I dug my nails into his shoulders. "Less talking."
He smirked and then he was inside me in one smooth thrust. My back bowed off the bed, a broken sound tearing from my throat. He wasbig, stretching me in a way that bordered on pain, but the burn was perfect, the friction exactly what I needed.
"Good?" he grunted, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot and fast.
"Harder," I gasped.
He didn’t hesitate. He snapped his hips forward, driving into me with a force that stole my breath. The bunk creaked under us, the frame rattling against the bus wall, but neither of us cared. I clawed at his back, my body coiling tighter with every punishing thrust.
"Kit—fuck?—"
"Right there?" His voice was a rough growl, his hand sliding down to grip my hip, angling me just right. "You take me sowell, love. Like you were made for it, for me."
The words sent a jolt through me, my nerves lighting up like a live wire. I could feel the orgasm building, a tight, relentless pressure, and Iwantedit, wanted the release, the way my vision would whiten out, the way my body would go limp and boneless under him.
"Don’t stop," I begged.
"Never," he promised, and then his mouth was on mine again, swallowing my cries as I came apart beneath him. His own release followed seconds later, his body locking up, his cock pulsing inside me as he groaned my name like a prayer.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a delicious crush, his heart hammering against my ribs. I could feel the sweat slick between us, the way his breath hitched as he tried to catch it.
"Fuck," he muttered into my neck, pressing a kiss to my pulse. "You’re gonna kill me."
I laughed, breathless, and tangled my fingers in his hair. "Worth it?"
He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes. The usual teasing glint was gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier. "Every damn time. But now you need to sleep," he commanded when I stopped shaking. "System reset."
I passed out instantly, safe in the gravity of him.
Lab Note: Subject K is a narcotic. Use with caution. Highly addictive. Resonance: Perfect.
Sunday: Conductor Mode
The whiteboard was cleared. I stood in the center of the nest, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that grazed my thighs.
Alfie, Euan, and Kit formed a triangle around me. The air was thick enough to chew, a dense fog of heated blackberry, ozone, salty sesame, and rich molasses. It was a complex bouquet, heady and intoxicating.
"Pack Night," I said. My voice wasn't shaky. It was the voice I used to mix stadiums, the voice that cut through feedback. "I'm running the board. Do not deviate."
"We're live," Alfie agreed, watching me with predatory devotion, the "ASK > ASSUME" on his thumb visible as he rested his hands on his knees.
"Positions," I ordered.
Alfie moved to my front, kneeling, eager. Euan took my left, clinical. Kit took my back, the anchor.
"Euan," I said. "Hands. Waist. Monitor tightness. Don't let me lock up. If I spike, you ground me."
Euan’s cool, calloused hands found my hips, thumbs pressing efficiently into the tensor fasciae latae. "Monitoring. Route confirmed."
"Alfie," I looked down. "Mouth. No hands. I want suction only. You are the input."
Alfie groaned, burying his face against me through the cotton for a second, worshipping the fabric, before diving underneath the hem. His mouth found me, hot and wet and desperate, tasting of mischief and devotion.
"Kit," I gasped as the first wave hit, my knees buckling. "Talk. Talk me through the mix."
"I'm on the fader," Kit growled in my ear, his chest vibrating against my spine, his massive frame supporting my weight entirely. "Riding the levels. You take it, Z. Take the input. Euan, adjust angle, a little to the left."
Euan obeyed instantly, shifting my hips with mechanical precision to optimize the angle for Alfie. Alfie moaned a vibration against my clit that sent sparks of gold and violet exploding behind my eyes.
