I try to slap myself out of this lustful euphoria. And then the math doesn’t add up. The math is impossible; I keep screaming at myself. My imagination isn’t good enough to conjure three Tonys out of nowhere while blindfolded.
My lustiness isn’t legendary enough to create my own reverse harem.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
I can’t catch my breath. I’m on the verge of coming. I can’t stop it. A climax hurtles through me like a runaway train, sending me into another dimension. Stars burst behind my closed eyes. Every bone in my body turns to liquid.
“Wait,” I gasp, as if I’ve run a marathon, my hands flailing before I remember I should remove my blindfold first.
I stagger backward as I take in the sight before me.
Holy freaking cow.
There’s not one Tony in sight. Instead, I’m staring at three tall men, inches taller than Tony, dressed in immaculate black bespoke suits, black shirts, and black ties, their pants molded against the muscles in their thighs to perfection.
Tony is undoubtedly handsome, but these men are out of this world—indescribably so. Are they real?
The sharp, chiseled cut of their jaws seems to be cast from marble, giving them an air of dominance that takes my breath away.
The color of their eyes—icy hazel, captivating brown, and wicked green—pulls me in until I’m drowning in the trio of their gazes. Fringed with thick dark lashes that match the hair on their heads, they seem to be the only soft parts about them. Everywhere else, they are devastatingly male, powerful, extraordinary.
Worse, I don’t know them at all. I asked them to kiss me, and they stripped my clothes, made me come, and also kissed me.
Chapter Six
Starling
I struggle to get my body to join my brain in the land of reality, and I’m failing spectacularly. I still feel their touch, their lips, their hands. My skin still burns, my nerves continue to vibrate from my climax, and I can’t settle down.
“Who are you?” I squeak, confusion clear in my voice.
Oh, and I’m naked. That does the trick. Awkwardly, I reach for the bodice and hold it against my breasts—I can’t fasten it again; it took me an hour to get into it before, and I squeezed, tugged, and shimmed so much that I gave myself a stitch in my side.
I also pull my skirt back up again and zipping it while holding the bodice against me is a feat, but I get it done.
“You’re not Tony. This is Tony’s apartment. He lives here. Who are you? Where’s Tony?” Good, my words come out in a flurry now that my pussy, visible through the sheerness of the panties, is not on display anymore, nor my breasts with their red, still-damp-from-their-mouths nipples.
“All that was for Tony?” the brown-eyed one asks. I hate the way they look at each other, as if they’re sharing a private joke.
“Yes. Where is he? What have you done with him?” I’m ready to fight them now.
With my free hand, I pick up a very heavy vase and clumsily wave it at them—well, at the floor, since I can’t lift it higher, but the intent is clear.
“Where is Tony?”
“Put that down before you hurt yourself, principessa,” the hazel-eyed one says, unbothered by the potential damage I could do… to the floor. Ugh.
“Not until you tell me what you’re doing in his apartment,” I retort.
“Tony Amato is our nephew,” the brown-eyed one replies.
“What?” They’re Tony’s uncles? They hardly look old enough to be anyone’s uncle.
“And this apartment is ours. Tony is just visiting,” the green-eyed one adds. “My name is Marco Mancini. That’s Dario Ricci,” he gestures toward the brown-eyed man, “and that’s Enzo De Luca.” Enzo is the one with the hazel eyes. Now that I’ve assigned names to their eye colors... oh no.
Tony constantly spoke about his three uncles, how he admires them and wants to be like them. I expected them to be sixty, not in their thirties, for goodness' sake.
“Now that we’ve answered all your questions, you can answer ours. Who are you, and what exactly was this?” Enzo waves his hand to encompass the whole situation.
