Chapter 3: Tension Breaker
The door didn't just open. It exploded inward.
Stacy Steinberg came through first, her nine-millimeter already raised and her finger resting just above the trigger guard—professional enough not to have it on the trigger until she had a target, paranoid enough to have it out at all. Ben Bryant was behind her, his shoulder still aching from where he'd slammed it against the reinforced frame, and behind him came Jess Hernandez with her Wand-issue stun baton crackling with barely contained energy, and Bruce MacDougal bringing up the rear with his steampunk wrench held like a club.
They'd expected a firefight. They'd expected Consortium agents in tactical gear, maybe some kind of magical suppression field, maybe Inez Murphy herself standing over Rachel's unconscious body with that cold smile she'd worn in every surveillance photo Stacy had ever seen.
What they got was an orgy.
Mandy Williamson was riding her brother on the living room rug.
Stacy's brain took a full three seconds to process this. The seafoam-green velvet couch had been pushed against the wall, its cushions scattered across the floor like casualties of a particularly enthusiastic battle. The floating holographic lanterns had dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting prismatic shadows across the room. The neural projector on the wall still flickered with astral coordinates, forgotten.
And on the rug—the expensive Persian rug that Judy had imported from somewhere in the Middle East, the one she'd specifically told Mandy not to spill wine on—Mandy was fucking Rick.
Not in a subtle way. Not in a way that could be mistaken for anything else. She was straddling him, her pale thighs spread wide, her hands braced on his chest, her long shaggy brown hair hanging down around her face as she rode him with the kind of focused intensity that Stacy recognized from watching Mandy work on a particularly difficult piece of code.
Rick's hands were on her hips, guiding her, his head thrown back against the floor, his mouth open in a moan that Stacy could hear from across the room.
On the couch, Mai Harata had her face buried between Felicity Winkle's thighs.
Felicity was sprawled across the cushions like a Renaissance painting come to life, her blonde hair spread out around her head, her blue eyes half-closed, her mouth open in a series of soft, breathy moans that matched the rhythm of Mai's tongue. One of her hands was fisted in Mai's dark hair, holding her in place, while the other clutched at the edge of the couch like she was afraid she might float away without the anchor.
Mai's bare ass was visible over the arm of the couch, her olive skin gleaming with sweat in the dim light, her hips rolling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that had nothing to do with what her mouth was doing and everything to do with the pleasure she was taking in doing it.
And on the floor—because apparently there wasn't enough room on the couch or the rug—Beth Williamson and Rachel Murphy were tangled in a sixty-nine.
Beth was on the bottom, her blonde hair fanned out across the hardwood, her hands gripping Rachel's hips as she worked her tongue against the redhead's cunt with the kind of single-minded determination that Stacy had only ever seen her apply to photography.
Rachel was on top, her knees bracketing Beth's head, her hands braced on the floor, her lips wrapped around Beth's clit as she ground down against Beth's face with a rhythm that was almost violent in its intensity.
The air smelled of salt and sweat and sex. Stacy could taste all three on the back of her tongue. The lingering afterimage of Rachel's magic—that strange, shimmering quality that had always clung to her like ozone after a lightning strike—was still visible in the air, a faint shimmer that seemed to pulse in time with the movement of the bodies on the floor.
"Holy shit," Ben said.
Jess made a sound that might have been a word and might have been a strangled scream. Her stun baton sparked once, uselessly, before she managed to turn it off.
Bruce didn't say anything. He just stood in the doorway with his wrench raised, watching Felicity come undone on the couch with an expression that was half shock and half something else entirely.
Stacy lowered her gun.
She wasn't surprised. That was the thing. She should have been surprised—any reasonable person would have been surprised—but she'd known Mandy Williamson for twenty-three years. She'd watched her grow up. She'd babysat her when she was a toddler, taken her shopping when she was a teenager, helped her move into this very house when she'd first arrived in Miami.
And she'd known, in the way that everyone in their circle eventually knew, that Mandy liked sex.
Stacy had known Mandy was in a triad with Ben and Jess. She'd known that Mandy also fucked her housemates, Mai and Felicity, on a regular basis. She'd known about the arrangement through a combination of Mandy's complete lack of filter and Amy's occasional too-detailed updates about her son's love life.
So finding Mandy riding Rick on the living room rug wasn't as shocking as it should have been.
It was probably only a matter of time before Mandy fucked her biological brother.
Stacy had known that too, in the abstract way that you know that a car crash might happen if you drive drunk. She'd seen the way Beth looked at Calista, the way Rick existed in the world with a kind of beautiful human thickness that made you want to touch him. The Williamsons were a family that blurred lines as a matter of course. She'd been living in the middle of their particular chaos for over twenty years.
That didn't mean she was prepared for it.
"Consortium lust bomb," Jess stammered. Her face had gone pale, then red, then pale again. "That's—that's the only explanation. They must have deployed some kind of—"
Mandy laughed.
It was the same laugh Stacy had heard a thousand times before—low, throaty, completely unashamed. She didn't stop riding Rick. She didn't even slow down. She just threw her head back and laughed, her hair swinging around her shoulders, her hips still rolling in that steady rhythm.
"There's no lust bomb, Jess," she said. "We just like each other."
She dismounted.
The movement was fluid, practiced, the kind of motion that came from years of knowing exactly how your body worked and exactly how to use it. She rose off Rick like a wave pulling back from the shore, leaving him sprawled on the rug with his cock still hard and glistening on his stomach.
He didn't try to stop her. He just watched her go, his blue eyes following the sway of her hips with an expression that was equal parts adoration and exhaustion.
Mandy crossed the room, naked and unafraid, her pale skin gleaming in the dim light. Her body was the kind that made men and women alike turn their heads—not elegant, not fragile, but strong and solid and real. She had her father's awkwardness in the way she moved, but she had her mother's confidence in the way she didn't care about it.
She stopped in front of Stacy.
"Mandy," Stacy said. "What the—"
"Shhh." Mandy reached out and wrapped her arms around Stacy's neck, pulling her close like they were lovers instead of friends. Her body was warm, slightly sweaty, smelled of sex and something floral that might have been her shampoo. "Listen."
Stacy could feel Mandy's breath against her ear. Could feel the younger woman's heartbeat against her chest. Could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"I've been thinking about this for a while," Mandy whispered. "You and Rick. The way he talks about you. The way you look at him."
"Mand—"
"My parents swap partners all the time." She pulled back just enough to meet Stacy's eyes. Her brown irises were almost black in the dim light, pupils blown wide with arousal. "They've been doing it for twenty years. And they're happy. They're really happy, Stacy. I've never seen two people more in love."
Stacy's throat was dry. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
"I want to try it," Mandy said. "I want to see what it's like. I want—" She glanced over her shoulder at Rick, who had finally managed to sit up and was watching them with a kind of helpless hunger. "I want to know if I'm as good a fuck as he is."
Stacy wondered if Mandy was as good a fuck as Rick.
The thought came unbidden, unwanted, but once it was there she couldn't make it go away. She'd been with Rick. Not recently—not since she'd come back to the present, not since they'd decided to be together for real—but before. In the future. When she was eighteen and he was nineteen and they were both too young and too stupid to understand what they were doing.
He'd been good. He'd been really good.
She looked at Mandy—at the way the younger woman's eyes had darkened, at the way her lips had parted, at the way her entire body seemed to vibrate with barely contained desire—and she wondered if the sister was just as good as the brother.
"Jess," Mandy called over her shoulder.
Jess was still standing in the doorway, still holding her stun baton like a talisman. Her dark hair had come loose from its usual pragmatic bun, and her face was a study in conflicting emotions.
"Jess," Mandy said again. "Come here."
Rick rose from the floor. He moved like a predator—slow, deliberate, his eyes fixed on Jess with an intensity that made Stacy's breath catch. He crossed the room in a few long strides, and when he reached Jess he didn't stop, didn't ask, didn't give her a chance to decide.
He pulled her into a rough kiss.
Jess made a sound—half surprise, half moan—and then her stun baton clattered to the floor and her hands were in his hair and she was kissing him back.
Rick's hands slid down her back, cupping her ass through the charcoal-gray fabric of her Wand suit. He ground against her, his hips rolling against hers in a way that made her gasp against his mouth.
"Oh," Jess said. "Oh, that's—"
"Shut up," Rick murmured against her lips. "Just—shut up."
Beth freed Ben's cock from his shorts.
Stacy didn't see how it happened—one moment Ben was standing next to her, his face a mask of shock and arousal, and the next Beth had emerged from the tangle on the floor and crossed to him and was on her knees in front of him with his cock in her mouth.
She swallowed him whole.
Ben made a sound like he'd been punched in the gut. His hand shot out, bracing himself against the wall, and his head fell back against the doorframe with a thunk that made Stacy wince.
Beth's head bobbed. Her tongue moved. Her cheeks hollowed.
Stacy could see the muscles in her jaw working as she took him deeper, could see the way her throat constricted as he hit the back of it, could see the way her eyes never left his face.
When Beth pulled away, gasping for air, Rick's hand took her place.
He was still kissing Jess—his mouth still on hers, his tongue still exploring—but one of his hands had dropped from her ass and moved to his sister's head. He guided Beth back to Ben's cock, pressing her down, and Jess made a sound against his mouth that was half protest and half encouragement.
Beth went willingly.
Rachel was still on the floor where they'd left her, propped up on her elbows, her red hair a tangled mess around her freckled face. She was watching the scene unfold with the kind of quiet satisfaction that Stacy had always associated with her—the same gentle, curious expression she'd worn as a child when she was figuring out how the world worked.
She caught Stacy's eye and smiled.
That smile was a punch to the chest.
Stacy had known Rachel since her kindergarten days. Rachel had been in Rebecca's class—both Rachel and her twin brother Eddie, twins who'd grown up in a family that saw magic as a threat and children as soldiers in a holy war against the arcane. Rachel had been the sweet one, the one who saw wonder where her parents saw danger.
And then she'd disappeared.
A year with the Consortium. A year in the vault with the Shine. A year being something that Stacy didn't understand and couldn't protect her from.
Now she was here, naked on the floor of Judy's beach house, watching her friends fuck each other with that same gentle smile, and Stacy didn't know what to feel.
"Rachel," she said.
Rachel just smiled wider and turned back to Beth, who had returned to her position on the floor and was once again working her mouth around Ben's cock with an enthusiasm that spoke of either genuine desire or a very good performance.
Bruce was still in the doorway.
He hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken. He just stood there with his steampunk wrench in his hand, watching Felicity—his Felicity, the girl he'd been casually dating, the girl he'd probably been planning to make something more than casual—beckon him over.
She crooked two fingers at him.
Come here.
Bruce went.
He dropped the wrench on the floor. It clattered against the hardwood, and nobody even noticed. He crossed the room on legs that seemed to be operating independently of his brain, and when he reached the couch, Felicity pulled him down on top of her.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he said.
And then he was kissing her.
Stacy watched him—watched the way his hands moved over Felicity's body, the way her legs wrapped around his waist, the way their mouths worked together with the kind of desperate eagerness that spoke of long-held feelings finally coming to the surface—and she understood that this had been building for a long time.
The night dissolved.
Stacy wasn't sure when she stopped watching and started participating. One moment she was standing in the doorway, a silent witness to the chaos unfolding around her, and the next she was on the rug with Mandy's mouth on her neck and Mandy's hands working at the buttons of her blouse.
"Wait," Stacy managed.
"No," Mandy whispered against her skin. "No waiting. Not tonight."
"There are—the Consortium—"
"Can wait."
"Rachel—"
"She's fine. She's with Beth."
"Ben and Jess—"
"Are fine. They're enjoying themselves." Mandy pulled back and met Stacy's eyes. "Look at me."
Stacy looked.
Mandy's face was flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a sweaty mess. She looked like she'd just been thoroughly fucked and was ready for more.
"I want you," she said. "Not because there's a lust bomb, not because I'm confused or scared or whatever you think is happening here. I want you because I've wanted you for years. Because you're beautiful and smart and you look at my brother like he's the center of the universe."
Stacy's throat tightened. "I—"
"I'm not asking you to choose between us. I'm not asking you to leave him. I'm just asking you to let me touch you. To let me make you feel good."
She leaned in and kissed Stacy.
It was a good kiss. A really good kiss. Mandy tasted like Rachel—like the faint shimmer of ozone that still clung to her skin—and something else, something sweet and heady that might have been Felicity's arousal still lingering on her tongue.
Stacy kissed her back.
She didn't mean to. She didn't plan it. Her body just moved of its own accord, reaching for what it wanted, and what it wanted was Mandy's mouth on hers.
Around them, the orgy continued.
Rick had moved on from Jess. He was kneeling behind Beth now, his hands on her hips, driving into her with the kind of focused intensity that he only ever showed in the bedroom. Beth had her face buried between Rachel's thighs, her tongue working against the redhead's cunt in time with Rick's thrusts, and Rachel was making sounds that Stacy had never heard her make before.
Jess was on the floor beside Ben, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, her lips pressed to the shaft, her dark eyes watching his face as Beth had done moments before. Ben had his head thrown back, his mouth open, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
And Bruce and Felicity were fucking on the couch.
Felicity had ridden him like she was trying to prove something—to herself, to him, to everyone who'd ever looked at her and seen only the shy, scholarly girl that Stacy still sometimes saw. Her blonde hair was a wild mess around her shoulders, her blue eyes were bright with something that might have been tears or might have been joy, and she was moaning Bruce's name in a voice that was hoarse and desperate and completely unlike the careful, controlled girl Stacy had known all her life.
Bruce had his hands on her hips, guiding her as she moved. His face was flushed beneath his broland from this position Stacy could see it clearly. His jaw was tight, his breath ragged, and he was looking at Felicity like she was the only person in the world.
Stacy closed her eyes and let Mandy have her.
The night dissolved into sweat and moans and the kind of raw, no-strings fucking that left everyone breathless. Time became meaningless—minutes or hours, Stacy couldn't tell the difference. Bodies intertwined and separated and found each other again in an endless, rotating dance of hands and mouths and cunts and cocks.
She watched Beth come undone beneath Rachel's fingers.
She watched Ben empty himself into Jess's mouth.
She watched Mai emerge from between Felicity's legs with her face slick and her eyes bright and her grin so wide it seemed to split her face in two.
She watched Mandy crawl across the floor to where Rick was lying, spent and exhausted, and wrap her arms around him and kiss him like she was trying to memorize the taste of his mouth.
She watched Rachel slip away.
It happened so quickly that Stacy almost missed it. One moment Rachel was there, tangled in the sheets with Beth, her red hair spread out like blood against the white pillowcase. And the next she was gone—just gone, vanished in the way that only magical beings could vanish, leaving behind only the faint shimmer of ozone and the smell of something cold and distant, like the memory of winter.
Stacy sat up.
"Mandy," she said.
Mandy didn't answer. She was still kissing Rick, her hands wrapped in his hair, her hips grinding against his thigh.
"Mandy." Stacy grabbed her shoulder. "Rachel."
Mandy pulled away. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen and red. She looked at Stacy with the kind of dreamy confusion that came from being fucked senseless and didn't understand what she was saying.
"What about her?"
"She's gone."
Mandy blinked. She turned her head, scanning the room, and Stacy watched as the realization slowly dawned on her face.
"Where's Rachel?" she asked.
Nobody answered.
Stacy was already on her feet, reaching for her discarded clothes, her mind already spinning through the implications. Rachel missing. Rachel gone. Rachel taken—or Rachel leaving. Rachel doing whatever it was that Rachel did now.
"She was here," Jess said. Her voice was hoarse. "I saw her. She was—"
"I know what she was doing," Stacy said. "Where did she go?"
Nobody knew.
The door opened.
Stacy spun, her hand reaching for her gun—but it was already gone, lost somewhere in the tangle of clothing and limbs. She stood naked and unarmed in the middle of the living room, and she watched as Mike Williamson walked through the door.
He was followed by Casey, then Yukio, then Amy and Jason, then Rebecca and Charley. They filed into the room like a procession, all of them fully dressed, all of them looking like they'd just stepped out of a particularly long and uncomfortable flight.
They stopped.
They stared.
The room was a tableau of naked bodies and scattered clothing, the smell of sex thick in the air, the evidence of the past few hours scattered across every surface. Mike's eyes swept over the scene—over his daughter, still tangled with her brother; over Mai and Felicity, still curled together on the couch; over Beth, still slumped against the wall with Ben's cooling waning satiation in her hand—and his expression was completely, utterly unreadable.
Casey was the first to speak.
"Where's Rachel?" she asked.