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The real Silas is beneath me now, and I can feel him—hard and throbbing and trembling under my thighs. I ride him slow at first, watching his eyes flutter, his mouth fall open, that barely-there breath of my name like it’s already too much.
“Fuck, pretty girl,” he gasps, hands gripping my hips like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
“You ruined yourself,” I murmur, grinding down harder, gasping when he bucks up to meet me. “This was your idea.”
He tries to smile. Fails. His head falls back with a groan as I clench around him, and I know he’s close—so close—but he won’t let himself come yet. Not without—
The clone slides behind me.
Still real in every way that matters. Still him. Still heat and worship and desperation.
He presses up close, chest against my back, his cock sliding between my ass cheeks, slick from the mess we’ve already made of each other. One hand snakes around to rub my clit in tight, merciless circles.
“You should see yourself,” the clone breathes, lips against my ear, and gods, he sounds just as wrecked as the one inside me. “Taking both of me like you were made for this.”
“I was,” I whisper.
Silas groans—both of them. The real one’s thrusts turn erratic, deeper, harsher, his control starting to shatter. The illusion’s hips begin to grind against me from behind, his cock slipping between the slick press of our bodies, desperate for friction, for anything.
“You’re gonna make us both come,” the one beneath me says, voice cracking. “You’re gonna—fuck—Luna, please—”
The clone cuts in, teeth dragging over my shoulder. “I’m so close—gods, I can feel him through you—I can feel us—”
It’s too much.
The one in me. The one behind me. Their hands. Their mouths. Their need.
I come again—loud and raw and violent—with both their names on my tongue, nails digging into Silas’s chest hard enough to bruise. I shake through it, shuddering so hard I nearly collapse, but they catch me—he catches me. Always.
And then he lets go.
The real Silas thrusts up once, twice, and gasps my name like a prayer torn from the throat. I feel him come—deep, hot, pulsing inside me—and I swear the world tilts. His hands tremble as they clutch my hips, holding me in place like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the world.
The illusion chokes out a moan against my skin, his rhythm stuttering as he ruts against me desperately, and then he comes too—spilling hot between us, across my back and thighs, breath ragged, lips still murmuring broken fragments of my name like it’s all he’s ever known.
The one beneath me kisses his way up my stomach, chest, mouth, and then I blink—and there’s only one again. Just Silas.
Breathing hard. Hair wild. Hands cupping my face like I’m the most fragile, sacred thing he’s ever touched.
“You okay?” he asks, voice raw.
“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper.
His grin is dazzling. “But was it worth it?”
I yank him down by the front of his hair and kiss him like I want to drown him in it.
When we break apart, I straddle his hips, still panting, still flushed, and feel him—hard again. Already.
His eyes widen. “Wait—are we—?”
“Oh, we’re not done,” I say, dragging my nails down his chest. “You wanted to give me everything.”
I roll my hips against him and he moans—moans, the kind of sound that should be illegal. “I did.”
“So,” I say, sinking down onto him slowly, watching his jaw clench, his eyes flutter shut, “prove it.”
He opens his mouth, probably to say something clever, but I grind down hard, and he chokes on his own pleasure.