Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
It’s a good ten minutes before anyone says a word. I listen to the tiny sounds: the tick of the baseboard heater, the soft shift of Stella’s hair against Lachlan’s chest, the clink of glass as he finally reaches up and grabs the half-empty bottle of wine from the table. He pours a splash into a tumbler, drinks, then passes it to her.
She giggles, takes a sip, and almost drops the glass. She’s fucked-out and weightless, the space between her thoughts filled with pure static. I watch her drink, watch her lick a little bead of wine from the rim, and I know that if I don’t say something, none of us will ever move again.
“Listen up, star girl,” I say, voice rougher than I meant. Stella blinks, her eyes big and blue, fixed on me. “Now that there’s another man in the picture, the rules change. I want more.”
She doesn’t react. Not at first. Just stares, glass half-raised, the flush on her chest climbing all the way to her ears.
“What do you mean?” she says in a trembling voice. “Like access? Like sex on demand? You know I’m doing that already, Hunter.”
I nod, eyes dark.
“Yes, you are, sweetheart, and I appreciate it. But I want to fuck dirty. You know I like it rough and nasty, and with two men, there’s a lot we can do with you as our willing fuckslut.”
She blushes at my rude words, but meets my gaze.
“Like what?” is her whisper.
“I want double anal,” I growl. “Double vaginal. Every possible way two men can use a female body, we’re going to try it. You understand?” I run my thumb along her thigh, press a little harder to get her attention. “You’re going to be our personal fuck doll. Used however we want, whenever. That’s the deal. Your pussy, ass, and mouth need to be available to your Daddies anytime we want, ready to receive hot, horny meat at any hour of the day. Does that scare you?”
Her lips part. Her blonde curls are a wreck, face shiny with sweat and dried tears, and for the first time since I’ve known her, I see her hesitate. Her gaze skips to Lachlan, searching, but he just cocks his head, as if this was always the plan.
He looks at me, then back at her, and says, “It’s not up to us. You’re the one with the real power, Stella. If you want it, we’ll give you more than you can handle.” He squeezes her gently, his big hand almost spanning her ribcage. “The question is: can you handle it?”
Stella swallows. Her lower lip trembles, but not with fear. I watch her chest, the way it rises and falls, the little pulse flickering at her throat. She doesn’t answer, not with words, but her hand finds my wrist and holds it, squeezing hard, like she needs to ground herself to the present moment.
The wine glass wobbles, but doesn’t tip.
I lean in, close enough to smell the heat on her skin, and say, “No more secrets, no more hiding. Next time, you’re going to be used savagely. Double penetration like we just did? Sweetheart, that’s nothing. You’re going to be filled in a whole new way. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
She nods, then shakes her head, then nods again, eyes huge.
“I do want it,” she whispers. “I want everything.”
Lachlan’s hand moves up, brushes her hair behind her ear. “Good girl,” he says, and it’s not a joke.
I let myself breathe. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.
“We’re going to ruin you,” I say, and it sounds more like a promise than a threat.
She smiles. It’s small, tired, but hungry as sin.
The lamp burns, the wine disappears, and the night closes in around us, heavy with secrets and sweat.
I lie there, counting the seconds until we can do it again.
15
THE MORNING AFTER, PART TWO
Stella
When I wake, it’s to the muscle memory of last night: my whole body is sore, sticky, beautifully wrecked. A heavy, bare arm bands around my ribcage, hand splayed wide over my right breast—his calluses rough against the softness. Another hand, larger, veined and tan, claims the top of my thigh, fingertips splayed in possession.
Hunter behind me, always behind: a block of heat and size, breathing slow, steady, the exhale curling through my hair and making it flicker against my temple. Lachlan in front, draped like a marble statue gone soft at the edges, his arm thrown above his head, golden in the morning. The sheets are a disaster—twisted, wet, crusted with sweat and what must be half a pint of spunk. I’m cocooned between these men, legs scissored open, one of Lachlan’s thighs slotted between mine.
The light through the apartment’s window blinds is a bleak, diluted gold. It stripes the mattress, turns the spilled stains and folds of white linen into a topography of last night’s excess. I take an inventory before I dare move: my hips ache, a deep, rolling bruise under the skin, flesh so tender I know I’ll find fingerprint marks if I look. My pussy is stretched, thickly sore, the ache not quite pain but a memory, like the afterburn of a long run. My ass is rawer, and I feel a faint, sharp throb every time I flex my anus or shift. Even my lips tingle, swollen, a faint saltiness at the corners. My tongue finds the inside of my mouth and tastes the remnants of both men. Oh yes, they came down my throat multiple times, and the tang is still there, salty and sweet.