Page 32 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

The town’s been buzzing all day.

Carson ‘found’ Cookie this morning, face-planted in a lemon cupcake so sweet it could rot teeth on sight. Arsenic. Almost blue ribbon worthy. Almost. Which is how I know it wasn’t Cookie’s usual fare, she never quite nailed balance. Just bitterness and buttercream.

When I asked Edgar, he didn’t deny a thing. Just tilted his head, wiped sugar dust from his collar, and said, “She had my name in her mouth one too many times. And the nerve to insult you. And Blake.”

Then he smiled. Said it was poetic. Said she poisoned herself with her own baking.

She left the bakery to me. Me. Which smells like Carson’s handiwork, all legal cleanup and inconvenient mercy. The man makes murder cover-up look like public service.

Blake, bless his beautiful soul, was with me all night. Whispering sweet things. Clutching the headboard. Moaning into my shoulder while I counted thrusts like clock ticks in my alibi. I don’t think he knows his orgasms were carefully scheduled between town gossip disposal and estate transfers.

It’s sweet, really. All three of them, doing what they do best to protect me. Carson covers the blood. Edgar feeds me pastries and poisons who needs it. Blake... well. Blake holds me like I’m soft and good, even when I’m shaking from rage and icing sugar.

I check the casserole one more time.

We’re going to be hungry tonight. They’ve planned an orgy. Our first.

I’ve marked the calendar with a tiny lemon and three heart emojis.

Because let’s be honest, this is basically our wedding night.

It deserves celebration. Themed gifts. Vinyl sex suits for year five.

Leather restraints for year ten. A commemorative spatula that says “World’s Deadliest Girlfriend” etched in gold.

I set the table. I light a candle. I lube the hell out of everything.

It’s going to be a very long, very filthy night.

And they’re going to worship me like I’m the goddess of dessert and death.

There’s a knock at the door.

One short. One precise. One that sounds like someone just backed into the porch railing and whispered “fuck, sorry.”

That’s Blake.

I open it slowly. Like a woman ready to ruin lives with her thighs.

Carson walks in first, dark-eyed and dangerous, holding a bottle of something expensive and aged. He doesn’t say a word, just kisses my cheek like he’s checking if I’ve hidden a blade there.

I have. It’s in my bra. He hums approvingly.

Edgar follows, crisp and smug and wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Chef (or Else).” He’s holding a velvet box that I swear to God better not contain jewelry unless it vibrates.

“Is that?” I start.

“A lemon-scented cock ring,” he replies smoothly. “For ceremonial purposes.”

Blake stumbles in last, cheeks pink, hair all windswept like he sprinted through emotional turmoil to get here. He’s holding a six-pack of chocolate milk.

“Hi,” he breathes, handing me the milk like it’s a bouquet of roses. “I brought hydration.”

My pussy thinks it’s her birthday and blows out the candles early. “You sweet, perverted Boy Scout.”

Carson snorts. “He asked the clerk at the gas station if this was good for... electrolytes.”

“I panicked!” Blake cries. “We’re about to do an orgy. I’ve never even been to an orgy! What if I faint? What if my legs cramp? What if someone cries, what if I cry?”

Edgar pats his back. “You’ll be fine, darling. Just remember to stay inside the lines and don’t bite unless instructed.”

Carson opens the wine. “Unless you’re biting me, in which case, you better commit.”

I’m grinning now. Like a lunatic. Like a woman standing in the eye of a horny hurricane she conjured herself.

They circle me slowly. Like wolves. Like suitors. Like war criminals with a shared kink for obedience and oral fixation.

“You ready, sweetheart?” Carson says against my neck, one hand already ghosting under my skirt.

I just barely resist the urge to kiss him or commit a felony. “Oh, I’ve been ready. Casserole’s warm. Lube’s on the nightstand. Knives are in the drawer labeled foreplay.”

Edgar hums. “And dessert?”

I smirk. “Already melting.”

Blake makes a sound that can only be described as religious.

Carson’s fingers curl around my hips, bracing for impact, steady and sure and searing through the silk of my skirt. His lips are at my ear again, voice a low, controlled burn. “Then we’ll take our time. Make sure every course is savored.”

Blake’s already kneeling, the chocolate milk abandoned on the counter. His hands shake as they skim up my calves, under my skirt. “Let me,” he says, breathless. “Please.”

I lift one foot, then the other, and he slides the skirt down inch by inch. It puddles at my ankles. His mouth presses to my inner thigh like a benediction. One kiss. Two. A whisper I don’t catch but feel all the way up my spine.

Edgar tuts, stepping behind me. “You’re all taking too long,” he purrs, fingers sliding my blouse off my shoulders in one fluid motion. “She’s melting, boys. We’ll need a spoon.”

Carson steps back just enough to let Edgar undress me from behind, but not enough to stop touching me.

Edgar’s hand finds my throat, just resting there. A reminder. A promise. “Color?” he asks.

I smile wickedly. “Lemon-drop yellow.”

He groans, like I’ve just shot him in the dick with a Cupid arrow dipped in battery acid and lingerie. His palm stays firm. Confident.

My blouse drops to the floor. Carson’s already undoing the clasp on my bra, knuckles grazing my skin.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Blake whispers, brushing a thumb over the lace of my panties. “You always are, but like this... all of us here? You’re glowing.”

I lean down, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make his eyes roll. “Then make me shine, baby.”

Edgar chuckles darkly. “Careful, Blake. She’ll make you come just from undressing her.”

“Already close,” Blake says. “Swear to god.”

Carson peels the last of my clothes away, his hands skimming over every inch like he’s taking mental inventory. “She’s perfect,” he says to them. “Ours.”

Blake presses a kiss to my hipbone. Edgar hooks a finger in the waistband of my panties and draws them down so slowly it borders on cruelty.

They’re still warm from the heat of me. He pockets them.

“For safekeeping,” he says, entirely unapologetic.

I’m naked now, surrounded, and they haven’t even undressed yet. Blake looks ready to pass out. Carson’s jaw is tight, controlled. Edgar’s smiling like he’s reading the last page of a very dirty novel.

“Who first?” I ask, teasing. “Or do I pick who opens the ceremony?”

Edgar lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You’re the bride tonight, dove. The altar’s yours.”

I look down at Blake, flushed and panting, still on his knees.

“You,” I say, touching his cheek. “Mouth first. And don’t you dare hold back.”

He grins like he’s seen heaven and hell and wants to lick both. Then he scoops me up like I’m something fragile, sacred. He’s trembling, poor thing, all that need barely contained in his pretty, boyish frame.

Carson’s moving ahead of us, pulling back the sheets like he’s prepping a crime scene, meticulous, focused, reverent in his own ruthless way.

Edgar trails behind, fingers grazing Blake’s arm, my shoulder, his voice like silk soaked in sin. “She’s glowing,” he says, like it’s fact, like it’s science. “Dripping honey and gold. You lucky fuck, Blake. You get to taste the sun.”

Blake lays me down like a man offering up a prayer. Knees already sinking into the mattress. He kisses the inside of my thigh like it’s instinct. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he breathes, eyes wide. “Or slow down. Or... or never stop ever again.”

I cup his face. “Eat, baby.”

He moans like the words punched through his soul. Then he dives. No teasing. No fluttery licks. He’s a man possessed, tongue firm, greedy, sliding through slick folds like he’s trying to learn me from the inside out. My thighs tremble, then snap around his head on reflex.

Carson’s there in an instant, pressing down on my hips, pinning me with his body weight and iron grip. “You asked for this,” he growls into my ear. “Told me you wanted to be held down while a good boy made you lose your fucking mind.”

“Oh, he’s doing that,” Edgar hums, perched beside us on the edge of the bed like a perverted art critic. “Look at her, look at those trembling thighs. That’s devotion. That’s worship. That’s poetry written in muscle and saliva.”

Blake moans into me. The vibration wrecks me.

My hands fly to Carson’s arms, fingers digging in. “Fuck, don’t let me go. Don’t you dare let go.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Carson says, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. “You come when you’re ready. You come hard.”

Blake’s tongue finds a rhythm that should be illegal. Firm strokes. Gentle flicks. Then one perfect swirl, left, right, up.

“Atta boy,” Edgar says, stroking his thigh through his slacks like he’s coaching a damn team. “Make her see stars. Make her forget her own name.”

I buck. I writhe. Carson holds me still while Blake devours.

When I come, it’s with Blake moaning into me like he’s the one undone. Like my orgasm’s an exorcism ripping through both of us. My back arches. My hands claw. My scream gets swallowed by Carson’s palm over my mouth, and I bite down.

The world goes white for a moment.

When I blink, Blake is panting against my thigh, face flushed, mouth glistening, eyes dazed like he’s been baptized. He looks up at me, wrecked and proud. “Was that okay?”

Edgar cackles. “Okay? Ten stars.”

Carson growls, low and dark. He’s already stripping.

Edgar’s loosening his tie, eyes bright with hunger.

And I’m spreading my thighs again.

I haven’t even caught my breath before Edgar’s tugging my hips up like he’s repositioning me for a sacrifice.

“My little dove,” he croons, voice too smooth for the filth he’s plotting, “I think you should ride Carson now. Slowly. Like you own him. Because you do.”