Page 53 of Blackwood

“Ladies. Gentlemen,” he drawls out. “Please… take your seats.”

A few guys whistle. Most just freeze.

“Wexley’s finest are about to lose their minds. Give it up for the hottest Wolves in the building, The Trifecta!”

Lights cut. Bass drops. Music booms. We step out. Me. Ellie. Haley. All three of us in oversized Wexley football jerseys, numbers barely covering what’s underneath. Hair down. Eyes locked. Heels high.

The crowd roars.

Three gold-trimmed thrones sit center stage, already occupied. Cal in the middle. His legs are spread, jaw tight, smirk cocky. To his left, August. To his right, the tight end, Jalen. All shirtless. All grinning from ear to ear.

On the first beat, we stop in front of the guys. The next beat, the jerseys hit the floor. Underneath is a Rico special: custom black two-piece sets, lingerie reimagined for war. Lace clingingto curves, high-cut and scandalous. Under strobes the fabric shimmers like smoke and shadow.

Then we move.

Three girls.

Three chairs.

One routine.

We circle the chairs, fingertips gliding and teasing.

One beat.

Two.

Straddle.

My knees frame Cal’s thighs as I sink into his lap. My hips roll with precision, hands sliding up his chest. I don’t break eye contact. His hazel eyes track every move. He tries to stay cool, but fails miserably.

My fingers ghost down his chest. I lean in, lips near his jaw but not touching. Then roll again, deep, slow, and steady. Cal’s grip tightens on the chair. Then I feel it, Callum Whitmore is hard as hell underneath me.

Ellie teases August with sugar-sweet precision. Haley rocks Jalen like a storm in heels.

Three bodies in perfect sync. Arched backs. Parted lips.

Final beat.

Freeze.

One inhale.

Then we turn and walk away like we hadn’t just set the place on fire as the applause explodes.

We change fast. Heels kicked off, lashes adjusted, and lace swapped. Ellie adds glitter. Haley throws on a blazer with nothing underneath. I go with a black crop top and a leather mini.

We make it back down just as Knox’s backup DJ drops a remix and the crowd surges.

“Trifecta,” a voice smooth, smug, unmistakably amused. I turn. Cal strolls up, drink in hand with an arm around a Barbie in pink.

“Hell of a performance,” he says, gaze still lingering. “I used to think The Order ran this place. But after that? I’m starting to think we’re just the warm-up act.”

Haley scoffs. “You finally caught up.”

Ellie bats her lashes. “That chair okay, bro? It looked like it survived something biblical.”

August steps in, sun-kissed curls, mischievous eyes, and charm for days. “If that routine was meant to intimidate, then it worked.”