“I wish we could stay like this all day,” he whispers against my lips. “But we can’t. So get up before Wyck comes back and tries to bury me for touching you without him.”
I pout. “Let him catch us. Maybe then he’ll finally fuck me instead of just threatening to.”
He growls again. “Don’t pout unless you want that lip bitten clean off.” He rolls out of bed, dragging me with him like he owns my body, and maybe he does.
“Move, Brat.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I won’t like it.”
He grins. “You’ll learn to.”
They pamper me like I’m royalty.
Not the kind with a tiara and tea parties, no, the kind worshipped in blood and silk, held up on the altar of five Devils who’d destroy the world before letting anyone else have me.
The day starts slow. Lavish.
Karter hands me my coffee like it’s a chalice meant for sin. Iced venti oat milk brown sugar espresso. Cold, sweet, and addictive, like his tongue when he’s got it buried between my thighs.
He smirks as I sip. “Your favorite, Little Fox.”
He’s the only one with a drink as frilly as mine. Wyck glares at the whipped cream like it insulted his lineage. Black coffee for the rest. No sugar. No warmth. Just bitterness and burn, how they like their mornings.
From there, it’s a shopping spree no sane woman would survive. But I’m no ordinary woman. And these men? They dress me like a doll they plan to ruin.
Each of them takes their time picking out what they want to see me in, what they want to rip off.
Wyck’s choice is predictable. Blood-red. Conservative from behind, deviant in front. A long, sleeveless dress that grazes my knees but plunges at the neckline. My breasts are practically begging to fall out. He doesn’t want anyone seeing my skin… unless it's my tits, and then? That’s his personal billboard. His silent way of saying,touch her and die screaming.
Karter, always the exhibitionist, chooses a pleated pink mini skirt and a tight white blouse that clings to my chest like a second skin. He throws in hot pink heels just to fuck with me. “You’ve got legs that could strangle a man,” he growls in my ear. “Let them try.”
Wells? He’s a contradiction. A pale blue romper, soft and innocent… until you notice the cut so deep you can see the swell of my nipples beneath. He kneels in the dressing room, slides his hand beneath the hem and says, “No panties with this one.” His fingers brush my folds and then stop. “Just enough to drive you crazy.” He walks out with a smirk, leaving me wrecked. Classic orgasm denial. Sadistic fuck.
Dash keeps it casual, black shorts, a Sleep Token tee, and worn-in black Chucks. Simple. But when I try it on, he pulls me into the mirror, his fingers splayed across my ass. “Comfort’s dangerous on a girl like you. Makes it easier to let your guard down. Makes it easier for me to devour you.”
Onyx, quiet chaos that he is, mirrors Dash’s energy with his own twist, tiny, frayed denim shorts and a faded Harry Potter tank top. Yellow flip-flops. The outfit screams innocence. The look in his eyes when he hands it to me says otherwise. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s to command. “Bend over in this and I’ll forget we’re in public.”
They’re all leg men, clearly. But mostly, they’re mine.
I fucking hate shopping, but somehow they make it feel like foreplay, each outfit tailored not for the world, but for their hands. Their eyes. Their ownership.
Afterward, they take me to a nail salon.
A damn nail salon.
I expect them to drop me off, maybe lurk outside like predators on a leash. But no, they file in behind me, black-clad and dangerous, like the salon’s just another battlefield.
I sit. They sit. No one dares say a word to us.
The silence is golden. Sacred. And laced with tension.
When I tear up, just a little, they pretend not to see it. But Karter does more than pretend. He slides into the seat beside me and says, “Hot pink. For both of us.” And he means it.
The technician’s hand trembles.
Dash stares at Karter’s toes like they’ve betrayed him. “Seriously?”
Karter shrugs, smug as hell. “If she wants it, she gets it.”
