Shame floods through me. They can see everything—my hard cock leaking against my stomach, the slick glistening between my thighs, the desperate clench of my hole around nothing.
"Please—"
"Please what?" Zero's hand slides up my inner thigh. "Please stop? Or please more?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is too damning to say out loud.
Atlas appears between my spread legs just as Bane moves off my chest, holding my wrists firmly above me. Atlas’ eyes are dark, focused, drinking in the sight of me like he's committing it to memory.
"Eyes on me." His voice is low. Commanding. I drag my gaze to his and something in my chest cracks open.
His hand wraps around my cock.
The sound I make isn't human. It's a broken, desperate keen, my hips bucking up into his grip, my whole body arching off the bed. Bane tightens his hold on my wrists. Zero's hands press down on my thighs, keeping me spread and open and completely at their mercy.
"Easy." Atlas strokes me slowly. Deliberately. His other hand presses flat against my stomach, holding me down. "I've got you."
"Atlas—" His name comes out as a sob.
"I know." Another stroke. Twist at the head. "Just feel it."
His thumb swipes over my slit, spreading the precum that's leaking steadily now, and I buck so hard that Zero has to tighten his grip on my thighs.
"Fuck, he's responsive," Zero mutters, and there's something like wonder in his voice.
Atlas doesn't respond. Just keeps stroking me with that same maddening, deliberate rhythm—slow enough to drive me insane, firm enough to keep me right on the edge. His gray eyes never leave my face, watching every twitch, every gasp, every desperate sound that escapes my throat.
"Margot—" I gasp. "If she knew—if Richard—"
"They're not here." Atlas's voice is low. Certain. "It's just us. And you need this. Your body's been screaming for it."
"I don't want—" But the lie dies in my throat becauseI do. God help me, I do. I want this so badly it's tearing me apart.
"Yes, you do." He reads me like a book. "And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with wanting to feel good."
Bane's grip shifts on my wrists. His mouth brushes my ear. "Stop fighting it, Max."
I squeeze my eyes shut. Feel the tears leak out the corners. My body is betraying me—has been betraying me for days—and I can't hold the pieces together anymore.
"That's it," Atlas murmurs. "Let go."
His hand resumes its movement. Faster now. Rougher.
My hips jerk up, chasing his fist, but Zero's hands keep me pinned. I'm trapped between them—Bane holding my wrists above my head, Zero spreading my thighs and holding me flat against the bed, Atlas between my legs with his hand wrapped around my cock—and I've never felt so exposed. So vulnerable. So desperately, achingly wanted.
Atlas works me higher. His grip tightens, his pace increases, and I'm climbing toward something—some peak I can sense but can't quite reach—when he suddenly stops.
I make a sound that's barely human. A broken, desperate keen.
"Not yet," Atlas says. His voice is rough. Strained. Like his control is hanging by a thread. "Not like this."
He releases my cock. I whine at the loss—actually whine, like some desperate, needy thing—and try to buck my hips, try to chase the contact, but Zero holds me down.
"Shh." Atlas's hands slide up my inner thighs. Slow. Deliberate. His thumbs press into the crease where my legs meet my body, and I shudder at the sensation. "I'm going to give you what you need."
His hands grip my thighs, pushing them up and apart, folding me nearly in half. I'm completely exposed now—my cock hard and leaking against my stomach, my hole slick and clenching around nothing, every inch of me on display for them.
Atlas looks at me. Really looks—his gaze traveling down my body like a physical touch, lingering on my cock, my balls, the wetness glistening between my cheeks. Something dark and hungry flickers in his eyes.
