Their hands are everywhere now, steadying, gripping, sliding with intent. Not gentle. Not slow. Possessive and heated, like they’ve been holding back too long.
Sting’s mouth crashes into mine again, deeper this time, rougher, his hands anchoring me in place as Rogue’s fingers trace up my thigh and Armen’s hand slides to my waist.
I gasp into the kiss, heat flooding through me. This isn’t careful. This is hunger. Starvation hunger.
I clutch Sting’s shirt, pulling him closer as Rogue’s breath ghosts my neck and Armen presses his fingers firmly into my hip bone.
“You brought her here to test her,” Rogue mutters.
“Yeah,” Sting replies against my mouth.
“And?” Armen asks.
“And I’m keeping her. We’re keeping her.”
The words hit like fire. My heart pounds. Their touches intensify, the danger of the hidden space mixing with the thrill of being wanted so fiercely, so suddenly.
This is what the Rot is. Not just violence. Power. Connection. Ownership.
Sting breaks the kiss long enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild. “Still wanna keep poking at things?” he asks.
I’m breathless. Burning. “Yeah,” I murmur.
Rogue laughs softly. “She’s perfect.”
Armen leans in close, his mask now gone. His voice is low and dangerous. “You don’t get brought here and walk away untouched.”
“Good,” I say.
Their hands tighten. And the world narrows to heat, tension, and the knowledge that whatever line we just crossed…
There’s no going back.
43
VI
Sting’shands return to my waist, lifting me off the crate table and setting me on my feet. My legs are unsteady, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, dragging it up slowly, deliberately. I lift my arms without thinking, and he pulls it over my head, tossing it somewhere behind him.
Cool air hits my skin. My nipples draw in tight.
Rogue moves in behind me, his chest pressing against my back. His hands skim up my sides, rough palms scraping over my ribs, brushing the undersides of my breasts as he peels off my cami. “Look at her,” he murmurs, voice low and amused. “Already shaking.”
I am. I can’t hide it.
Armen steps closer, silent, intense. His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans. He doesn’t ask. Just unbuttons them, drags the zipper down, and pushes themover my hips. They pool at my ankles. I step out of them, pulse racing, standing there in just my panties.
Three men. Three masks. Three pairs of eyes locked on me like I’m something they’re about to devour.
Yes.
Sting’s hand tilts my face up. He leans in, lips brushing mine, not quite a kiss. Just breath. Heat.
“You wanted attention,” he says. “Now, you’ve got it.”
Armen’s hands slide to my hips, hooking into my underwear. He drags them down slowly, kneeling as he does, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just above my hip. He bites. Not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make me arch and moan into Sting’s lips.
When my underwear hits the floor, I’m completely bare.
