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)
For a while, I just lie in bed, cataloguing. My hair is matted across my cheek. I count the number of hands touching me—two, and if I’m honest, I wish there were more. I’m still in the afterglow, but it’s not a gentle haze; it’s more like a fever that hasn’t yet broken, the knowledge that I could be fucked again and again, like a ragdoll to be used for their pleasure. Some deep part of me wants them to wake up and use me one more time, just for the sound of it, the proof.
My head is on Lachlan’s golden chest. His heartbeat is a quiet drum, barely there, but solid. He smells like sweat and expensive wine, and the musky trace of last night’s come. In his sleep, his brow is smooth, his lips slightly parted, and I could almost pretend he’s innocent, or at least vulnerable, if I didn’t know exactly what he was capable of doing to me with just his mouth and his hands.
Hunter is less composed. Even unconscious, he radiates possession: arm heavy across my chest, leg hooked over mine, breathing so deep it rattles the bed frame. I tilt my head back just enough to see his jaw, the stubble at his throat, the hollow where his collarbone meets his shoulder. He’s drooling a little onto the pillow. I could laugh, but even that would take too much energy.
I watch them sleep for an embarrassingly long time, and in that silence I let my mind wander. Last night, I let two men—one of them my uncle, one of them my pastor—use my body for hours. I screamed, begged, swallowed, took them wherever and however they wanted. I wanted it. There’s no point in pretending it was anything else. The thought floats up: Does this make me a slut? The answer is almost comforting in its clarity: yes, it does, and at this point, I don’t care. It’s exactly what I want to be because who knows how long this will last? Is this relationship sustainable? Is this even a relationship at all? I have no idea, but I guess I’ll find out.
A surge of something—maybe pride, maybe hunger, maybe just an urge to pee—makes me shift, gently, to extricate myself. Hunter’s grip tightens, reflexive. I stroke the back of his hand until he relaxes. Lachlan’s eyelids flutter but don’t open, the golden lashes staying closed on his sculpted cheek. I slide out from the pocket of heat between them, swinging my feet over the edge of the mattress.
Standing is a test of will. Every muscle protests, and there’s a sharp, sweet pain deep inside as gravity rearranges the mess of fluids in my cunt and ass. A sticky trickle starts down my thigh. I wince, but it makes me smile. These men did it to me, and I love feeling so full, feminine, and stretched at once.
I cross the room to the tiny closet and find a mirror nailed to the back of the door, old and warped, but brutally honest in the morning light. I look like a different species. My hair is a snarl, stuck to my forehead and shoulders in ropes, wild as hay. My lips are bruised, upper swollen into a pout, a faint abrasion at one corner from someone’s stubble. The whites of my eyes are bloodshot, lashes clumped together. Yes, I’m a woman well-fucked, and proud of it too.
But the savagery doesn’t stop there. My chest is a map of last night: dark marks at my collarbones, streaks of faded lipstick, a single bite at the base of my throat turning purple already. My big breasts are scratched, the nipples impossibly red and swollen, one still glistening with spit. I touch them, and a small moan escapes, unexpected, as a thrill runs straight from my tip to my cunt. My hips, as predicted, are ringed with handprints—Hunter’s, I think, judging by the size and placement. There are more bruises at the tops of my thighs, where Lachlan held me open for him as Hunter rammed his cock inside. My stomach is sticky, and there’s a trail of something—dried come or spit or both—across my left hip. My pussy is angry, lips swollen and shiny, with a faint pink tinge that means I bled a little. My asshole is red, stretched, and more than a little sore. A pale, milky streak is still smeared on the inside of my thigh, running down toward my knee.
I run my tongue over my teeth, and again, there’s the taste of them left in my mouth. It’s the best surprise to date.
I stare at my reflection, at the wreckage, and I don’t feel shame. I feel owned, and I feel powerful, a woman in full.
I turn, scanning the mess for something to wear. The room is strewn with clothes, most of them men’s. I find one of Lachlan’s shirts—white, button-down, heavy with his scent—and shrug it on. It’s too big, sleeves swallowing my hands, hem falling almost to my knees. The cotton is soft and warm, comforting in a way that makes my chest ache a little.