VI
Sting finds me after dinner.“Tonight. The club.” Then walks off before I can respond.
It’s not a request, it’s Sting telling me how it’s going to be. And the fact that he’s the one demanding, after days of avoiding me, tells me something is different. I don’t know what yet, but I sure as hell am going.
The walk there is different tonight. The guys have their masks on, the bone-white half-masks that leave their eyes exposed. I’m between Armen and Rogue with Sting ahead, leading, his stride purposeful. He hasn’t looked at me since the corridor and doesn’t need to. I can feel the tension coming off him from five feet away.
We get a different private room than the one we had last time, with a glass wall that shows the main floor below where bodies move in the dark.
The room has a wide low bed, a couch, soft lighting and tonight the energy is different. Heavier. Like the air itself is a little short on oxygen.
Sting turns to face me.
His eyes above the mask are intense and for a second, I think this is going to be the full dominant Sting, with commands, control, and careful choreography where he directs and I follow.
My skin is crawling with anticipation, I’m not gonna lie.
“Sit,” he says.
I lower myself to the edge of the bed and Armen settles on the couch, watching. Rogue leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes bright above his mask. They know something I don’t. Or they’re reading Sting the same way I am and waiting to see what happens.
Sting stands in front of me. His breathing’s controlled but I can see the pulse in his throat, pounding faster than it should be for a man who’s standing still.
He kneels, that’s the second surprise. The man doesn’t kneel. He stands, commands, positions himself and directs from there. But he’s on his knees in front of me, his hands on my thighs, looking up at me with something in his eyes that’s making my stomach flip.
He pushes my knees apart and slides his hands up my thighs under the dress I found in a box of unclaimed clothing. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties and drags them under my ass and down my legs, his eyes on mine the whole time.
Then his mouth is on me.
His mask is pushed out of the way, followed by his tongue on my clit while his fingers hold me open. I reach down and pull his head into me, shaking from the staggering intensity of it.
This isn’t teasing. This isn’t foreplay. This is Sting on his knees tormenting me with a desperation that has nothing to do with dominance, and he’s relentless. Flat, broad strokes lick my clit, alternating with focused pressure exactly where I needit. He’s not performing. He’s not controlling the scene. He’s consuming me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
I look over at Armen, who’s watching from the couch, his posture relaxed, his eyes sharp. He sees what I see. This isn’t normal Sting. Rogue, who’s watching too, has uncrossed his arms, his head slightly tilted, reading the room.
Sting pulls me closer to the edge of the bed. His fingers join his mouth, two of them slipping inside me while his tongue works my clit. I arch into him until it’s painful, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets under me.
He groans against me, and the vibration delivers a jolt. His fingers curl inside, hitting the spot that makes my vision blur, and I come, hard and sudden, my thighs clamping around his head.
He doesn’t stop, but works me, his tongue slowing but not retreating. I twitch, hypersensitive and gasping for air. I need to push him away but I don’t.
He finally lifts his head, his eyes wild and wrecked, and I reach to push a lock of hair off his forehead.
Rogue comes to the bed, sitting behind me, his legs on either side of mine, my back against his chest. He cups my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples and it’s all so warm and comfortable. And safe. “You good?” he murmurs, his mouth on my neck below my ear.
“God, yeah,” I say in a breathy voice.
How could I not be good?
Armen crosses the room to join us, exchanging a look with Sting. Something passes between them—not a plan or negotiation, just the silent understanding of men who know what they are doing next without discussing it. He takes a seat beside me, his hand on my thigh, steady and warm.
Sting stands and undoes his belt. He’s hard, straining against his pants and as he frees himself, I reach for his cock, but he shakes his head.
“No. Not yet. I want to look at you first.” His eyes wander over me like he’s deciding where to start.
Then he’s on me.
He pushes me back against Rogue, who holds me, his hands on my tits and he pushes inside in one stroke. Deep. I cry out. Rogue’s arms tighten. Armen’s hand moves between my legs, his thumb finding my clit, working me in slow circles while Sting drives in and out of my pussy.
