Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Sophie
“You need to get ready, wife.”
Lucian’s firm, velvet-rough voice drags me from the depths of a restless sleep. My body feels heavy, deliciously sore in places I’ve never been sore before.
Every muscle protests as I pull my pillow over my head.
A low, amused chuckle rumbles from the side of the bed—Caleb. Then Lucian’s tone shifts, coaxing now, warm like melted chocolate. “We’ve got a surprise for you, Sophie. You’ll want to be awake for this one.”
The rich, dark scent of strong coffee reaches me, cutting through the fog.
Reality returns with a sharp whomp. Yesterday. The wedding. The vows. The way they took me—together, overwhelming, filling me until I didn’t know where I ended and they began.
I am Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce now. Their wife. Forever. My insides clench at the memory, a fresh ache blooming between my thighs that makes me press them together under the sheet.
When I don’t move, the covers are pulled down in one smooth tug. Cool air hits my bare skin, and before I can protest, two hot mouths close over my nipples at the same time.
Lucian takes the left one—slow, deep suction, tongue flicking lazily over the sensitive peak. Caleb claims the right—firmer, faster, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks shooting straight to my clit. I arch with a gasp, hands flying to their heads, fingers threading through their hair.
“Wait—I’m sore—oh God—”
They don’t stop.
Lucian’s mouth is relentless as he sucks harder. Caleb alternates gentle licks with sharp little bites that make my toes curl.
They slide their hands down my body in perfect sync, parting my thighs. One thick finger—Lucian’s—circles my clit with teasing pressure. Caleb’s eases lower, teasing my entrance, coating himself in the slick evidence of how much my body still wants them even after last night.
“Such a greedy little wife,” Lucian murmurs against my breast, voice dark with satisfaction. “Already wet for us again.”
I try to protest, hips twitching. “I can’t—not again—please—”
But Caleb pushes one finger inside me, slow and deep, curling just right while Lucian’s thumb presses firmer on my clit.
Together they work me, their mouths never leaving my nipples, fingers stroking and teasing until the pleasure coils tight and sharp in my belly.
Caleb adds a second finger, stretching me, while Lucian pinches my clit lightly. I come with a broken cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling as waves of it crash through me.
They ease me down gently, kissing the undersides of my breasts, my stomach, murmuring praise against my skin.
“Our good girl.” Lucian’s voice is warm and approving.
Caleb kisses my temple.
Slowly, reluctantly, still breathless, clutching the sheet to my chest, I sit up and accept the mug.
It’s strong, exactly how I like it. I take a grateful sip, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “You said you had a surprise?”
Lucian stands, already dressed in a crisp button-down and dark trousers, looking unfairly put together. “We’re heading to Vegas in under an hour. We’ll have a private plane, and you’ll want to pack light.”
My eyes widen. “Vegas? But I have clients—”
“It’s handled.” He moves to the closet and pulls out one of my sundresses and a pair of sandals. “You won’t need a bra or panties.”
His request is like a spark on dry tinder, making heat flood my face.
“You’re a married woman now.” Caleb’s smile is slow and wicked. “And after last night, the fabric on your sensitive little nipples is going to feel incredible every time you move. And we want access to our pussy during the flight.”
Response floods through me.
How is that even possible?
I’m still protesting as they tell me to dress.
“I need a shower.”
Lucian folds his arms. “Absolutely not. You’re not washing away last night or what we just did to you. We want you marked as ours.”
Mortification threatens to drown me.
These men are even worse than I could have imagined.
Rather than waiting anymore, Lucian helps me into the sundress.
Damn Caleb. He’s right. My nipples are sensitive from last night and just now, and the fabric rasping against them makes me hot.
The private jet is nothing like anything I’ve ever experienced.
The moment we step on board, the crew greets Lucian and Caleb with quiet deference and the kind of familiarity that speaks of long service.
The pilot’s gaze lands on me with polite warmth. “Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce. Welcome aboard.”
Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce.
I manage a small nod, cheeks warm, as Lucian’s hand stays firm at the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the cabin.
The interior is pure luxury—cream leather seats that look more like recliners than airplane chairs, dark wood accents, and soft ambient lighting that makes the space feel like a high-end lounge rather than a plane.
A small bar gleams near the front, and farther back I catch a glimpse of a private bedroom cabin.
Everything smells faintly of leather and expensive cologne.
Lucian leads me to a wide, plush seat in the middle section and buckles me in himself, his fingers brushing my thighs as he secures the belt.
Caleb takes the seat on my other side, his big hand resting possessively on my knee.
“This is ours,” Lucian tells me quietly as the engines begin to hum. “Mine and Caleb’s.”
“It’s an absurd expense.”
No matter how long I’m in their world, I won’t get used to this kind of luxury.
“Is it?” Lucian asks. “Our time is worth something. And the convenience is even more important.”
A mimosa arrives almost immediately, crisp and cold, bubbles dancing against the glass. I take a grateful sip, letting the alcohol loosen some of the tension in my shoulders.
The flight passes in a haze of quiet luxury.
Lucian works on his laptop for a while, one hand never leaving my thigh.
Caleb reads something on his tablet, occasionally reaching over to feed me bites of fresh fruit from a tray the attentive crew brings.
They’re both so casually possessive, touching me constantly—stroking my arm, brushing my hair back, resting a hand on my knee.
It should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels…
steadying. Like anchors in the middle of everything that’s changing too fast.
By the time the pilot announces our descent, we’ve eaten a light breakfast, Caleb has made a number of calls, and Lucian has answered numerous emails and participated in an online meeting with China.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s something to be said about the convenience. To them, this is like a restaurant and office in the sky.
The moment we step off the plane, the heat hits me in a dry, dizzying wave.
Houston is humid and heavy, but Vegas is dry, scorching, the desert sun blazing down even through the overcast filter of my sunglasses.
My sundress clings to my damp skin, the lack of underwear making every step a vivid reminder of the orders they gave me before we left Houston. My nipples are still sensitive from this morning, and the fabric brushes them with every step.
A sleek black SUV waits on the tarmac. The driver greets Lucian and Caleb with the same respectful deference as the flight crew. “Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Pierce. Ma’am.” He tips his head toward me. “Welcome to Las Vegas.”
The drive to the Bella Rosa Resort is a blur of glittering buildings and flashing lights, even in daylight.
When we pull up to the tower, the luxury is immediate—valets in crisp uniforms, marble floors, air-conditioning so perfect it feels like stepping into another world.
The lobby is breathtaking—high ceilings, massive chandeliers, the faint sound of slot machines in the distance like a siren song, tempting, but ultimately devastating.
We don’t make it ten steps before a massive man in a dark suit appears in front of us. His arrival was silent and efficient, and I have no idea where he came from.
He gives Lucian and Caleb a respectful nod. “Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Pierce.” Then he looks at me. “Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce. Welcome to the Bella Rosa. I’m Mario. Mr. Carrington asked me to bring you up.”
Mr. Carrington? As in Lorenzo Carrington? The owner of the place and reputed mobster, related to the Moretti family?
But as we’re preparing to board an elevator, Lorenzo himself exits.
He’s wearing a perfectly tailored dark suit, but there’s nothing flashy about him. People move around him without seeming to realize they’re doing it, giving him space as naturally as water divides around stone.
Lucian extends his hand. “Lorenzo.”
“Lucian. Caleb.” He shakes hands with both men before his attention settles on me. “And you must be Sophie.”
There’s something unnerving about being assessed by a man who apparently sees everything that happens beneath his roof, but his smile is warm when he offers me his hand.
“Congratulations on your marriage. We’re honored you’re celebrating your honeymoon with us.”
I slip my hand into his. “Thank you.”
“If there’s anything you need while you’re here, don’t hesitate to let us know.”
Lorenzo looks at my husbands. “Your penthouse is ready.”
Apparently that concludes our audience with the King of Las Vegas.
We’re whisked straight up to the penthouse suite without stopping at reception. The doors open into pure opulence—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip, a sprawling living area, and a bedroom that makes the one in Houston look modest.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce. Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Pierce. Welcome to the Bella Rosa.”
I stop.
The voice is male. British. Impossibly polished.
I look at Lucian. Then Caleb. “Who said that?”
“I did, ma’am. Basil,” the voice supplies. “Your virtual suite assistant.”
I look toward the ceiling. “The room has a British butler?”
“An understandable oversimplification, ma’am. Mr. Bonds prefers the term advanced hospitality assistant. I prefer Basil.”
Lucian closes his eyes briefly. “Basil is a Julien Bonds creation.”
Frowning, perplexed, I look at Lucian. “Is this thing for real?”
“Ex-cuse me. I am not a thing, Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce.” He sounds utterly offended.
Oh my God. Did I just offend a machine? “I…uhm…apologize.” This can’t be happening.
Basil harrumphs.
What is even happening here?
“Your luggage has been placed in the dressing room. And the spa is ready for Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce’s arrival.”
“Spa?”
“You’ll find a robe on the end of the bed, ma’am.”
How can Basil know that?
“Go put it on, Sophie,” Lucian tells me. “As you heard, you have an appointment to keep.”