NB Artist Worshipped by Two Protectors in Luxury Tent
River Voss lay back against the pile of silk cushions inside the master glamping tent, their sketchbook abandoned on the Persian rug. The canvas walls glowed with the soft flicker of battery lanterns, and every rustle of fabric from the neighboring tents outside reminded them how thin the barrier really was.
Soren’s broad palm slid up the inside of River’s thigh, possessive and steady. Thorne knelt at River’s other side, fingers already working the buttons of their linen shirt open one slow snap at a time. The three of them had been circling this night for months—ever since the gallery opening where River’s latest series of charcoal nudes had left both men hard and restless in the back of the car.
“You’ve been teasing us with those drawings for weeks,” Soren murmured against the shell of River’s ear. His voice stayed low, but the edge of command in it made River’s pulse jump. “Tonight you stop drawing and start feeling.”
Thorne leaned in and caught River’s mouth in a slow, filthy kiss that tasted like the whiskey they’d shared earlier. His tongue stroked deep while Soren’s hand cupped the heat between River’s legs, pressing firmly through the thin cotton of their shorts. River arched, a soft sound escaping into Thorne’s mouth.
Outside, distant laughter from the main fire pit drifted closer, then faded again. The risk sharpened everything. River’s nipples tightened as Thorne pushed the open shirt aside and dragged his teeth across one sensitive peak.
Soren’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband and found slick skin. He stroked once, slow and deliberate, watching River’s face. “Color?” he asked, the old safeword check threading through the heat like a steady hand.
“Green,” River breathed. “Don’t stop.”
Thorne stripped the shorts down River’s legs and spread their thighs wider. He settled between them, breath hot against sensitive flesh, while Soren moved behind River to cradle their back against his chest. The position left River completely open, supported and held.
Two mouths claimed them at once. Thorne licked a long, firm stripe up River’s center, then sealed his lips around the swollen bud and sucked. Soren’s hand wrapped around River’s throat from behind—not squeezing, just anchoring—while his other hand rolled and pinched the neglected nipple. River’s hips jerked.
“Look at you,” Soren growled. “Our beautiful artist, shaking apart already. You’re going to take both of us tonight, aren’t you?”
River could only nod, fingers twisting into Thorne’s dark curls to pull him closer. Thorne groaned against them, the vibration traveling straight through their core. Two thick fingers slid inside, curling just right, while his tongue kept working in relentless circles.
Laughter suddenly drifted directly outside the tent wall. River froze, clamping their teeth into their lower lip to swallow every sound as the voices lingered close enough to feel like a shared secret.
Soren eased River forward onto hands and knees, his solid frame shifting to shield their exposed body from the tent entrance flap while still letting every external rustle and murmur reach them. Thorne moved in front, feeding his cock between River’s lips while Soren lined up behind. The first slow push inside made River moan around Thorne’s length. Soren’s grip on their hips stayed firm, guiding every inch deeper until he bottomed out.
They found a rhythm together—Soren thrusting steady and deep from behind, Thorne rocking shallowly into River’s mouth. Cool night air seeped under the tent hem and kissed their heated skin, a sharp contrast to the hot slide of bodies meeting again and again. The wet, audible sounds of Soren’s cock driving into them and Thorne’s length gliding over River’s tongue seemed to carry farther than intended, each slick noise heightening the danger of being overheard.
River’s hands fisted the rug. Every drag of Soren’s cock dragged across that perfect spot inside; every slide of Thorne over their tongue reminded them exactly who they belonged to.
Soren leaned over their back, biting the curve of their shoulder as his pace quickened. “You take us so fucking well,” he rasped. “Our reckless little exhibitionist.”
Thorne’s fingers tightened in River’s hair, guiding but never forcing. “Breathe through it, love,” he whispered. “We’ve got you.”
River came first, clenching hard around Soren and shuddering through a moan that Thorne swallowed. Soren followed seconds later, buried deep, pulse after pulse flooding heat inside. Thorne pulled out at the last moment, stroking himself twice before spilling across River’s tongue and lips in thick stripes.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs. Soren withdrew carefully and reached for the stack of soft cloths they’d left nearby. Thorne pressed a water bottle to River’s mouth, making them drink slow sips between kisses. Soren wiped River down with gentle strokes, murmuring praise against their damp skin. River quickly tugged the linen shirt closed as a flashlight beam passed the canvas wall, forcing them all to freeze mid-breathing before the light moved on.
River lay between them, chest still heaving, while Soren massaged the muscles of their thighs and Thorne traced lazy patterns over their ribs. The distant campfire crackled on, unaware. Inside the tent, the three of them breathed the same air, hearts slowing together, the night far from over.