Kara’s hips drove into me a final time, sharp enough to steal the last of my breath. Then she pulled out, leaving me trembling and open, my body clenching around nothing. The sudden emptiness twisted inside me, a hollow ache that only deepened under Alex’s stare.
I could hear but not see motion behind me, then Kara stepped into view. She handed the black leather harness and thick strap-on cock to Alex, who stepped into it, then turned while Kara buckled it into place. Alex reached down to stroke the cock.
"Oh she's soaked. You've made a mess on Kara's cock, haven't you, Sabine?" She sat on the mattress and laid back, stretching out across the bed. “Let's see what you do when the cock is mine. Get on.”
My body moved before thought could catch it. I climbed awkwardly onto my knees, my ankle protesting each shift of weight. I swung one leg carefully over her, straddling her hips. My palms pressed to her breasts as I positioned myself, the steady rise and fall of her breath burning against my skin.
When I lowered myself, the cock slid into me with a force that shocked me still. The familiarity of it hit harder than I was ready for, memory and present colliding in one sharp rush. Everything I had feared about her, everything I had wanted despite myself, lived in that stretch, that claiming.
Her hands rose to my face, fingers spreading along my jaw, holding me steady. Her gaze locked with mine as she pulled me down into a kiss. It was not gentle.Her mouth was fierce, consuming, sealing off air as her tongue drove past my defenses.
I sank against her, my face pressed against the scorpion tattoo on her left collarbone, the force of her inside me. Panic and desire surged together, indistinguishable, and when she tipped my chin up, I kissed her back even as the tremor of fear stayed tight in my throat.
Kara’s weight shifted the mattress as she climbed up behind me. Alex’s cock filled me from underneath, her hands tight on my hips, but it was Kara’s breath at my neck that drew a new shiver down my spine. Her lips pressed to my skin, hot and insistent, and I turned, meeting her mouth with mine. The kiss was rough, tasting of hunger and command, her tongue sliding against mine until I moaned into it.
Then I felt the blunt nudge of her fingers pressing at my ass. My body went rigid. A panicked sound broke from my throat. “No. I don’t know if I can—”
Alex’s voice rose, steady, coaxing in my ear. “You can. Breathe. Let her in. Relax for me.” Her hands smoothed down my sides, anchoring me, grounding me. “It’s going to be good, baby. Trust me.”
I shook my head, but her tone threaded through the panic, low and certain. Kara pressed again, slower this time, the stretch sharp and punishing. Pain flashed through me, white-hot, and I cried out, my nails biting into Alex’s shoulders.
“Breathe,” Alex whispered, kissing me hard. Her thumb stroked circles over my clit, coaxing, distracting, until the fire of it began to ease. My body gave a fraction, then more. Kara pushed deeper, sliding a second finger alongside the first. I felt them both inside me, stretching me wider than I thought I could bear.
Every nerve lit at once. Alex thrust upward, Kara pulled back, then drove forward to match her. Their rhythm trapped me between them. Each movement was mirrored, every sensation doubled until I thought I would tear apart from it. Their mouths claimed me in turn, lips at my throat, at my mouth, everywhere at once. Hands slid over my breasts, my stomach, gripping tight as I rode the waves of our bodies.
The onslaught consumed me. The friction, the heat, the merciless rhythm of two women taking me in tandem. Pleasure surged in jagged waves, impossible to hold back. My climax hit like a storm, ripping through me, my cry muffled against Alex’s mouth as Kara groaned at my back. My body shook, wrung out, every thrust dragging the orgasm higher until I thought it might never end.
The climax still rippled through me in aftershocks when Alex’s mouth brushed my ear. Her voice was low, intimate, but edged with steel. “I think you still had another question, baby.”
I shook my head quickly, desperate to make it disappear, to hold onto silence instead of truth. My body trembled between them, every nerve stretched raw.
She didn’t let me escape. Her hips snapped harder, her hands sliding to my throat. The pressure made my pulse hammer beneath her grip. Her eyes caught mine, dark and unyielding. “You wanted to know if we were going to kill you, didn’t you?”
Terror crashed through me. I forced a nod, the motion jerking against her fingers. The answer she wanted cost me air.
Behind me, Kara groaned, her voice rough with release as her fingers worked both herself and my ass. “I’m coming.” Her thrusts continued, as she reached her other hand around to rub tight circles on my clitoris. Her touch dragged me into another helpless shudder. A low moan spilled from my throat as I leaned into another orgasm, tearing through me, shaking my body and mind.
Alex held my throat until I cried out, her own rhythm pounding harder. Her face twisted with pleasure, her grip tightening at the peak, then she groaned, giving into her orgasm with a final deep thrust.
The pressure eased suddenly, her fingers loosening, letting me gasp. Her grin split sharp across her face, all control and cruel amusement. “Our job is to protect you, not to kill you, silly girl.”
The words slid down my spine in an icy-hot trail, more insistent than her hands had been.
19
Alex
I stepped into mymother’s library. The shelves smelled like sandalwood and old paper, just as they had when I was a child hiding among the stacks. My fingers traced along the shelves at the back until I found what Sabine had seen earlier: the three matching volumes of The Oxford Library Collection of Poetry bound in blue leather. My mother's books.
I pulled the middle volume free. The weight felt familiar in my hands. The swirling silver B for Bellante caught the light as I turned it over, running my thumb across the monogram my father had commissioned when he still pretended to love her.
Inside the front cover, gold lettering proclaimed "Isabella Bellante" in an elegant script. The pages fell open naturally to Charlotte Smith. My mother had dog-eared this section, read it so many times the binding had weakened.
There in the margin beside "Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart," I found her handwriting. Thin, precise letters in faded blue ink: “Like the one you left me, Matteo.”
I remembered finding her here once, tears sliding silently down her face, this same book open in her lap. I had been seven, maybe eight. She had quickly wiped her eyes, smiled, and pulled me onto her lap. "Poetry helps us feel less alone," she had told me, kissing the top of my head.
She had been planning her escape even then. I wondered if she had known, as she held me, that her husband would kill her if she ever tried to leave him.
