Chapter 8
The Storm Inside
The mansion no longer felt like the setting of a bachelorette party.
The laughter had died, and music no longer drifted through the halls.
Women moved from room to room under emergency precautions, carrying their shoes, wiping tears from their faces, and glancing over their shoulders as if the killer might be standing behind them.
Doors closed. Locks clicked as thunder rolled overhead and rain hammered the windows.
Nobody wanted to sleep alone. Nobody wanted to be the next person found dead.
Fear settled over Blackwater Manor like a heavy blanket, with exhaustion close behind and uncertainty becoming everyone's unwanted roommate.
The hallways emptied until the mansion fell quiet.
Too quiet. Tonight, only two suites mattered.
The first was taken from Brenda. Once a luxurious bridal suite, it had become headquarters.
Inside were Celeste, Darius, Sky, Vicky, Teresa, and Tyreek — a detective, a Marine, three frightened women, and the man everyone believed might be a killer.
The second suite belonged to Brenda now.
It was her little play palace, which she normally provided for her personal fun.
This suite was never available for guests.
Inside waited Brenda, Reggie, Marcus, the DJ, and his assistant, Rock; one woman, four men and many secrets.
A family no one in the mansion knew existed.
Outside, lightning flashed across the sky. Inside, the suite smelled of expensive perfume, liquor, and rain. The curtains had been drawn shut, turning the room into a dim cave of amber lamp light and shadows.
Brenda lay across the center of the massive bed like a queen on her throne, naked from the neck down.
Low-ember lighting made her yellow-ebony tone look golden.
Her breasts rested like exotic hills with nipples that now resembled pearls.
A black leather mask covered her eyes and the bridge of her nose.
Her blonde extensions spilled across the white pillows in soft waves, leaving her completely at ease... completely in control.
The men circled her. They were all undressed from the neck down, all wearing unique masks, all rubbing oil on her breasts, abs, thighs and her ass like worship.
When she turned or rolled over, every man chose places to massage her.
She wasn't hiding. She was relaxing with one long leg crossed over the other as she swirled a glass of wine between her fingers, then spread her legs wide, giving the men her inner thighs to rub and massage.
The men occupied different corners of the bed — one settling by her head and rubbing oil on her shoulders while another leaned casually against the side of the bed massaging her breasts, Rock standing near the foot of the bed rubbing oil on her thighs, and Reggie sitting near a window with an ice pack pressed against his jaw as the room erupted in laughter.
Brenda lifted her glass. "You still look like he hit you with a truck."
More laughter echoed through the suite, louder this time — deep, carefree bursts from Marcus, a sharp, amused chuckle from Reggie, and the DJ's booming cackle that seemed to bounce off the walls.
Even Rock joined in with a low, rumbling laugh, the sound of it blending into a chorus that felt almost too relaxed, too alive for a house wrapped in fear.
Reggie shook his head. "That big bastard got lucky."
"No," Marcus said with a grin. "You got knocked the fuck out man."
Brenda's red lips curved. "Instead of ducking, you stood there and got your ass beat and Marcus, he read you like a book."
Marcus looked over her. "He what?"
"He read you." She took another sip. "He knew you weren't gonna pull that trigger."
The words hung in the air, thick and slow, like smoke curling off a late-night cigarette, and Reggie's frown deepened as his eyes drifted — uninvited but unable to resist — down the length of Brenda's bare body, the soft glow of the room tracing every curve she made no effort to hide, her skin warm and unapologetic against the sheets as she slowly sat up, the movement deliberate, unhurried, her gaze locking onto his with a quiet confidence that said she knew exactly what she was doing and didn't care who noticed.
"That man isn't stupid," she continued. Her voice remained calm. "Strong men are dangerous. Smart men are relentless. He's both," she smiled, "and that's a problem."
Nobody laughed this time.
"Maybe we should've dealt with him first," Rock said.
Brenda considered it, then shook her head. "No." She set the wineglass onto the nightstand. "He isn't the problem tonight." A long silence followed. Then she looked at Reggie. "Teresa is." Her eyes became colder. "She talks too much."
"And Sky?" Marcus asked.
A small smile tugged at Brenda's lips. "Bring that bitch to me alive."
The men exchanged glances that lingered, tracking every movement as Brenda rose from the bed with slow, deliberate grace, her confidence filling the room like heat, her bare skin and thick ass catching the dim light as she stretched to her full height without a hint of hesitation.
She didn't look back at them, didn't need to, because she could feel their attention pressing against her — as if each of them was silently measuring the distance between where they stood and where she was going, waiting for the moment she might turn and choose.
Her hips swaying just enough to remind them she knew exactly what she was doing, she crossed to the window and paused, fingers brushing the cool glass as rain hammered outside, groping her breasts and squeezing her nipples, leaving the men behind her in a charged silence that felt less like uncertainty and more like anticipation.
"That detective..." she said softly.
The room waited.
"Atlanta put that pretty bitch on billboards and made her famous.
" She smiled to herself while staring out the window.
"Now she thinks she's smarter than everybody else.
But she don't know this house. And she definitely don't know me.
" She turned to face the men who now looked at her with desperation.
"End Teresa and bring Sky to me... alive," she repeated.
The storm answered with another crack of thunder that shook the building. Brenda returned to her bed and settled against the soft comforter. The men continued to pleasure her in silence.
Her DJ passed a blunt of weed around to free his hands.
As soon as Brenda's legs opened, he was the first to join her in bed, crawling between her thighs and licking her wet clit like a wild animal with a wide tongue but hungrier.
Rock stood over her near the head of the bed, pulled at her jaw to face him and without thought, he stuck the head of his dick inside her mouth.
She sucked him in effortlessly, using her tongue and throat.
She arched her back at the sensation of her DJ's tongue slipping inside of her wet nest. Marcus leaned in and grabbed a breast and started sucking on her nipple.
It wasn't long before she rolled over, doggy on all fours.
Her DJ entered her from behind as she continued sucking Rock's dick and giving Marcus a hand job.
It wasn't long before her mouth was filled with Rock's cum.
She loved cum more than she loved penetration.
It was an addiction. She swallowed and licked her lips without wasting a drop.
She still had Marcus' dick in her hand. He was on the edge of exploding when she pulled it to her and inside her mouth.
Her throat opened wide as her DJ pounded her from behind.
Marcus skeeted deep into her throat. She didn't gag.
She swallowed. Her DJ busted his load on her ass cheeks and watched it slide down past her crack and onto her thighs.
Reggie watched the entire event play out before him. He missed out. His face hurt, and his pride was soaked in Brenda's disappointment. Murder was on his mind. He didn't want sex, he wanted blood.
Brenda's former suite had become an unlikely shelter and an investigation room for Celeste. Nobody had anything to say.
Tyreek sat at the dining table, his shirt partially unbuttoned, wrists resting on the surface. Angry red marks circled both of them where the handcuffs had dug in, the skin raw and irritated. A faint, raised scar stretched across his chest, still tender from where Brenda had whipped him.
Vicky stood beside him. "Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You gotta do better. Don’t twitch your wrist."
Tyreek sighed. "Yes ma'am."
She set the ice pack aside and gently took one of his wrists, examining the damage. "These are gonna bruise bad."
"Yeah, I figured."
"You should've said something sooner."
"I didn't think we had time for a spa day."
She gave him a look. "I'm serious."
"So am I." Her expression softened.
She dipped the washcloth into the bowl and carefully cleaned around the irritated skin. "You could've lost circulation."
"I didn't."
"That doesn't make it okay."
Tyreek watched her for a moment. "You always this bossy?"
"Only when people are being stupid."
He smirked. "Guess I'm in trouble then."
She shook her head with a hint of amusement. Her gaze shifted to his chest. "That's from her?"
Tyreek followed her eyes. "Yeah."
Vicky hesitated, then gently pressed the cloth against the scar, and he flinched.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's fine."
"It doesn't look fine."
"It'll heal."
She studied it a moment longer. "You're tougher than you look."
“Is that a compliment or a insult?
“Has anybody ever told you that you talk too much?”
He smiled. “I thought you loved to hear me speak.”
“That’s probably what got you in this mess.”
Tyreek let out a quiet breath. "I was scared as hell. Darius is the war hero. Now he won’t even talk to me."
“Give him time. He’s still pissed at you for sticking your dick in places it doesn’t belong.”
“I don’t know Vicky. He said we were going our separate ways after this.”