Belle had not been joking about refusing to come second in anything. By the time she'd finished making that point, the farmhouse windows had fogged over and the bed frame had developed strong opinions about the wall.
Naomi had stopped pretending to be a passive observer. From the corner of my vision I could see her hand between her own thighs, moving in rhythm with our bodies, her eyes wide open and fixed on the point where Belle and I connected. Her lips were parted, her breathing synchronized to Belle's moans as though she was experiencing the pleasure secondhand through sheer proximity and imagination.
