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I fight it. I swear I do.

But my body’s already folding. Already tightening. Already fuckingbreaking.

Matteo bites at my shoulder, growling into my skin. “Say we won, little storm. Say it, or we don’t let you come.”

My moan turns guttural, helpless. Bodhi drags his cock free from my mouth and grips my jaw tight, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“You lost,” he says, breath harsh. “Now admit it.”

I snarl. I shake. Iburn.

But it slips out anyway—choked, shattered, gutted.

“You… fucking… won.”

“Louder,” Matteo demands, slamming into me again, fingers moving faster over my clit.

“I said youwon,” I cry out, voice raw.

And then I break.

I come with a scream, body clenching violently around Matteo’s cock, my thighs shaking as my vision whites out from the force of it. It hits like a detonation—hot, filthy, brutal.

Behind me, Matteo fights against the tightness of my body, his thrusts stuttering, and he growls deep in his chest as he spills inside me.

Bodhi strokes himself once, twice—his breath coming in short, ragged bursts—then snarls low in his throat.

His grip tightens in my hair.

Without warning, he jerks my head back—hard—forcing my spine to arch further and my mouth to fall open in a gasp. My eyes flick up to meet his again, and heholdsme there, trembling with it, chest rising like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuckinglookat me,” he growls.

I do.

Because I want to see it.

Because I want towatchhim fall apart over me while my thighs are still shaking from the brutal rhythm Matteo fucked me through just moments ago—our combined releases dripping down my thighs, marking me from the inside out.

Bodhi’s hand works his cock with a brutal rhythm—wet, fast, hungry—and then hebreaks.

He groans through clenched teeth, a deep sound that barely sounds human as he comes—thick, hot, andeverywhere. My throat, my breasts, my collarbone, mixing with the sweat that coats every inch of my skin.

His hand stays tangled in my hair, anchoring me. Holding me in place like a possession, like aprize.

He watches me with dark, wild eyes—his lips parted, his breath caught somewhere between awe and exhaustion.

When he’s done, his thumb drags across my jaw as he murmurs, “You were made for us.”

And I’m still shaking.

Still panting.

Still braced on all fours in the middle of the mat, sweat-drenched and wrecked, lips swollen, thighs and chest slick and dripping with both of them.

“I hope,” I gasp finally, voice hoarse and full of venom, “you enjoy your twenty-four hours, assholes.”

Bodhi chuckles darkly and drops to his knees in front of me, brushing a kiss against my temple.