Chapter 5

They didn’t break the kiss.

Shannon stayed pressed against Ron like her body had always known how to mould to his. There was no hesitation now — no second-guessing, no glances for permission. Only the unshakable truth of her hips grinding into the thick swell beneath Ron’s waistband, the weight of her need poured into every motion. Her breath came in short, desperate bursts between mouthfuls of him, each one trembling between a whimper and a moan. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like it anchored her, her fingers curled tight, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go.

Across the room, Craig stood in stillness. Just a few feet away — close enough to touch, too far to breathe. He didn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. His body was locked, overwhelmed by the raw force of what he was watching. This wasn’t performance. It wasn’t betrayal.

It was worship.

It was Shannon, undone and radiant, giving herself. Freely. Wildly.

She moaned again, higher now — a sound that lived somewhere between pleasure and pleading — and Craig’s knees nearly buckled from the sound. It was the same moan he’d once lived for. Now it was aimed at someone else. It should’ve broken him.

But it only made him harder.

Her hand slid lower, slowly, deliberately, until her palm cupped Ron’s cock through his pants. The way her fingers moved over him — reverent, almost awed — sent a fresh pulse of heat down Craig’s spine. She rubbed him gently at first, then with growing hunger, her breath catching again as she ground herself into his thigh. Her kiss deepened, messier now, all tongue and need, her body trembling as her hips rocked in time with the pressure of her hand.

Then she pulled back, lips swollen, chest heaving, eyes wild. She turned her head, slowly, her gaze settling on Craig. And when she spoke, her voice was soft — but it held no question.

“Come here,” she said. “You’re part of this.”

The words didn’t soothe. They ignited. They hit him like fire poured down his spine — an invitation, yes, but also a command. She hadn’t forgotten him. This wasn’t her leaving him behind.

This was her bringing him with her.

Craig moved toward her, slow at first, like his body was struggling to keep pace with the burn in his chest. Every step was weighted with desire, dread, need. He was afraid — not of her, not of Ron — but of how much he wanted this. How much of himself he’d already given over without realising it.

Shannon dropped onto the couch, still gripping Ron’s hand, and tugged him down beside her with a look that could’ve bent iron. Then she reached for Craig, her fingers brushing his wrist, and pulled him down too. Now she was between them — barefoot, breathless, hair loose around her face like a halo made of sin, lips kissed red, eyes gleaming with something primal.

But she only turned toward one of them.

Her mouth found Ron’s again, hungrier this time. Filthy. Desperate. Her fingers were already at his belt, working the buckle with practiced speed, the soft clink of metal and hiss of the zipper making Craig’s pulse slam against his throat. She broke the kiss just long enough to glance sideways, and the look she gave Craig stopped his breath in his lungs.

Wicked. Loving. Possessive. Free.

“Take your clothes off, baby,” she whispered. “I want you naked too.”

There was no question in her voice. No apology. She wanted this — both of them — and she wasn’t pretending anymore.

Craig stripped quickly, skin burning, cock already thick and aching with confusion and craving. He didn’t feel powerful. He felt raw. He felt offered. And it didn’t scare him.

It thrilled him.

He sat beside her, naked, waiting, hard. Watching her work Ron’s pants open like she’d already done it a dozen times in her mind. Her fingers dipped beneath the waistband — and whatever she found there made her breath gasp again, and a second later, she pulled him free.

The cock that sprang into her hand was as monstrous as she remembered — even harder now, angrier, throbbing with anticipation. Long and thick and beautiful. It stood there, proud and undeniable, as Shannon drew in a sharp breath.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “You’re even bigger than I remembered.”

Then she bit her lip. And smiled.

Her hand curled around it, fingers spreading wide as she tried — and failed — to circle the base. It was too thick. Too heavy. Too much. She let her grip slide upward slowly, reverently, like she was learning him inch by impossible inch. Then she turned her head, her eyes flicking from one cock to the other — from Ron’s monstrous length to Craig’s achingly familiar one. Her expression shifted as she looked between them, caught between memory and revelation, between love and hunger.

“You were always the biggest I ever had,” she said softly, looking at Craig. Her voice was thick with emotion, trembling and tender. “Always filled me so perfectly...”

Craig’s chest tightened, his jaw clenching against the rush of conflicting feeling. But Shannon’s gaze had already returned to Ron’s cock, her hand moving again — slower now, with something that bordered on awe. Her lips parted, a breath catching in her throat like she couldn’t quite speak around the shock of what she was holding.

“But this...” she whispered, her eyes wide as she stroked him again, the motion smooth, wet, and full of a reverence that felt almost spiritual. “Fuck...”

Her voice cracked around the word.

“It’s so much bigger...”

She leaned forward, mesmerised now. Her hand slid with fluid care down the full length of him, then back up, peeling back the foreskin to reveal the swollen, gleaming crown beneath. It flared wide, glistening with precum, so thick it looked like her lips might struggle to even kiss it. The shaft was a thing of power — bold, veined, slick with arousal. A weapon. A promise. A threat. Craig had never seen it like this. Not up close. Not in the light. Not while it pulsed with her attention, her affection, her hunger.

And Shannon was gone to it. Gone to him. Her breath was shallow, her mouth half-open, her eyes dark with heat. She stroked him again — firmer now, like her hand needed to prove something to the rest of her — and the motion made the whole monstrous length jerk in her grip. Another droplet of precum beaded at the tip, thick and wet, and her thumb swept across it in a lazy, circular motion, smearing it like gloss.

Craig watched. Naked. Hard. Helpless.

His own cock twitched in response to her voice, her touch, her worship. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t touching him. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t looked at him in minutes. What mattered was the raw honesty of what was unfolding in front of him. What mattered was the way her body trembled from need. The way her mouth hung open like she was one exhale away from putting it in her mouth. The way she seemed to have forgotten everything else — except the man in her hands.

And despite the knife carving slow through the centre of his chest, despite the thunder of humiliation and arousal warring in his gut, Craig couldn’t deny what he was seeing.

It was a monster.

A masterpiece.

Thick as her wrist, veined like something carved from dark marble, the shaft twitching with blood and readiness. Even soft, it had intimidated. But now — now, hard and slick and thudding with pulse under her fingertips — it looked unreal. Mythic. Like something summoned, not born.

Craig wasn’t gay. He wasn’t curious. He didn’t want Ron.

But even in the haze of disbelief, he could feel it: the truth of how worthy it was of this moment. Of this attention. Of Shannon’s gasp, her touch, the reverence in her voice. There was no part of him that could claim it didn’t deserve to be worshipped.

And that’s exactly what Shannon was doing.

Worshipping.

And part of him — the part that loved her beyond pride, beyond logic, beyond what was comfortable or survivable — felt grateful. Grateful that she was getting to experience something that made her glow like this. Even if it left him aching. Even if it made him feel small.

She was happy.

She was radiant.

And no matter how much it burned, no matter how much it stripped him bare, Craig knew — he hadn’t asked for this.

Not out loud.

But he hadn’t stopped it either.

And in that silence — in every breath he didn’t take, in every word he could’ve said but didn’t — he’d given his answer.

And now, it was happening.

Shannon leaned forward, lips parted, breath shaky against the shaft still throbbing in her hand. Her grip remained firm at the base, barely able to circle it, her palm slick with saliva and precum. The heat coming off him was unreal — almost alive — and the pulse beneath her fingers thudded like a warning. Her chest rose and fell with shallow rhythm, her body trembling not from hesitation, but from the sheer weight of what she was about to take. She wasn’t easing into this. She wasn’t building up to it.

She was surrendering.

Her tongue slid out — slow, reverent — and traced the underside of Ron’s cock in one long, worshipful stroke, from the base to the tip. The skin was hot, taut, veined like marble beneath her mouth. When she reached the swollen head, flushed a violent shade of red and glistening with precum, she circled it once with her tongue — slow, almost dazed — tasting him like she was learning him cell by cell.

Then she opened her mouth and took him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. Her lips stretched wide, jaw working as she fed him into her mouth with a hunger that bordered on frenzied. Her cheeks hollowed on the first pull, and the room filled instantly with wet, obscene music — the thick drag of spit, the gulping rhythm of her throat adjusting to each inch, the muffled gags that came when she lost control and refused to stop. She twisted her wrist at the base, her hand and mouth moving in tandem, each stroke coordinated like she’d been dreaming of this exact moment for weeks.

Ron’s breath shuddered through his nose, his hand resting lightly on the back of her head, his fingers threading through her damp hair. His voice came low, hoarse — laced with disbelief and arousal. “Jesus Christ ... look at you. Look at that fucking mouth.”

Shannon moaned around him — a low, desperate hum that vibrated through his cock like electricity. Not in response to praise. It wasn’t performative. It was pure need. Her eyes fluttered open and locked onto his, glassy with tears, wide with something close to delirium.

Then she pushed deeper.

The head of his cock breached the midpoint of her throat, and her body flinched — gagging, choking — but she held him there, jaw clenched around the girth, saliva spilling in thick strands from the corners of her mouth. Her nose pressed against the base, and the moment stretched — obscene, beautiful, devastating. She pulled back with a gasp, a wet string of spit connecting her lips to the tip, then dove again with more force, less restraint. Her desperation grew wilder — more raw with each messy, reckless stroke.

Craig sat still. Naked. Hard. And utterly transfixed.

He had never seen her like this. Never imagined her like this. Gone was the soft, quiet lover who whispered into his ear and giggled through foreplay. This woman — the one on her knees, drooling around another man’s cock, trembling and red-faced and glistening — was something else. Something feral. Her mascara had already begun to smudge. Her hands clutched at Ron’s hips now for leverage. Her body rocked as her throat fought and failed to handle the girth, and still she came back for more.

And somehow, impossibly, Craig had never found her more beautiful.

Not in the glow of a honeymoon sunrise. Not in their first apartment, barefoot in one of his T-shirts. Not even in the wild shudder of her orgasm when she’d come gasping his name in bed. This — this — was something deeper. Something unfiltered. Elemental.

She came up for air gasping, strands of spit still clinging to her chin, her lips swollen and slick. Her whole mouth looked wrecked — red, glistening, wide open like she hadn’t taken a breath in minutes. She turned toward Craig with tear-streaked cheeks, her eyes glassy and wild, and gave him a breathless, euphoric smile that nearly broke him.

“I’m so wet,” she panted, a soft laugh tumbling out in disbelief, her chest rising and falling in shallow waves. “I love you so much, honey.”

The words landed like a knife — and a gift. Craig swallowed hard, emotions crashing against each other behind his ribs. Her smile shifted then, softening around the edges, heat giving way to something raw and fragile beneath. Her voice dipped low, almost tender, but still trembling with desire.

“How do I look?” she asked.

Her lips were still parted — still glistening — the flush on her skin spreading from her cheeks to her throat. She looked wild. Beautiful. Ruined. And she was offering that image to him, not asking for reassurance, but needing him to see her. Needing to know that this woman — the one with spit-slicked lips and another man’s cock still pulsing inches away — was still his. Still seen.

“Seeing me like this ... with him ... sucking this big cock...” Her voice faltered, breath hitching. “Tell me, baby — do I look beautiful?”

Craig blinked hard, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You look...” He shook his head, overwhelmed. “You look incredible, Shan. You’ve never — never looked like this. You’re glowing.”

She shivered at that — just the smallest tremor in her shoulders, like his words had landed in some hidden, vulnerable place. Then she leaned in and kissed him — deep, open-mouthed, soaked with arousal. There was no filter. No hesitation. Her tongue slid past his lips, wet and heavy, still thick with Ron’s taste. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologise. She kissed Craig like he deserved to taste it. Like he needed to know exactly what it meant to kneel in front of something that size.

And he did.

The flavour hit instantly — musky, male, unmistakable. Ron was still fresh on her tongue, and now he was in Craig’s mouth too. Bitter. Salted. Unavoidable. It flooded him like heat, and he didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to.

“Hold my hair?” she asked, her voice breathless but sweet — like this was a favour she trusted him with.

His hands moved before he could think, fingers trembling as he gathered her hair gently into a makeshift ponytail. His palm brushed the side of her head, the heat of her scalp, the damp silk of her strands. His other hand still rested against the couch for balance, but with each movement, his knuckles grazed Ron’s thigh — solid, hot, unmoving.