Then she sank down.
Victor's groan was guttural, primal. His hands twitched behind his head, tendons standing out along his forearms as he fought the urge to grab her. Felicity rolled her hips, taking him deeper, feeling him stretch her in a way that was entirely different from being filled by two cocks. This was hers. Her rhythm, her pace, her control.
She rode him hard. Her breasts bounced with each downward thrust. She could feel the other men watching, could feel the weight of five pairs of eyes tracking every movement, every flutter of her lashes, every bead of sweat that rolled down her spine.
Victor's breathing grew ragged. His hips bucked upward, and she pressed a palm flat against his abdomen, holding him down. "Don't," she warned. "You watch, you don't move."
His red eyes blazed up at her, and she saw something shift in them, not anger, but something deeper. Something that looked almost like awe.
