Page 44 of The Unexpected

I nod, eyes dark.

“Yes, you are, sweetheart, and I appreciate it. But I want to fuck dirty. You know I like it rough and nasty, and with two men, there’s a lot we can do with you as our willing fuckslut.”

She blushes at my rude words, but meets my gaze.

“Like what?” is her whisper.

“I want double anal,” I growl. “Double vaginal. Every possible way two men can use a female body, we’re going to try it. You understand?” I run my thumb along her thigh, press a little harder to get her attention. “You’re going to be our personal fuck doll. Used however we want, whenever. That’s the deal. Your pussy, ass, and mouth need to be available to your Daddies anytime we want, ready to receive hot, horny meat at any hour of the day. Does that scare you?”

Her lips part. Her blonde curls are a wreck, face shiny with sweat and dried tears, and for the first time since I’ve known her, I see her hesitate. Her gaze skips to Lachlan, searching, but he just cocks his head, as if this was always the plan.

He looks at me, then back at her, and says, “It’s not up to us. You’re the one with the real power, Stella. If you want it, we’ll give you more than you can handle.” He squeezes her gently, his big hand almost spanning her ribcage. “The question is: can you handle it?”

Stella swallows. Her lower lip trembles, but not with fear. I watch her chest, the way it rises and falls, the little pulse flickering at her throat. She doesn’t answer, not with words, but her hand finds my wrist and holds it, squeezing hard, like she needs to ground herself to the present moment.

The wine glass wobbles, but doesn’t tip.

I lean in, close enough to smell the heat on her skin, and say, “No more secrets, no more hiding. Next time, you’re going to be used savagely. Double penetration like we just did? Sweetheart, that’s nothing. You’re going to be filled in a whole new way. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

She nods, then shakes her head, then nods again, eyes huge.

“I do want it,” she whispers. “I want everything.”

Lachlan’s hand moves up, brushes her hair behind her ear. “Good girl,” he says, and it’s not a joke.

I let myself breathe. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.

“We’re going to ruin you,” I say, and it sounds more like a promise than a threat.

She smiles. It’s small, tired, but hungry as sin.

The lamp burns, the wine disappears, and the night closes in around us, heavy with secrets and sweat.

I lie there, counting the seconds until we can do it again.

15

THE MORNING AFTER, PART TWO

Stella

When I wake, it’s to the muscle memory of last night: my whole body is sore, sticky, beautifully wrecked. A heavy, bare arm bands around my ribcage, hand splayed wide over my right breast—his calluses rough against the softness. Another hand, larger, veined and tan, claims the top of my thigh, fingertips splayed in possession.

Hunter behind me, always behind: a block of heat and size, breathing slow, steady, the exhale curling through my hair and making it flicker against my temple. Lachlan in front, draped like a marble statue gone soft at the edges, his arm thrown above his head, golden in the morning. The sheets are a disaster—twisted, wet, crusted with sweat and what must be half a pint of spunk. I’m cocooned between these men, legs scissored open, one of Lachlan’s thighs slotted between mine.

The light through the apartment’s window blinds is a bleak, diluted gold. It stripes the mattress, turns the spilled stains and folds of white linen into a topography of last night’s excess. I take an inventory before I dare move: my hips ache, a deep, rolling bruise under the skin, flesh so tender I know I’ll find fingerprint marks if I look. My pussy is stretched, thickly sore, the ache not quite pain but a memory, like the afterburn of a long run. My ass is rawer, and I feel a faint, sharp throb every time I flex my anus or shift. Even my lips tingle, swollen, a faint saltiness at the corners. My tongue finds the inside of my mouth and tastes the remnants of both men. Oh yes, they came down my throat multiple times, and the tang is still there, salty and sweet.

For a while, I just lie in bed, cataloguing. My hair is matted across my cheek. I count the number of hands touching me—two, and if I’m honest, I wish there were more. I’m still in the afterglow, but it’s not a gentle haze; it’s more like a fever that hasn’t yet broken, the knowledge that I could be fucked again and again, like a ragdoll to be used for their pleasure. Some deep part of me wants them to wake up and use me one more time, just for the sound of it, the proof.

My head is on Lachlan’s golden chest. His heartbeat is a quiet drum, barely there, but solid. He smells like sweat and expensive wine, and the musky trace of last night’s come. In his sleep, his brow is smooth, his lips slightly parted, and I could almost pretend he’s innocent, or at least vulnerable, if I didn’t know exactly what he was capable of doing to me with just his mouth and his hands.

Hunter is less composed. Even unconscious, he radiates possession: arm heavy across my chest, leg hooked over mine, breathing so deep it rattles the bed frame. I tilt my head back just enough to see his jaw, the stubble at his throat, the hollow where his collarbone meets his shoulder. He’s drooling a little onto the pillow. I could laugh, but even that would take too much energy.

I watch them sleep for an embarrassingly long time, and in that silence I let my mind wander. Last night, I let two men—one of them my uncle, one of them my pastor—use my body for hours. I screamed, begged, swallowed, took them wherever and however they wanted. I wanted it. There’s no point in pretending it was anything else. The thought floats up: Does this make me a slut? The answer is almost comforting in its clarity: yes, it does, and at this point, I don’t care. It’s exactly what I want to be because who knows how long this will last? Is this relationship sustainable? Is this even a relationship at all? I have no idea, but I guess I’ll find out.

A surge of something—maybe pride, maybe hunger, maybe just an urge to pee—makes me shift, gently, to extricate myself. Hunter’s grip tightens, reflexive. I stroke the back of his hand until he relaxes. Lachlan’s eyelids flutter but don’t open, the golden lashes staying closed on his sculpted cheek. I slide out from the pocket of heat between them, swinging my feet over the edge of the mattress.

Standing is a test of will. Every muscle protests, and there’s a sharp, sweet pain deep inside as gravity rearranges the mess of fluids in my cunt and ass. A sticky trickle starts down my thigh. I wince, but it makes me smile. These men did it to me, and I love feeling so full, feminine, and stretched at once.