“She has a beautiful pain response, and my hands are full right now. Reach around and slap her until she relaxes.” Tentatively, he does. The first smack of his hand is too soft, but she moans encouragingly. The second is better, connecting with the sound of skin-on-skin. As Harper jolts, she sinks down onto his cock marginally. The third smack has her rolling her hips, and I, being a bystander, become jealous. Licking a path from her jaw to her collarbone, I sink my teeth into her neck. Her scream is tinged with lust, yet as I kiss the reddened marks, I find that she’s almost at his base.
“That’s it, Babygirl,” I mutter beside her ear. She can’t hear me, but she can feel the vibrations through my chest. Kissing a path south, I draw her nipple into my mouth. My tongue toys with the bud, stroking gently until her hand flies to the back of my head.
“Harder,” she moans. I grin against her breast. That’s my girl. Mimicking what I did to her neck, I lick, bite down and kiss. Then, I move to the next one, working her body into a state of pure bliss. The backs of my hands meet Clayton’s groin as Harper takes all of him, deeply and beautifully. That’s my cue to pull away and admire the woman before me. Flushed andwrithing, hot and shuddering. Finally paying attention to my own cock, I’m stunned to find I’m oddly aroused by seeing my girl fully seethed on another man.
I don’t waste time stroking myself, knowing nothing can compare to the feel of her. Briefly catching Clayton’s eyes, I give him a small nod. Then, I push inside of her in one motion, and we all groan in unison. Fuck what I said earlier, this is what coming home feels like. Incredibly tight, molten hot. My piercings scrape against the solid weight of Clayton, also nestled inside of her, our shafts filling her two holes to perfection. It’s more than I imagined. The drag of her, the heat of her, the way she relaxes a fraction to accommodate me, only to clench all over again. I’m shaking by the time I’m fully sheathed, my forehead starting to pebble with sweat.
“Jesus Christ,” I huff, bracing my hands on either side of her hips, steadying myself. I withdraw, slow enough to feel every inch of her cling to me, and then push back in. And somehow, stupidly, impossibly, I keep expecting it to get easier. I expect the motion to become smoother, to fit a little easier. But no. We all shift, gasp and moan. Every. Single. Time.
Harper’s fingers claw at my forearm, my name tumbling from her lips and reminding me that I’m in control. The pleasure all three of us are chasing is mine to shape however I see fit. Clayton’s chest at her back steadies her, his fingers brushing her hair back from her shoulders. We all become overheated in an instant, bodies sticking together. We’re a mess of limbs, sweat, and heated pants, yet it works.
Despite keeping my movements smooth and measured, there’s no dragging this out. Not when Harper’s chest is starting to rise and fall as if she’s about to tear out of her skin. Her hips take over, chasing the flutters that start to ripple across my cock. Grinding down in small circles, she whimpers, clinging to me forstability. I hold her elbows, leaving her hands pressed against my chest as I pepper her forehead with kisses.
“Rhys,” she sighs. “Clay. It’s…it’s too good. I cant–” Her words are swallowed by a gasp, her eyes rolling back as I drive into her with more force. Harper melts into Clayton’s body, and that’s when I feel her climax hit. The impossible tightening around me, gripping and pulsing as if her body is trying to take me with her by force. I fuck her through it with renewed vigor, mouth falling open in a perfect, devastated shape that detonates something deep within me.
Clayton’s breath shudders against her shoulder, both of us wrapped so tightly around her she doesn’t know who she’s coming for. Both of us I suppose. Her whole body shudders, sounds slipping out of her that are neither a moan or a cry. It’s pure surrender, as her hips jerk helplessly from the orgasm ripping through her. She clenches so hard around me that I choke on a breath, heat blasting up my spine like someone set a fuse and set it alight.
Thrusting harder and faster, I push us all to our limit, and then chuck us over the edge. I come apart so violently that I groan her name as Clayton’s forehead drops to her shoulder. I don’t want to admit that I can feel him thickening and pulsating in time with me, but there’s no stopping it or fighting it. My vision whites out for a second, breath punching from my lungs as I slam my hips forward, losing every last shred of control I thought I had.
Sinking into her, all the way to the hilt, something inside of me cracks, and then expands, like my ribcage can’t contain my own heartbeat anymore. Harper pulls me down to meet her mouth for a chaste kiss, and I swear she drags the rest of me in too. Every instinct, every dark urge, every broken memory I’ve tried to hide. She buries herself in my soul through the press of our lips, whilst I’m struggling to understand what’s happening.
Coming down, our breathing levels out, our chests easing. I pull back to look upon the scene we created, Harper’s limp limbs and her face split in half by a blissful smile. She’s incredible, and I already knew that, but something about the thought feels different. Clayton’s hand slides along her arm, brushing her heated skin with loving fingers.
Fuck. That’s what this is. It’s love. It’s that stupid seed of a notion he planted in my head, taking root. I can’t love her, not if I want what’s best for her. Yet there seems to be no stopping the warmth spreading through my chest. For one breathless moment, my demons go quiet, and the world narrows to my hands braced upon her hips and the drunken worship Clayton has for her. Between us, she’s safe, she’s cherished, and goddamn it, she’s loved.
Chapter Twenty
Morning filters into the manor as if it’s been holding its breath all night, waiting to see if I survived. I must admit, there was a moment last night where I was so blissfully unresponsive, I could have floated over to the other side without complaint. What a way to go out. Death by dick.
Luckily for all, I wake in Rhys’ preferred guest bedroom with nothing more than a dull ache between my legs. The boys stir, immediately presenting themselves to be in worse shape. Clay must make a noise as he clamps his hands either side of his head, because Rhys tries to strike him, but he only gets as far as thumping me in the stomach. I jerk upright, banding my arms around my middle and unable to withhold my laughter. They both roll away from me, the mattress vibrating with their groans.
Continuing to laugh, I slip out from between them, refusing to spend another day in bed. Last night is proof of what restless energy can do, and I have some burning unanswered questions that demand to be sated.
Some more of my clothes are waiting for me on the dresser, a pair of ripped jeans and my #antisocial sweater. I pick out my least sexy panties, the ones that Rhys didn’t find to replacefor thongs. If the stretch of cotton doesn’t label me as out of action, I don’t know what will. Not that either of the men curled up in the king-size bed look like they’re in the mood for round two anytime soon. Taking my phone and stepping out into the hallway, I grab the handle and slam the door closed as hard as I can.
“Opps, sorry!” I call through the wood. “Can’t hear how loud that was.” Sock sliding my way down the hall, my phone buzzes in my hand with a group chat I didn’t know I had.
Your New Master:You’re deaf, not the fucking Hulk.
Clayton:Aspirin. Bring aspirin. And water.
My grin stretches so wide, it aches. I can’t decide why I’m feeling particularly playful today. After last night, another woman might be falling at their feet, ready to cater to their every whim. They’re welcome to go find that woman. All last night did was reinvigorate me, giving back some of the control I’d lost. For the first time since before the birthday gala, I’m myself again. I’m whole. Tucking my phone into my back pocket and skipping down the stairs, I pass by the kitchen and say good morning to Fiona. She glances up from the eggs she’s cooking, and her face softens.
“Good morning, Miss Harper.” I read from her lips. “Would you like breakfast?” I inhale the smell of coffee and buttery toast, and my stomach immediately agrees.
“In about ten minutes, if that’s okay? There’s something I want to check out first.” I chew on my bottom lip. If Fiona has any lingering reservations about me being in the manor unsupervised, she doesn’t show it. Nodding kindly, she goes back to her eggs until I remember the suffering soldiers upstairs.“Oh, would someone be able to take some aspirin up to the guest room? The guys are feeling a little hungover.”
“Ahh yes,” Fiona walks over to the recycling can and pulls out the empty whiskey bottle. In the light of day, I note the gold foiling and flecks of gold leaf around the rim. “Mr. Waversea’s favorite vintage whiskey. It was supposed to be locked away safely in the cellar.”
My eyes widen, and my mouth forms an ‘o’ shape. In my defense, I didn’t drink any. Fiona waves me off, the hint of humor hidden behind the professional expression she’s clearly spent many, many years perfecting. I slide away, feeling a twinge of heat in my cheeks. I don’t know what’s going to happen when Phillip Waversea returns home, but I doubt finding his cellar raided, sex room used, and doors broken are going to help the situation. It’s that thought that brings my mood back down to earth long before I reach the theater room.
Last night left an itch under my skin, the kind that demands an explanation. Rhys seemed surprised to find me in here, saying he’d forgotten about the hiding place, but there was more to it than that. There must be a reason he wanted to take me to the other end of the manor rather than having our fun here, in the plush recliner chairs.
Stepping into the dim theater room, I flick on the single wall light and make my way toward the screen. It’s not half as spooky during the day and when I’m not the prey of a hunt. No shadows of my imagination forming creepy clowns. In fact, the space underneath looks normal enough, although sorely lacking visitors. Kneeling, I tug the velvet drape aside and use the torch on my phone to find the hidden alcove. Bending forward on all fours, my fingers brush against the dusty box tucked inside. It’s surprisingly heavy, the age of the cardboard wearing thin. With a small grunt, I drag it into the room, dropping back onto my ass.
For a moment, I just sit and stare at it. If the contents were something to do with the theater, like fuses or lighting equipment, it would have been stored better. No, the level thumping of my heart tells me this is something else. Something more, and my curiosity outweighs my hesitation.
Prying open the lid, I carefully pull out a crinkled sketchbook from the top of a stack of miscellaneous items. The cover is soft with years of being thumbed, the pages yellowed but the sketch style is immediately recognisable. Young Rhys was quite the artist, before he used his pen drawings to taunt me in class or sketch tattoo ideas.
