Chapter 43
VI
Sting’s hands return to my waist, lifting me off the crate table and setting me on my feet.
My legs are unsteady, but he doesn’t let go.
His fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, dragging it up slowly, deliberately.
I lift my arms without thinking, and he pulls it over my head, tossing it somewhere behind him.
Cool air hits my skin. My nipples draw in tight.
Rogue moves in behind me, his chest pressing against my back. His hands skim up my sides, rough palms scraping over my ribs, brushing the undersides of my breasts as he peels off my cami. “Look at her,” he murmurs, voice low and amused. “Already shaking.”
I am. I can’t hide it.
Armen steps closer, silent, intense. His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans. He doesn’t ask. Just unbuttons them, drags the zipper down, and pushes them over my hips. They pool at my ankles. I step out of them, pulse racing, standing there in just my panties.
Three men. Three masks. Three pairs of eyes locked on me like I’m something they’re about to devour.
Yes.
Sting’s hand tilts my face up. He leans in, lips brushing mine, not quite a kiss. Just breath. Heat.
“You wanted attention,” he says. “Now, you’ve got it.”
Armen’s hands slide to my hips, hooking into my underwear. He drags them down slowly, kneeling as he does, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just above my hip. He bites. Not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make me arch and moan into Sting’s lips.
When my underwear hits the floor, I’m completely bare.
And they’re still fully dressed.
The imbalance makes my knees weak.
Sting breaks the kiss, stepping back just enough to look at me. “On the couch,” he says. “Now.”
I move without thinking, legs shaky, and sink onto the worn cushions. The fabric is rough under my skin.
Armen moves in front of me, hands on my knees. “Spread,” he orders.
I hesitate.
His eyes darken. “Spread. Or we leave you like this.”
I let my knees fall open.
“Wider.”
I spread my legs wider, heat flooding my face. I’m exposed. Vulnerable. Wet. I cover my pussy with my hands.
Rogue flicks them aside and whistles low. “Look at that. Soaked already.”
“Desperate little Runt,” Sting adds, voice rough. “You’ve been wet since the food court, haven’t you?”
I swallow hard, pulse pounding in my ears.
Armen’s hands slide up my thighs, brushing dangerously close to where I’m aching. “Answer him.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yes what?” Sting presses.
“Yes, I’ve been wet.”
Rogue chuckles. “Good girl.”
Armen finally—finally—brushes over my clit, and I jerk, hips bucking. He pulls back immediately.
“Stay still,” he says.
“I can’t—”
“You will.” His voice is cold, controlled. “Or we stop.”
I force myself to still, thighs trembling.
Sting drops to his knees in front of me, settling between my legs. His hands grip my thighs, holding them open. Then his mouth is on me, tongue flat, licking slow from my entrance to my clit. The sensation is electric, and I cry out, hands flying to his hair.
He pulls back immediately. “Hands,” he warns.
“Where—”
“Anywhere but us.”
I grip the edge of the couch instead, knuckles white.
Sting goes back to work, tongue circling my clit now, slower, teasing. My hips try to roll forward, chasing the friction, but his hands tighten on my thighs, holding me in place.
“Please,” I gasp.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps licking, sucking, edging me closer and closer until my thighs are shaking and I’m panting and—
He stops. Pulls back. Leaves me gasping, aching, empty.
Bastard.
“Not yet,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to come until we say.”
“Sting—”
“Beg for it.”
“Please—”
“Not good enough.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Please, I need—”
“We know what you need,” Armen cuts in. He moves in front of me now, taking Sting’s place. His hands are cooler, more controlled. Two fingers slide inside me without warning, curling, finding that spot that makes me see stars.
I moan, head falling back. Relief.
Not quite.
His other hand comes to my clit, circling slow, methodical. He’s not teasing. He’s calculating. Watching my face, reading my body, figuring out exactly how close he can push me before—
He stops. Pulls his fingers out. Leaves me clenching around nothing.
“No,” I sob. “Please—”
“You want to come so bad, don’t you?” Armen asks, voice low and dangerous.
“Yes—”
“Then beg.”
“I am—”
“Louder.”
“Please!” My voice cracks. “Please let me come—”
Rogue laughs softly from somewhere behind me. “Good girl.”
Armen steps back, and Rogue takes his place. His hands are rougher, less careful. He spreads me wider, crudely pulling my folds apart, exposing my clit completely. Then his mouth is on me, tongue flicking fast, relentless.
I try to reach down, hands flying toward my clit, desperate for more pressure, more friction, anything—
Strong hands grab my wrists, slamming them down onto the couch cushions on either side of my hips.
Sting’s voice is a growl in my ear. “Touch yourself again and we stop.”
“I can’t—I need—”
“You don’t get what you need,” Armen says, still holding one of my wrists down. “You get what we give.”
Rogue keeps licking, sucking, his tongue driving me higher and higher until I’m sobbing, thighs shaking, so close I can taste it—
He pulls back.
“No!” The word tears out of me, raw and desperate.
All three of them are watching me now. Masks on. Eyes dark. Hungry.
I’m panting, sweating, thighs slick. My hands are pinned. My legs are spread. I’m completely at their mercy.
I try to close my thighs, just a little, just enough to get some pressure, some relief—
A boot kicks them apart.
“Keep them open,” Sting orders.
I try again, desperate, aching—
Another kick. Harder this time.
“Spread,” Armen says coldly. “Or we tie them.”
I force my legs open, tears streaming down my face now.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please let me—let me do something—”
“Like what?” Rogue asks, amused.
“Let me—” I swallow hard. “Let me suck you off. Please. I’ll do anything—”
Silence.
Then Sting laughs. Low and dark. “Anything?”
“Yes—”
“You’re already doing everything,” he says.
“Please—”
Armen releases my wrist slowly. “On your knees.”
I scramble off the couch, dropping to the floor. My legs are shaking so hard I almost fall, but I catch myself, kneeling between them.
All three of them are hard. I can see the thick outlines of their erections straining against their jeans.
God help me.
Sting moves first. He opens his pants, pulling his cock free. It’s thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. He fists it once, slow, watching my face.
“Open,” he says.
I do. My mouth waters.
He slides in, thick and salty, filling my mouth until it aches. I hollow my cheeks, sucking greedily, tongue swirling around the head. He groans, hand tangling in my hair, guiding me deeper.
I take him as far as I can, gagging when he hits the back of my throat.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Suck it like you mean it.”
I do. I suck harder, faster, desperate to please, hoping, praying, that if I’m good enough, they’ll let me come. But before I can get him close, he pulls out, leaving me gasping.
Then another cock is in front of my face. I don’t even look up to see who it is. I just open my mouth and take it. This one is longer, hits deeper. I gag again, eyes watering, but I don’t stop. I suck and lick and worship it like it’s the only thing that matters.
Hands grip my hair, rough, controlling. My head is tilted back, and I’m fucked into. Not gently. My throat is used, my mouth filled completely.
Then it’s gone. Replaced by another.
I’ve lost track. I don’t know whose cock is in my mouth anymore. I don’t care. I just suck, desperate, aching, needing them to give me something—
But they don’t.
Every time I get one of them close, they pull out. Leave me kneeling there, mouth open, drool on my chin, thighs clenched together trying to get some friction, any friction—
A hand grabs my shoulder, yanking me upright.
“Look at her,” Rogue says, amused. “Can’t even help herself.”
I’m trying to rub my thighs together, desperate for pressure. My hands fly down between my legs—
Strong hands grab my wrists, yanking them behind my back. Sting holds them there, one-handed, his grip like iron.
“No,” he says firmly.
“Please—”
“Spread your legs,” Armen orders.
I shake my head, tears streaming. “I can’t—”
A boot nudges my ankle. Then kicks it. Hard.
My legs spread involuntarily.
“Wider.”
Another kick.
I spread them wider, sobbing now, my clit throbbing, every nerve ending on fire.
“You don’t get to come,” Armen says, voice cold and final. “Not tonight.”
“Please—”
“No.”
Sting releases my wrists. I collapse forward, catching myself on my hands and knees, gasping for air.
All three of them stand over me. Still hard. Still in control.
And I’m wrecked.
“You come when we say you can come,” Armen says.
“And right now,” Sting adds, “we say no.”
Rogue crouches beside me, tilting my chin up so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “Sweet dreams, Vi.”
Then they’re gone. The door closes behind them. The lock clicks.
I stay on the floor for a long time, legs shaking, thighs slick, every part of me aching for relief I didn’t get. I try to touch myself, fingers sliding between my legs, but I’m too exhausted. Too wrecked. My hand falls away before I can finish.
I crawl onto the couch, curling into myself, and close my eyes.
I don’t remember falling asleep. One second, I’m there, aching, desperate. The next, I’m gone. No dreams. No thoughts.
Just the ache they left behind.