Page 71 of Five

I suck in a sharp breath when something hard and cold circles first one of my nipples, then the other, causing them to bead painfully.

Ice.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t any of this.

The ice cube is drawn lower, leaving a wet, dripping trail as it paints my abdomen, causing my muscles to jump, and is then tucked under my panties, right against my clit.

I moan with reaction. Thank God the sultry heat and my own body temperature have it melting quickly.

I don’t know if I’m hot or cold right now. I just know that I’m desperately aroused.

Everything stills and there’s a hush of expectancy in the air.

Any moment now, someone is going to touch me. I shift restlessly on the table, silently urging them.

Please touch me.

Instead of a hand, though, it’s the flat of the knife that touches me first, followed by the barest graze of the blade against my flesh. It rests lightly on my nipple before circling it several times, and then it descends to the inward curve of my breast. The tip trails down the center of my torso, drawing a straight line from the spot between my breasts to my belly button, where it stops.

I feel like some pagan sacrifice, bared to the mercy of the gods. Benevolent…wicked…it doesn’t matter. I’m theirs. My breath saws in and out as the knife sits motionless for a moment and another pair of hands begins to slide up my legs, the touch leisurely and exploratory in nature. Oliver’s? Remi’s, maybe? I don’t know. They’re just hands, anonymous and seductive, urging me to slide my legs further apart as they learn every curve and tendon.

The knife leaves my navel and moves to my panties, where it traces a feather-light design first across the silky material covering my mound, then along either hipbone, and then to the rapidly dampening seam of my pussy.

I moan, a low, animal sound that begs for more. My hips jerk, only to still when whoever holds the knife slaps sharply against my pussy. The hands on my thighs squeeze, holding me still.

More hands circle my breasts, plumping them and squeezing before fingers pinch my nipples and begin to play.

The knife toys with the band of my underwear before slipping beneath the hem. I feel a faint tug, and the material slackens.

Hands brush the fabric away, and the sound of a low exhalation comes to my ears.

I wait tensely for what comes next. I need someone to touch me. I’m going to die if someone doesn’t put their hands—

The knife touches my clit, just the barest hint of metal against my pulsing nub, and I flinch. “No—“ The knife withdraws instantly, and I relax back against the table. “No knife,” I say. “Not there.”

Fingers touch me, instead. A blunt male digit presses firm against my core, while another…middle finger, by the feel…circles my folds before sliding in.

“Ahh…” my hips buck helplessly against the hand, and moments later, hands spread my thighs and a second finger joins the first. The fingers on my nipples pinch and squeeze harder, and then a hot, wet mouth latches on to one nipple and suckles.

The hands around my throat tighten slightly before one disappears, seconds before a hand curls around mine and pulls my arms more sharply overhead, forcing me to bow my back and thrust my chest upward into that mouth.

There’s a muffled male exclamation, but I can’t muster the reasoning to figure out who it is. All of these hands on me, in me…they’re like one entity, intent on wringing the most exquisite pleasure possible from my body. I’m panting as I’m driven higher, my breaths gasping as the fingers in my pussy thrust in and out. I think…I can’t be sure…but I think they’re two different hands, fucking me in unison but in completely different ways, one pressing against the back of my channel while the other applies a hard, firm pressure to the top wall.

Then someone’s mouth latches on to my clit and sucks, and a long, low moan curls out of me.

“Would you look at that?” someone says. Cope, I think. “You gonna come all over those fingers, baby?”

I can’t answer. The absence of sight has made me nothing more than a conflagration of nerves and cells, guided by pure instinct as they catch fire and reach for heaven. Half-formed thoughts spin and swirl, a cyclone of eddying reaction made muted by my need to revel in all of this dizzying sensation.

I think I chant.

I think I beg.

When the orgasm finally hits me, I know I scream.

And beneath it all, I exult.

I’m home.