Chapter 3: The First DVP
The door clicked shut behind her, and the sound was a lock turning on a cage she had walked into willingly. The study was the same—mahogany walls, leather chairs, the fire burning low in the grate—but the air was different tonight. Thicker. Heavier. It smelled of whiskey and something else, something she recognized now as the musky, unmistakable scent of Marc Hudson himself, a scent that had been imprinted on her skin for three days, a scent she couldn't scrub off no matter how hard she tried.
She had tried. God, she had tried.
But here she was, summoned again, her feet carrying her down the hallway before her mind had even finished processing the note. The same cream-colored paper. The same hard, elegant cursive. My study. Now.
She had known what it meant. She had known, and she had come anyway.
Jaz was already there.
He stood near the fireplace, his back to the door, his broad shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his crimson football jersey. He didn't turn when she entered. He didn't acknowledge her at all. That was somehow worse than if he had.
Marc sat behind his desk, that same throne, that same king. He was leaning back in his chair, a glass of bourbon in one hand, his eyes moving between them with a cold, calculating amusement. He looked like a man watching a chess game he had already won.
"Ah," he said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "There she is. Our little prodigal wife."
Lilah-May stood frozen just inside the doorway, her back pressed against the heavy oak door. She felt like a rabbit caught between two wolves, each one more dangerous than the last.
"Sit down, Lilah-May," Marc said, gesturing to a leather chair positioned directly in front of his desk. It was not a request.
She moved, her legs stiff and mechanical, and sat. The chair was positioned so that she faced Marc, but she could feel Jaz behind her, a hot, angry presence at her back. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, boring into her like a drill.
Marc took a slow sip of his bourbon, the ice clinking against the crystal. He set the glass down with a deliberate thud.
"Jaz," he said, his voice calm. "Come here. Stand where she can see you."
Jaz moved, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. He came around the desk and stood beside his father, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set tight. He looked at her then, finally, and the expression in his eyes was not the hungry, possessive fire she had come to know. It was cold. Distant. Envious.
The possession she had seen in the foyer was still there—she could see its echo in the clench of his jaw, the way his eyes kept dropping to her neck as if he was looking for visible marks of his father's claim—but it was twisted now, warped by a betrayal he hadn't anticipated. He had been sharing her in secret, and now the secret was over.
"I have called you both here," Marc began, his voice taking on the measured cadence of a man delivering a verdict, "because things are going to change. There will be no more sneaking around. No more midnight visits to the hayloft. No more lies."
He looked at Jaz. "You thought you could keep her for yourself, didn't you, son? You thought you could fuck her in the dark corners of this house and keep my hands off her."
Jaz's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Marc turned his gaze to Lilah-May. "And you. You thought you could have your cake and eat it too. A husband for stability. A lover for pleasure. A secret to keep you warm at night."
She felt her cheeks burn, but she couldn't find the words to defend herself. Everything he said was true.
"Both of you were wrong," Marc continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "Lilah-May is a Hudson wife now. And Hudson wives are shared."
The words hung in the air like a blade. Lilah-May felt her stomach drop, a cold, sinking sensation that was equal parts terror and something else, something hot and shameful that she refused to name.
Jaz was the first to speak. "What the fuck does that mean?"
Marc didn't flinch at his son's tone. He never flinched. "It means exactly what I said. She belongs to this family now. To both of us. And tonight, we are going to make that official."
He stood, uncoiling from his chair with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator. He was so much taller than both of them, his presence filling the room in a way that made the air feel thin.
"Take off your clothes, Lilah-May."
She looked at him, her eyes wide. He held her gaze, unblinking, his expression carved from stone. He gave her no room to think, no space to breathe, no time to process what was about to happen.
"I said," he repeated, each word a hammer strike, "take off your clothes."
Her hands were trembling as she reached for the hem of her dress. She pulled it over her head, the cotton whispering against her skin as it passed. She unfastened her bra, the hooks surrendering easily under her shaking fingers, and let it fall. Her panties followed, a scrap of lace that she stepped out of, leaving them pooled on the floor.
She stood before them naked, the firelight painting her skin in shades of gold and amber. The scar on her knee, the soft slope of her belly, the heavy weight of her breasts, the small, dark triangle at the apex of her thighs. She was completely exposed to both of them.
She watched as Jaz's eyes dropped, as his stoic expression cracked. His gaze traveled over her body with a hunger that was equal parts desire and resentment.
Marc moved around the desk, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He stopped directly in front of her. He reached out and traced a line from her collarbone down to her nipple, his finger a hot brand on her skin. She shivered.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his eyes fixed on her breasts. "But we've wasted enough time on beauty."
He gestured toward the far wall, where a large, ornate bed was positioned. It was not a piece of furniture she had ever noticed before. It was an enormous, dark-framed thing with a plush mattress and tall, carved posts. It seemed out of place in a study, a silent testament to the room's true purpose.
"On the bed," he commanded. "On your hands and knees."
She walked to the bed, feeling the weight of their eyes on her back. The mattress was soft and cool, a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. She climbed onto it, her knees sinking into the plush surface, and positioned herself on all fours. She felt vulnerable, exposed, her wetness already glistening between her thighs.
She heard the rustle of clothing behind her, the soft whisper of fabric being shed. She didn't look. She couldn't. She stared at the dark wood of the headboard and tried to steady her breathing.
Marc appeared beside the bed, naked. She had seen him before, of course, but it had been dark in the study, the only light the dying fire. Now, in the glow of the overhead lamp, she saw the full, terrifying reality of him. His body was a sculpture of dark, gleaming muscle, powerful and brutal. His cock was already hard, thick and impossibly long, a weapon hanging between his legs.
Jaz was slower to undress. She could hear his hesitation in the silence, the angry, reluctant pull of his zipper. But when he finally stepped into her line of vision, she saw that he was just as hard, just as ready. His cock was a mirror of his father's—enormous, throbbing, wet at the tip.
Marc reached out and touched her, his fingers sliding through her folds. She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily.
"She's ready," he said, his voice thick with amusement. "Soaked. She's been thinking about this all day."
He positioned himself behind her, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He didn't wait. He didn't prepare her. He simply thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, punishing stroke.
She screamed.
It was not a scream of pain, though there was pain. It was a scream of pure, unadulterated pleasure, of being stretched and filled to the point of breaking. Her body clenched around him, her muscles rippling in a futile attempt to accommodate his size.
Marc stilled inside her, letting her feel every inch.
"Watch," he commanded, looking over her shoulder at Jaz.
Jaz was standing at the foot of the bed, his cock in his hand, his eyes wide and hungry and full of a burning, corrosive envy. He was watching his father fuck his wife, watching the woman he had claimed in secret being claimed in public, and he was unable to look away.
Marc pulled back and slammed into her again. And again. Each thrust was a statement, a declaration of ownership. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard slapping against the wall with a rhythmic, punishing beat.
He fucked her pussy for what felt like an eternity, a relentless, pounding rhythm that left her gasping and clawing at the silk sheets. Then, without warning, he pulled out. She felt the sudden, jarring emptiness, the cold air on her wet, gaping flesh.
"Your turn," he said to Jaz.
But he didn't move away from her. He used his hand to position the head of his cock lower, pressing against her asshole. She tensed, her entire body going rigid.
"Relax," he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Or I'll make it worse."
He pushed forward, the thick, veined shaft of him breaching the tight ring of her ass. She screamed again, a raw, animal sound that was torn from her throat. The pain was excruciating, a white-hot burn that radiated through her entire body. But beneath the pain, there was a forbidden pleasure, a dark thrill at being taken in such a way, at being so completely and utterly possessed.
He fucked her ass with the same brutal, relentless rhythm, each thrust sinking deeper into her, tearing her apart and putting her back together. She was crying, she realized, hot tears streaming down her cheeks, but she was also moaning, her hips pushing back against him with a desperate, involuntary need.
And Jaz watched. He watched his father fuck his wife's ass, his cock still in his hand, his face a mask of anger and desire and something that looked almost like awe.
Marc came with a guttural roar, flooding her ass with his hot, thick seed. He pulled out slowly, his withdrawal leaving her feeling hollowed out and raw.
"Now," he said, his voice breathless but controlled, "back in her pussy, Jaz. She's been emptied. Fill her up."
Jaz stepped forward, his movements jerky and angry. He positioned himself behind her, his cock slick with his own pre-cum. He thrust into her pussy with a punishing, jealous force, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, angry sound.
He fucked her with a rhythm that was different from his father's, faster and more frantic. He was trying to prove something, trying to stake his own claim. He whispered things into her ear, dirty, nasty things that made her cheeks burn and her cunt clench around him.
"You're mine," he growled, his teeth nipping at her earlobe. "You were mine first. You'll always be mine."
But Marc was watching them, and Jaz knew it. He knew that whatever claim he staked tonight, his father had made a stronger one.
Marc moved to the side of the bed, his eyes never leaving them. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Lilah-May's hair, pulling her head back so he could look into her face.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She looked at him, her eyes blurred with tears and pleasure and confusion.
"You are going to come for my son," he said, his voice a low, hypnotic command. "You are going to come all over his cock, and you are going to do it while you look into my eyes."
The order was impossible. The pleasure was too much, the shame was too deep, the pressure was too high. But his words—his command—they were like a key turning in a lock.
She came. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that felt like it was splitting her in two. She squirted for the second time in her life, a hot, wet gush that coated Jaz's cock and thighs, a release so intense her vision went white and her body went limp.
Jaz came a moment later, a choked, surprised grunt escaping his lips as he emptied himself into her, his seed mixing with his father's, filling her to the point of overflow.
She collapsed onto the bed, her body a ruined, trembling mess. She could feel their combined fluids leaking out of her, a warm, sticky trickle soaking into the sheets.
She heard Jaz step back, his breathing ragged and loud. She heard Marc laugh—a low, cold, triumphant sound.
"Good girl," he said, his hand still tangled in her hair. "You're learning."
He released her and she sank into the mattress, her limbs heavy and useless. She didn't know what was happening behind her. She didn't want to know. She just lay there, breathing, existing, the taste of shame and satisfaction mingling on her tongue.
Then, Marc spoke again. His voice was not directed at her.
Now," he said to Jaz, "she rides you."
She heard Jaz's sharp intake of breath. She heard the creak of the bed as he repositioned himself. She opened her eyes and found him lying on his back in the center of the mattress, his cock already growing hard again, slick with her juices and his own seed.
She looked up at Marc, who stood beside the bed, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"You heard me," he said. "Get on top of him. And when you do, I want you to think about what it means to be a Hudson wife."
She crawled toward Jaz, her body trembling. She straddled his hips, her thighs on either side of his waist. She could feel the heat of him, the hard length of his cock pressing against her slippery folds.
She lowered herself onto him. The sensation of being filled again was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once. She began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that made her gasp and Jaz groan.