And they’re still fully dressed.
The imbalance makes my knees weak.
Sting breaks the kiss, stepping back just enough to look at me. “On the couch,” he says. “Now.”
I move without thinking, legs shaky, and sink onto the worn cushions. The fabric is rough under my skin.
Armen moves in front of me, hands on my knees. “Spread,” he orders.
I hesitate.
His eyes darken. “Spread. Or we leave you like this.”
I let my knees fall open.
“Wider.”
I spread my legs wider, heat flooding my face. I’m exposed. Vulnerable. Wet. I cover my pussy with my hands.
Rogue flicks them aside and whistles low. “Look at that. Soaked already.”
“Desperate little Runt,” Sting adds, voice rough. “You’ve been wet since the food court, haven’t you?”
I swallow hard, pulse pounding in my ears.
Armen’s hands slide up my thighs, brushing dangerously close to where I’m aching. “Answer him.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yes what?” Sting presses.
“Yes, I’ve been wet.”
Rogue chuckles. “Good girl.”
Armen finally—finally—brushes over my clit, and I jerk, hips bucking. He pulls back immediately.
“Stay still,” he says.
“I can’t?—”
“You will.” His voice is cold, controlled. “Or we stop.”
I force myself to still, thighs trembling.
Sting drops to his knees in front of me, settling between my legs. His hands grip my thighs, holding them open. Then his mouth is on me, tongue flat, licking slow from my entrance to my clit. The sensation is electric, and I cry out, hands flying to his hair.
He pulls back immediately. “Hands,” he warns.
“Where—”
“Anywhere but us.”
I grip the edge of the couch instead, knuckles white.
Sting goes back to work, tongue circling my clit now, slower, teasing. My hips try to roll forward, chasing the friction, but his hands tighten on my thighs, holding me in place.
“Please,” I gasp.
