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My cock pulses so hard that she feels it, her back twitching with a hitched breath. It just keeps fucking coming. My dick pumps wave after wave of cum into her, and with each pulse, I growl, the thought warming my veins like lava.

“Take it,” I rumble, giving her every drop of my seed. Pumping her full of me. Leaving a part of myself inside her–maybe for the next nine months.

My cock jumps so violently at the idea that I shoot another surge into her.

I haven’t had a hotter thought in my whole goddamn life.

By the time I’m drained, breathless and halfway to limp, I realize she’s dripping. Pulling back, I flip up her dress, watching as the cum leaks out around my cock. “Holy shit,” I breathe, fascinated. I wasn’t lying before. I’ve never gone raw–never known the feeling of emptying myself into a hot, slick cunt.

It’s like nothing I could have imagined, watching dazedly as I pull my hips back, my shaft glistening with the both of us. She twitches around me, and the moment my head slips free, her pussygushes,my cum running in globs over her folds.

I rush to push it back in, finally allowing my eyes to take in the plumpness of her ass. But something higher gets my attention. Below her dress, on the small of her back, is a scar. I push the dress up far enough to see it, round, raised, and pale.

An O with a line through it.

She stays still, her eyes fixed to my keyboard as I feed the cum back into her hole. “Are we done now?” she asks, voice quiet and flat.

I pause, my fingers still buried halfway inside of her. “No.” Her eyes flick up, sparking, but I’m already unlatching the cuffs and pulling up my pants. I reach for the box I’ve had ready and waiting since last night, uncaring when she scurries toward her panties, stepping into them with short, uncoordinated movements.

“Here,” I say, sliding it to the end of the desk.

Her green eyes pass over it without even taking it in. Or so I think. “A laptop?” she asks.

Landing in my chair, I sprawl back, feeling relaxed down to my fucking marrow. “Your payment.” I wave my hand. “Or as Father calls it, a ‘gift.’”

On the monitor in front of me, I watch her pick it up limply before leaving. Once she’s gone, I flip back on all the other feeds; the hallway, her room, the strip club, and reboot up the video of the ceremony to watch it all over again.

11

Verity

It’sthe shallow depth of sleep where everything seems all at once uncomfortably loud and too far away to care about it. That’s when the voice comes, loud but inexplicably distant.

“Wake up!”

I jolt awake too fast, electricity still zinging through my nerves when I meet dark, shrouded eyes. The silhouette of the man standing at the foot of my bed is tall and lithe enough to be immediately recognizable as Pace. My stomach plummets, sure that this is another round of agonizingly drawn out torture.

His phone is glowing against his cheek. “She’s up,” he mutters into it, jerking his head toward my door. “Get dressed.”

The last part is meant for me, but my head is fuzzy, still full of the sensation of Pace buried deep inside, pulsing and thick. “What?” I rasp, eyes wide and sticky with sleep.

Pace turns his head just enough for the light in the hallway to cut against his cheekbone. He’s glaring at the floor. “We don’t have much time,” he says in a quiet, grave voice. “Just do what you’re told.”

His footsteps are loud as his long strides make for the hallway, but sitting in the bed, staring at the slice of moonlight bleeding in from my curtains, I know he’s close–waiting, just outside my door. So I dress clumsily, tripping around the closet with hurried movements, and I try my hardest to ignore the slick feeling in my center. I’d come straight to bed without even cleaning him off of me. Willing the bile in the back of my throat to recede, the racks of clothes seem labyrinthine. Dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes. My pulse is a wild stampede as I pick something at random, stepping into the pleated skirt with a stumbled hop. I choose a large sweater, the kind that sags on a shoulder, and a pair of fuzzy boots. The adrenaline is still flowing through my veins as I inch toward my door, hearing Pace’s voice on the other side.

“Just distract him,” he’s saying, the words ground out. “It’s going to take me fifteen minutes to get her there.” There’s a pause, and then Pace sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. That’ll be midnight. Just… do your best.” When I step out of the room squinting against the harshness of the light, Pace’s tense gaze snaps to me, assessing. “Finally,” he says, lips pressed into a tight line. “The skirt is good. You got any lipstick in there, or what?”

Blinking, I ask, “Lipstick? For what?” and he tips his head back against the wall, eyes rolling heavenward.

“Why’d you have to be a virgin?” He huffs, straightening to fix me with a hard look. “Go put on some lipstick. Brush your hair. Look fuckable. Be downstairs at the door in three minutes.” Before I can open my mouth to ask what this is about, he snaps, “Obey your goddamn Prince!” and stalks off.

Maybe I could feel the apprehension churning in my belly if the irritation in my temples wasn’t so all-encompassing. It’s only been two hours since I left that room with his spunk running down my thighs–since I goaded him into finishing it. This morning, I wouldn’t have imagined there’d be an experience that would make my previous meeting with Lex feel preferable, but sitting on Pace’s cock all night did the trick.

At least Lex was quick.

I stomp into my bathroom and chuck through items in the vanity. The first lipstick I find is called Blushed Harlot and I glare at myself in the mirror, eyes hot and irate as I smear it onto my lips. Tears prickle the corners of my eyes, but I don’t blink them away.

Nothing looks as fuckable to these three as my own goddamn misery.