We sleep for a while, or try to. Every time I shift, the ache reminds me of what we did, how hard they used me, how much I wanted every second. I drift in and out, the men’s hard forms on either side of me, their hands always touching, always making sure I know I’m not alone.
Sometime before dawn, I wake up and look out at the city. The lights are still burning, but now they seem softer, like I’m seeing them for the first time. I wonder if this is what peace feels like—being split open, exhausted, and absolutely, entirely alive.
Brent wakes, pulls me close, and murmurs, “You’re amazing.”
James strokes my hair and kisses my shoulder. “Best night of my life,” he says, and I believe him.
For a moment, I think about the evidence, about my father’s case, about everything that brought me here. But then I realize I haven’t thought about any of that for hours. All I can think about is these men, this night, and the fact that I’m no longer the scared little girl who started this game.
I’m something else now. Something more.
I curl in between them, let their heat and their hands anchor me, and watch the sun rise over the city.
The three of us: a tangle of limbs and laughter, secrets and scars.
And for the first time, I don’t want to be anywhere else because this taboo night turned out to be incredible … and I only want more.
11
CHAPTER ELEVEN — THE MORNING AFTER
Marnie
The first thing I feel is light, so sharp and brilliant it cuts the backs of my eyelids to ribbons. The second thing is the ache—dull and lovely, everywhere, each muscle with a fresh, handprint-shaped memory. The third thing is the cool slip of Egyptian cotton sheets on bare skin, the impossible plushness of a mattress engineered for billionaires or world-class degenerates.
I open my eyes and immediately freeze.
Brent’s bedroom is so enormous it warps perspective. The walls are all glass, the city outside blazing in morning sun, thirty stories up. There’s an antique armoire in one corner, and a rug that could feed a small nation if you liquidated it. I am the only living thing in the bed, which is the size of a minivan and twice as soft. For a minute, I forget what planet I’m on.
I stretch, utterly nude in this massive bed all alone, and wince at the delicious protest from my thighs. My hair is a disaster. Thereare caked fluids on my thighs, and god knows, it’s a mixture of all three of us. I get up to clean myself but then realize there’s a folder on the nightstand, thick and official-looking, my name written in all caps across the tab.Could it be what I’m looking for?
I sit up too fast and the world tilts. I clutch the sheet to my breasts, instinct, then remember no one is here to see. The folder is right where I can’t miss it—like a trophy or a threat, or maybe just proof that the last twenty-four hours weren’t a fever dream. The urge to open it is so strong my hands shake.
But I make myself wait. I swing my feet to the floor, which is covered in sheepskin so soft that I sink two inches immediately. Last night’s clothes are nowhere to be seen, so I open the armoire and grab one of Brent’s big white shirts. It goes practically down to my knees while also slipping off one shoulder, but it’s fine. I button it in place, and then sit again on the edge of the bed and run my hands over the folder’s cover. My name, inked by a careful, masculine hand: Williams, Marnie. Below that, in smaller letters: “Confidential—Do Not Remove.” Like that ever stopped anyone. I flip the folder open a finger’s width and see page after page of legal print, police reports, phone logs. The evidence.This is going to clear my dad’s name.
My stomach flips, and I close the folder again. Am I truly ready? A swirl of emotions hits my tummy, and I literally bend over a bit, trying to ease the stress. I’ve worked so hard, done so many depraved things, including servicing two men at once. All for this.
Yes, but you loved it Marnie, the voice in my head whispers.You enjoyed being with two men, and lost yourself in the debauched menage.
My subconscious is right, and I try to reason with myself. There’s nothing wrong with a threesome. Lots of people are polyamorous these days! But there’s still the irrefutable fact that I had two cocks buried in me simultaneously last night, and I loved it. I loved having a pulsing, veiny dick crammed deep up my ass, while another thick shaft pushed its way into my pussy. That’s the long and the short of it: I’m a slut, and I adored being with James and Brent.
At that moment, a sound rouses me from my reverie—deep voices, and the snap of a pan from somewhere else in the apartment. I breathe slowly. The air smells like aftershave and coffee. Also bacon. My stomach growls, and I follow the scent.
The penthouse kitchen is ridiculous—miles of marble, steel, and glass, enough counter space to host a fashion show and a surgical procedure simultaneously. The sun is everywhere, turning every chrome surface into a blinding display of shine. At the stove, James is flipping eggs with one hand, the other holding a mug that says “I Love Dogs” in block print. He’s in pajama bottoms and nothing else, tanned and muscular and so relaxed it makes my heart clench.
At the marble island sits Brent, paging through theFinancial Times, hair damp and spiky, wearing a t-shirt that’s so thin I can see the tattoos on his chest. He’s got loose grey sweatpants draped over his hips, and his feet are bare. Both men radiate masculine energy, even in this casual state.
James glances over his shoulder and flashes a grin, bright and wolfish. “Morning, sweetheart.”
I try to answer, but my mouth is too dry.
Brent glances up from the paper. “You look gorgeous, baby girl. Well-fucked to the max.”
My cheeks flare as I pat at my mussed hair, as if that’s going to help. “Really?”
Both men smirk as James slides a glass of juice towards me.
“Absolutely, sweetheart. But consider it a badge of honor because not all girls get to entertain two men at once.”
