Chapter 7: The Anal Invitation
The burner phone vibrated against the polished oak of Coco’s desk with a dull, plastic thud. It was a cheap, black rectangle, entirely separate from the sleek silver device she used for everything else. The screen lit up, displaying a single, taciturn response to the peach emoji she’d sent two hours prior.
>> Thumbs-up emoji. 9 PM. The Aureum, 1412.
A slow smile spread across Coco’s face. The Aureum. Weiss’s fictional venue for a company retreat. Ironic, she thought, that we’re making her lie a truth. She appreciated the elegance of it. Ren was already implementing the rules, building their secret world inside the framework of their cover stories.
She arrived at 8:50 PM, the trench coat belted tightly over bare skin. The hallway of the upscale hotel was a tomb of hushed carpet and soft sconce light. Room 1412. The number alone sent a trill of recognition through her. Different city, same digits. A private joke, or a test of nerve? She used the digital key Ren had texted to the second burner.
The room was a study in muted luxury, a world away from the neon-soaked chaos of the bachelor party suite. Cream walls, a low bed with a charcoal-gray duvet, a floor-to-ceiling window showcasing Vale’s glittering skyline. The only familiar touch was the purposeful emptiness, the waiting quiet. She shrugged off the trench coat, letting it pool at her feet, and stood for a moment in the climate-controlled air, feeling exposed and powerful.
The door clicked open at 9:02 PM.
Ren entered silently, dressed in dark jeans and a simple black sweater, a small duffel in hand. He locked the door behind him, his eyes finding her immediately. His gaze was an appraisal, calm and thorough, tracing her form from ankles to eyes. No mask. No pretense of strangers now.
“Punctual,” Coco said, her voice sounding louder than intended in the quiet room.
“Rule number six,” he replied, setting the duffel down. “Precision minimizes risk.” He approached her, not touching, just walking a slow circle around her. She felt the air shift with his proximity. “You’re sure about this?”
“The signal was sent,” Coco said, tilting her chin up. “I don’t do recalls.”
“This isn’t the party. This is the protocol.” He stopped in front of her. “It’s different.”
“I’m counting on it.”
A faint, almost imperceptible nod. Then his hands came up, not to caress, but to frame her face. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. His kiss, when it came, was a direct, focused pressure. It was an agreement in physical form. It tasted of coffee and the winter air outside.
When he pulled back, his hands slid down her neck, over her shoulders, down her arms. He turned her gently, his touch firm and guiding. She knew what he wanted. What she wanted. The submission of it was a choice, and that made it electric.
She bent forward, placing her palms flat on the cool duvet, presenting herself to him. The posture was vulnerability and defiance all at once. She heard the soft click of the duffel bag opening, the sound of a cap being twisted.
His first touch was clinical. Cold, slick lube on his fingers. He spread it with deliberate, careful circles, not yet penetrating. His other hand settled on the small of her back, a warm, steadying weight.
“Breathe out,” he instructed, his voice low.
She exhaled, and as she did, one finger pressed slowly, inexorably inside. The intrusion was sharp, a bright line of sensation. He worked with a patience that was maddening, stretching her with a single digit, then two, his movements rhythmic and precise. It wasn’t about pleasure yet. It was preparation. It was a promised breach.
“Ren,” she muttered, her forehead against the duvet.
“I know.” A third finger joined, the burn deepening into a full, aching stretch. He scissored them carefully, his breathing even behind her. “Almost.”
When he removed his fingers, she felt oddly empty. The sound of a foil packet tearing open was stark. Then she felt the blunt, insistent pressure of him, not his fingers this time.
He pushed in on one long, continuous stroke.
The air left Coco’s lungs in a punched-out gasp. Her knuckles turned white, gripping the duvet. He was larger than his fingers, and the stretch was immense, a burning fullness that blurred the line between pain and something far more complex. He seated himself fully, his hips flush against her, and went perfectly still.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice tight.
She couldn’t speak. She nodded, a sharp jerk of her head.
He began to move. Slowly at first, a shallow, retreating drag followed by that same deep, complete push. The initial burn began to transmute, melting into a shocking, dense pleasure that seemed to radiate from her very core. Each thrust punched a soft, ragged sound from her throat.
“Faster,” she managed to grit out.
He complied. His pace increased, the smooth, controlled rhythm giving way to something more urgent. The slap of skin filled the quiet room, a obscene counterpoint to the civilized city lights beyond the window. He leaned over her, one hand braced next to hers, the other tangling in her short hair, not pulling, just holding. His breath was hot against her ear.
“This what you wanted?” he murmured, his calm voice at odds with the driving force of his hips. “The after-party?”
“Shut up,” she gasped, but she was grinning, the tension breaking for a second. “Less talking. More… ah!… more of that.”
He gave a soft, breathy chuckle and obliged, his thrusts gaining a relentless, piston-like precision. Coco’s world dissolved into the feeling of being filled, owned, used exactly as she’d secretly craved. The pleasure built, a coil winding tighter and tighter in her gut, fed by the sheer taboo of it—the best man, the maid of honor, the shared secret of the bride.
Her climax, when it ripped through her, was a silent, stunning violence. Her body locked, a wave of intense, almost painful pulsations seizing her. She buried her cry in the duvet. Ren followed moments after, his rhythm fracturing, a low groan escaping as he pushed deep and held there, shuddering.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their struggling breath fogging the cool glass of the window.
He withdrew carefully, disposing of the condom. He returned from the bathroom with a warm, damp cloth, cleaning her with a surprising tenderness. The action felt more intimate than anything that had preceded it.
Coco rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, feeling spent and porous. Ren sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, pulling his sweater back on.
“So,” Coco said, her voice hoarse. “The protocol’s got a decent benefits package.”
“It’s sustainable,” he said, not looking at her. “That’s the point.”
“Right. Sustainable.” She propped herself up on her elbows. “How’s the happy couple? All aglow with pre-wedding bliss?”
Ren was quiet for a long moment. “Jaune is happy. He’s picking out cake flavors. He asked me to be in charge of the ring bearer’s pillow.”
Coco snorted. “Of course he did.”
“Weiss is…” He hesitated, a rarity for him. “Composed. She’s handling the final vendor meetings. She smiles when she needs to.”
“But the walls are very white,” Coco finished quietly, quoting Weiss’s text.
Ren didn't answer. He just looked out at the city, the lights reflecting in his calm amber eyes like distant, untouchable fires. The silence stretched, taut and meaningful.
“The pre-wedding events start tomorrow,” Coco said, shifting on the bed. The sheets were cool against her skin. “The final dress fitting with all the bridesmaids. You’ll be there with Jaune, I assume?”
“Best man duties,” Ren confirmed, finally turning his head toward her. “I’ll be holding rings, smiling for photos. Keeping up appearances.”
“Mmm.” Coco traced a pattern on the duvet. “Surrounded by all of Weiss’s friends. Her inner circle.” She let the implication hang, a dark little cloud in the climate-controlled air.
Ren studied her, his expression unreadable. “It’s a tactical environment. Everyone plays their part.”
“And what’s your part, exactly?” Coco asked, her gaze sharpening behind the casual tone. “Beyond the loyal friend?”
He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer. The hum of the minibar filled the space. Then he spoke, his voice so low it was almost absorbed by the carpet.
“I want to fuck every one of them,” he said. The statement was flat, delivered with the same calm certainty as their operational rules. “Before the wedding. All the bridesmaids.”
Coco let out a single, sharp chuckle. It wasn’t a sound of disbelief, but of recognition. “Of course you do. It’s the final conquest, isn’t it? The whole wedding party.”
“It’s the completion of the scenario,” Ren corrected, though his eyes held a dark heat that betrayed his clinical words. “A private symmetry.”
“Well, let’s assess the targets,” Coco said, sitting up fully, adopting a mock-strategic tone. “Winter is the maid of honor, technically, but she’s also a fortress. You’re not tall enough, not muscular enough in that brute-force way. You’re all quiet precision. She goes for shouting, plate-armored types. You’d bore her.”
Ren absorbed this without offense. “Noted.”
“As a consolation prize,” Coco continued, a wicked grin spreading, “you could probably fuck the mother of the bride, Willow, if you felt so inclined. She’s swimming in good vodka and regret. A little focused attention, a listening ear… she’d fold. It’d be sad, but easy.”
This time, Ren’s mouth quirked. A flicker of dark amusement. “Not the objective.”
“Your loss.” Coco waved a hand dismissively. “Then there’s the rest.Pyrrha? Please. She looks at Jaune like he hung the moons. She’s morally impervious. Blake’s too busy being quietly, monogamously in love with her broody boyfriend to even notice you.”
Ren nodded along, as if filing the briefings. “What about Ruby?”
A slow, knowing smirk settled on Coco’s lips. She leaned back on her hands. “Ruby. Little Ruby Rose.” She drew the name out. “She’ll be much easier. She’s all big eyes and bigger feelings. Just make her laugh. Make her feel special, like she’s the only one in the room who really gets you. She’s a romantic. She’ll craft the whole narrative for you in her head. She’ll be begging you to fuck her before you’ve even bought her a second drink.”
Ren watched Coco, his head tilted slightly. “You sound like you’ve thought about this.”
“I think about everything,” Coco said, her smirk softening into something more genuine, more complicit. “It’s my job. And Ruby… she’s sweet. She’d be gentle. You’d have to be careful not to break her.”
“Noted,” Ren said again. He stood up, walking to the window. His silhouette was a cutout against the sprawling city. “But Weiss is the objective. The others are just… ambient noise.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Coco asked quietly.
He didn’t answer. He watched the lights, his hands in his pockets. The distance he’d just created between them was palpable, a shift back to the operational reality. The confession about the bridesmaids hovered in the room, a new, unspoken layer to their pact.
Coco finally swung her legs off the bed and began to gather her clothes. The trench coat felt heavy in her hands. “I should go. Early morning for the dress fitting.”
“Remember the rules,” Ren said, not turning around. “No contact for six weeks after the wedding. We’ve broken pattern tonight. We need to re-establish the silence.”
“I know the rules,” Coco said, slipping the coat on. She belted it tight, the naked feeling vanishing under the heavy fabric. She felt sealed away again. “I helped write them.”
At the door, she paused. He was still at the window, a statue gazing at a city full of secrets just like theirs. “Ren.”
He half-turned, his profile outlined in light from the skyline.
“Make her laugh,” Coco said, her voice firm. “Make her feel special. That’s the play.”
A barely perceptible nod. Then he turned fully back to the window, dismissing her.
Coco stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut with a final, muted sound behind her. The plush carpet absorbed her footsteps as she walked away, the image of Ruby Rose’s hopeful, silver-eyed smile already burning in her mind, a potential casualty she had just weaponized.