Page 49 of Climbing Everest

Everest

T oo bright. The room is too damn bright. Even the sound of someone using the shower in my ensuite bathroom feels as though a sledgehammer is being taken to my brain.

And I’m sore. Not just between my legs, but everywhere. I might have been fucked to within an inch of my life, but they’d been the ones doing all the work.

Yet it feels as though I’d done a damn triathlon last night. My arms are a little raw and developing some light bruising from the belt Brix had restrained me with, adding to the discomfort.

Not only am I sore but hungover. I might have drunk a little too much last night.

Never again. I will never drink again.

I nearly huff a laugh at the thought. I’m pretty sure I’ve said that dozens of times since the first time I got drunk after Kato snuck some of his dad’s liquor and the five of us – including Flora – snuck into the backyard and passed the bottle around while the adults lingered and rubbed elbows and talked about shit that bored us to death.

The same kind of shit my fiancé now deals with on a regular basis.

This is not how the wife of a Don behaves. Or at least it’s not how I should behave.

My mom has always been a bit of a lush. Not sure if she still has mimosas with every breakfast and starts drinking wine at lunch, but most of the wives I knew in the Bratva tended to enjoy their reds, their whites, their blush wines.

I always swore growing up that I wouldn’t become one of those women. I wouldn’t become nothing more than wallpaper in the background, a pretty ornament on my husband’s arm as he tended to business.

Kato agreed with me back then, but last night…

I’m sure there’s a lecture and a loud argument coming after his statement about me speaking on behalf of my Don.

Whatever. He’s not my Don.

While every inch of my body protests and demands I stay in the horizontal position with the blankets pulled over my head, I lurch forward and drop my legs over the side of the bed.

We have a lot to talk about, and I don’t feel like doing that while my mouth tastes like cocktails, there’s cum drying between my thighs, and I’m sure I stink.

Dropping my gaze, I note the oversized shirt I’d pulled on after all three of my husbands finished inside me. The first part of when we’d gotten home is a little foggy, but I remember teasing Kato, sucking Brixton’s dick while Maddox licked my pussy, I remember taking all three of my men at once.

I remember the absolute satisfaction of facing down my father and letting him see I was alive and well and engaged to his enemy.

I remember my mom’s cutting words, and I remember telling them she should pay right alongside my father.

She was complicit. She was a fucking accomplice in the way I was treated and had been fully aware my father tried to kill me, and that I was struggling to survive with zero support.

Because in her eyes, I’m trash, nothing but a whore. Maybe if she’d bothered to reach out and offer some form of help, I wouldn’t have had to sell the only thing I had any control over simply to eat and keep a roof over my fucking head for four years.

I need a shower, a toothbrush, and the world’s largest cup of coffee. In that order.

It isn’t until I step through my bathroom door that I spot Brix under the spray, his hands on the wall, head dropped, his long hair wet and creating a curtain around his face.

Even hungover and sore, my body heats at the sight of all that glorious, tattooed muscle on full display, his thick, heavy cock hanging between his thighs.

The man is a work of art. I bet I could sell pictures of him online. Shit, I could make a fortune if I set him up with an OF page.

But that would mean sharing him with the rest of the world. No fucking way.

Huh. Maybe that’s part of why they were such assholes in the beginning, because so many strangers saw what belongs to them. Well, that and the lies my father fed them about me being a snake and all that shit.

“Mind if I join?” I say as I shed the borrowed t-shirt and toss it in the hamper.

Brixton starts slightly but raises his head and looks at me through the glass. “Did I wake you up?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. The hangover did,” I tease.

Not really a tease since it’s the truth, but I don’t want him feeling guilty about something that had nothing to do with him.

He reaches around me and turns on the second shower head instead of moving for me to stand under the one he’s using. Does that mean he’s not interested in a shower fuck?

More importantly, could my pussy handle his beast of a dick pummeling into me right now?

Tilting his head back, Brix lets the spray run over his head then pushes his hair out of his face. It’s not as long as mine, reaching just past his shoulders, but fuck it’s so pretty, so soft, so thick and wavy.

When he leans against the wall, his arms hanging loose by his sides and his cock twitching to life as I devour the sight before me with my eyes…

Yeah, the hangover is quickly taking a backseat.

Stepping under my own spray head, I let the water sluice down my hair and body.

Then have a moment where I realize I never washed my makeup off last night. I’m sure I resemble a racoon at the moment. A drowned raccoon at that with the water now creating rivulets of black mascara down my cheeks and my hair hanging limply down my back and shoulders.

“How much do you remember from last night?” he asks.

“Most of it. Anything specific you’re asking me about?” I say with what I hope is a sexy smirk.

There is no way I could forget having three schlongs filling me.

Reaching for my face wash, I take my time removing as much of last night as I can without tugging on my skin. I might be in a dangerous world now, but that doesn’t mean I want premature wrinkles.

Rinsing off the cream, I grab a loofah and the first body wash I touch and start cleaning off the sweat and perfume and any lingering odors from one of the craziest, saddest, most satisfying, and sexiest nights of my life.

“You said you want your father to suffer before we kill him, and you want your mom included in all that,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest as he continues to watch me.

“It’s really hard to have this conversation with your cock in my face like that,” I say, turning my back to him so I can clean up.

A deep, masculine chuckle echoes against the tile. “It’s not in your face. Not yet. I’m more than happy to feed you every inch if you’re hungry, though.”

“Damn it, Brix,” I grumble, rinsing off and turning to look at him again.

And yep, his dick has officially come to life, jutting forward like it’s begging to be touched.

Oh, I want to do more than touch it. I might be hungover, but the shower and my libido are pushing all the misery to the back of my subconscious.

When he pushes from the wall and begins to stalk toward me across the small space separating us, I can’t stop my feet from taking a step back. There’s this thrill rippling through me at the dark, hungry look in his eyes.

I must not look that bad if he’s ready to take me right here in the shower only hours after coming inside me alongside Kato and Madd.

Technically, he only said he’d be happy to feed me his cock.

Not exactly the worst way to get over a hangover.

When the cool tile hits my back, I shiver, and it ain’t from the cold.

The look in this man’s eyes is nothing short of feral. There are moments I can see the sweet teenager from four years ago.

This isn’t one of them.

The man looking down into my face as he grips his shaft and strokes it slowly in one of his big fists is like my worst nightmare and hottest fantasy all rolled up into one sexy as fuck package.

“On your knees,” he says.

No. He orders .

And I have to force myself to move slowly instead of dropping to the shower floor like an obedient sub.

“If only you were always so good at taking orders,” he coos, his fingers running over my face before he pushes my bottom lip down with his thumb. “Open.”

I part my lips for him, sticking out my tongue and waiting as he moves closer, slapping the weight of his dick against my tongue a couple times before slowly pushing inside.

“Fuck,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “I can’t decide if I want to come down your throat or paint those pretty tits.”

Yep. My Brixton still wakes horny and hard as granite.

I would rather he come inside me. Otherwise, he’ll leave me with a case of lady blue balls, and that’ll do nothing short of making me pissy for the rest of the day.

Or at least until one of my other husbands gets me off.

One of his hands wraps around my jaw while the other holds the base of his shaft as he pushes forward. Slowly.

The studs rub against my tongue, and I moan as I instantly grow wet and my nipples pebble at the sensation.

“You think being a whore is a bad thing,” he says as he pushes forward more. “You’ll always be a whore, E. But you’re my whore. Our whore. And we’ll pay for you with our lives. Never let anyone make you feel as though you’re less.”

He withdraws and slaps his heavy cock against my tongue again, almost like he’s making sure I’m paying attention.

My eyes are on his face as he speaks. “You are the queen of our lives. My fucking queen. Your husband is the Don of the Antoniou syndicate. But it’s you who rules him .”

His words send conflicting emotions rushing through me. Pride. Fear. Confusion. Lust.

When he pushes forward again, he holds himself there, cutting off my airflow. I try to suck in a breath through my nose, but he simply pushes in more until the tip of his cock touches the back of my throat and I gag.

“Fuck, I love that sound,” he says, pulling back then pushing forward again. “I love fucking your throat and making you gag around my cock. I miss seeing you let yourself go, seeing you forget everything but pleasure.”

Because I’d been in survival mode for so long.

Not anymore.

Last night was the first time in four fucking years I’ve felt carefree. I’d been able to dance and drink and laugh until my sides hurt with my lifelong best friend and my new friend because I knew I was safe, protected, knew my men would never allow anyone close enough to hurt me.

And then I’d let my husbands…

My inner walls clench around nothing as need rages inside me at the memory, at the feeling of Brix’s piercings grazing my tongue.

He’s right. It’s time to remember who I am. Take back my life. Let loose with my husbands because I know if I fall, they’ll be right there to catch me.

Raising my hands, I rest one on Brix’s muscular thigh and use the other to cup his sac, fondling his balls.

His deep, guttural sound of pleasure has me clenching my thighs while his cock fully blocking off my airway makes me a little dizzy.

I’m not scared. A little oxygen starved, but not scared. Brix knows how to push me right to the edge before pulling back.

After a few more heartbeats, just when spots begin to form in my vision, he pulls back and allows me to gasp a deep breath of air.

“Open your knees. Touch yourself and show me. I want to see how wet you are.”

Isn’t this cheating a little? I mean, I’m still under the spray. No matter what condition my pussy is in, my fingers will come away wet.

Doesn’t matter. I obey instantly, spreading my thighs wide and running my fingers through my folds before dipping one inside and then presenting it to him.

He hums a pleased sound before wrapping a hand around my throat and pulling me to stand.

I’d never had a problem with my guys manhandling me. The only reason it pissed me off when Kato continuously squeezed my throat was because he was cutting off my explanation, keeping me from warning him or telling him the truth about our time apart.

Brix’s big, tatted hands grip my thighs and lift me with ease, positioning his cock to impale me as he slams my back against the tile.

He groans a deep sound in the back of his throat as his nostrils flare, and only gives me a moment to adjust to the intrusion before he’s pumping up into me, each punch of his hips hard and fast.

This shouldn’t feel so good. I’m still sore, but it’s as though that pinch of lingering pain is simply spurring on my need.

Seconds. That’s how long I last before I fall apart around him, my pussy clenching as I throw my head back against the wall and cry out.

“That’s right. Come all over my dick like my good little whore.”

He’s right. That word doesn’t hold the same weight, especially not from his lips, not anymore.

I refuse to allow it to make me feel ashamed of surviving.

Because I am their whore.

I’m all theirs to do with as they please.