Need to balance it out.
"So if I'm gonna ride you," I continue, working through the math, "that means I totally get to fuck Kai before my next class."
Four partners.
Even.
Safe.
Better.
Jett's lips curve—almost a smile, which is significant coming from him.
"Fair distribution," he observes.
Blaze laughs again, the sound rumbling through both our chests.
"Always with the counting," he murmurs against my hair. "Even when you're literally hanging from a sex swing."
"It's not a sex swing, it's an aerial ring."
"Potato, potato."
I want to argue the distinction—there is one, a very important one involving artistic intent versus purely recreational equipment—but my body chooses that moment to remind me that I've been suspended in an unnatural position for the better part of twenty minutes.
My muscles are screaming.
Actually screaming.
The pleasant ache of a good workout mixing with the sharper burn of overexertion, complicated by the fact that I'm still recovering from weeks of near-starvation at Ruthless.
"Help me down," I say, the words coming out more plea than command.
"You got it, firecracker."
Blaze shifts—careful, controlled, using the strength he's built from years of circus training to adjust our position without sending us spinning wildly. His hands find my waist, supporting my weight as he slowly extracts himself from inside me.
The sensation is overwhelming.
Too much.
I'm so oversensitized that the drag of his cock withdrawing makes me whimper, and I feel the wet slide of our combined release coating my inner thighs.
Messy.
We're both absolutely wrecked and messy and I don't care.
Can't care.
Too exhausted to care.
He maneuvers us with practiced efficiency—rotating the ring, adjusting his grip, keeping me secure while gravity tries to reclaim us. My hands find the silk wrapping, holding on even though I know Blaze won't drop me, muscle memory from years of aerial training taking over.
Down.
Slowly.
Inch by inch.
