach.
The Jitney was full of immaculately dressed refugees from Manhattan to the Hamptons. Quiet voices with long vowels spoke the weary drawl of Long Island natives.
The long journey soothed me. As the dark, shiny Hudson slipped by below the ridge, the high canyons of the city gave way to scraggy suburbs. Along the endless roadwork delays and stop-start of the Long Island Expressway, I
I tingled all over as he pulled her skirt right up, enough that I could see her white cotton panties. Her stomach rolled under her sheer black tights. I was finding it hard to keep still. The tops of my thighs were hot and wet.
When he tore her tights open, rubbed the darkening cotton of her panties, her hips writhed and snaked. Mine, too. As his fingers pressed along the center and the fabric clung to the folds of her crotch, her thighs opened and stretched apart, and my fingers found their way into my own panties.
I had to bite my wrist to keep from making a noise as he pulled up the wet, white gusset and ripped it. His fingers dove into her swollen lips, hooked inside her and hammered in and out. My own fingers did the same.
Her back arched, and her head lolled from side to side. She bit her lip as he pulled her thighs wider apart. She leaned back against him. I saw a spark of his wicked grin as he pushed her back.
Then he hauled the front of his pants open.
My fingers opened my weeping folds and rubbed over my thrumming clit as he grabbed the back of her hair. His eyes flashed right into mine as he jammed his cock in her mouth. I don’t know how she didn’t hear me as my dam burst.
I bit into my arm and gushed into my hand as all of my muscles spasmed in orgasm. I knew then how much I wanted him. I didn’t care if it was wrong or right.
My stupid Mom stayed with the Asshat, so, as soon as I possibly could, I got a place at a community college in Manhattan and a job in a bakery. In Orange, New Jersey, I shared a tiny, dark brown room with a billion roaches.
Half the time that I had for my studies was in the mornings and evenings, rattling on the train to and from Manhattan. I had to try to read or even write essays standing up and jammed between grey commuters.
Relationships for me were rare, brutish and short. I had a particularly horrible breakup with a boy who was more interested in my weight than I was—and not out of any concern about my health. I quickly began to suspect that he was much more interested in my weight than he was in the person inside it or anything else about me.
After the screaming about stupid possessions, I was exhausted and miserable as well as being about to flunk college.
Even after all the work, all the damned double shifts and all the money that I’d sunk into it, I was going to flunk out. My professor told me, “You need to get some proper sleep. You aren’t putting enough effort into your work.”
Well, duh! I was putting in more than enough effort, it’s just that most of it had to go on working to pay for my classes, my books, and my rent. Even though I lived way out in my tiny, toxic room in an Orange, NJ brownstone that should have been condemned in the 1900s, I still had hardly enough money to feed myself.
Wandering dejected around downtown Manhattan on a sunny afternoon, I felt totally alone and miserable. Lost in familiar surroundings. Like a zombie, I passed the hip lunchtime shoppers in Union Square. Meandering up Broadway and past the Flatiron in the hazy heat, I barely registered the spicy scents of lunch vendors in the amiable bustle around Madison Square Park.
Following nothing but my feet, I drifted alone through the crowds, up Madison and across to Park Avenue. Down by Grand Central, I saw a Hamptons Jitney minibus pull up. On a whim, I jumped on the little bus and took off for an afternoon at the beach.
The Jitney was full of immaculately dressed refugees from Manhattan to the Hamptons. Quiet voices with long vowels spoke the weary drawl of Long Island natives.
The long journey soothed me. As the dark, shiny Hudson slipped by below the ridge, the high canyons of the city gave way to scraggy suburbs. Along the endless roadwork delays and stop-start of the Long Island Expressway, I
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