Wes is different from the others. He fucks me with long, deep strokes, his thumb rubbing circles on my clit, body blanketing mine. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my temple, fucking me slow and rubbing my clit with every thrust until I’m coming again, sobbing his name.
He doesn’t last long. He pulls out at the last second, painting my thighs with his claim, adding to the mess.
Then there’s nothing left but our panted breaths, our sweat-slick bodies, and the distant thump of music from below. I’m exhausted, my body completely wrung out, muscles sore and aching.
They all move away, leaving me lying there as I slowly come back into myself. Raf pulls on his boxers, while Ford finds his jeans on the floor and fishes his cigarettes out of the pocket, lighting one and taking a long drag before holding it out to me.
“Want a hit?” he asks, grinning.
I nod, dazed. He presses it to my lips, and I inhale, the burn grounding me.
“You did good, Ava baby,” he croons, brushing my hair off my sweaty forehead. “Took three Kings in one night. Fucking legend.”
“You good?” Wes asks.
I nod weakly, smoke curling out of my mouth. “Never better.”
I blink up at him, at all three of them. I should feel ruined, humiliated, and broken. Instead, I feel… weirdly empowered, somehow. Like if I survived that, I can survive anything.
They don’t bother to clean me up. They just let me lie there, smeared with cum and saliva and blood, marked and ruined.
I close my eyes and let the noise from the party below fade out, let the taste of smoke and sweat fill my lungs. Let myself drift off somewhere in my own mind.
I don’t know if this is the start of something, or the end of everything.
I’m not sure if I even care anymore.
CHAPTER 20
FORD
The first thingI register is the throb in my skull, a dull, persistent ache radiating behind my right eye. The second is the sickly sweet smell of cinnamon and butter wafting toward me, thick enough to make my stomach lurch. The third is Wes sitting across from me, staring down into his coffee mug, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s such piss-poor company I actually just fell asleep at the kitchen table.
If I were a sentimental guy, I’d say this is what peace looks like in our house. A rare, quiet morning, all three of us alive and more or less intact. But since I’m not, I’ll just say it’s weird. It’s weird as shit.
I slug back the rest of my screwdriver, the vodka burning a brief, clean line through the haze of the hangover. The glass is almost empty, and I swirl the melting ice cubes around just to make Wes look up.
He does, eyes bloodshot and a little wild, the way they always get after a late night.
“You look like shit,” he mutters, voice gravelly.
I grin. “That’s rich coming from you, pretty boy. I’m not the one who drank an entire bottle of cherry vodka from the ice luge.”
He flips me off, but it’s half-hearted.
At the stove, Raf is making French toast–realFrench toast, not the pathetic egg soaked bread Wes passes off when he tries to make breakfast. Raf cracks the eggs with brutal efficiency, then whisks them with a focus I haven’t seen since we intercepted that weapons shipment to fuck his dad over.
He hasn’t cooked for us in weeks. I know exactly why he’s doing it now.
Raf finally stuck his dick in Ava last night, and the bastard is more relaxed than I’ve seen him… fuck, maybe ever. His whole vibe is looser, like someone swapped out his normal simmering aggression for something almost approaching ‘good mood’. It doesn’t suit him, honestly. I half expect him to start humming or some shit as he flips the French toast.
A door creaks open down the hall, and we all turn to look in unison as muffled footsteps pad against the hardwood toward the kitchen. Ava shuffles in wearing a pair of tiny gray sleep shorts and a t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, the hem falling just barely past her hips. Her hair is twisted up in a messy bun, and she’s got the rumpled, sleep-dazed look of someone who spent most of the night getting destroyed and loving every second of it.
She hesitates a step when she glances up to find us all looking at her, but then lifts her chin higher, squaring her shoulders as she continues toward the table.
“Well shit, boys,” I announce, raising my empty glass in mock salute. “Looks like she can still walk this morning. Guess we didn’t do our jobs right last night.”
Ava shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but doesn’t dignify my ribbing with a response. She passes right by me and slides into the chair beside Wes, wincing as her ass hits the seat.
