Chapter 2: Morning After
The first thing Rose felt was the weight. A solid, warm pressure across her hips. Then the smell: jasmine, bourbon, and the unmistakable musk of sex. Last night flooded back, not in a wave, but in a series of brutal, brilliant flashes. Jane’s mouth. Erik’s hands. The look on Mark’s face as he turned and walked out, the apartment door clicking shut with a finality that still echoed in her bones.
She opened her eyes.
Sunlight, thick and golden, cut through a gap in the velvet drapes, illuminating dancing dust motes. It fell across Jane, who was straddling Rose’s hips, already awake, already watching her. Jane’s red hair was a wild corona around her head. She wore nothing but a sly, possessive smile.
“Morning,” Jane said, her voice husky with sleep and intent. She shifted, her bare core grinding down against Rose’s stomach, already slick. “You snore. Cute little desperate sounds. Like you’re still being fucked in your dreams.”
Rose’s body responded before her mind could muster shame. A low throb between her legs, a liquid heat. She was sore, profoundly so, in places she’d forgotten could feel used. It felt like a brand.
“Where’s…” Rose’s throat was raw.
“Erik’s making coffee. Or he’s jerking off in the shower thinking about last night. One of the two.” Jane leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of Rose’s head. Her breasts hung heavy, nipples brushing Rose’s. “Mark texted. Three times.”
The name was a bucket of ice water. Rose stiffened. “What did he say?”
“I didn’t look. It’s not important.” Jane dipped her head, licking a stripe up Rose’s neck to her earlobe. “What’s important is this. Right now. The way you taste on my tongue.” She bit the lobe gently. “The way you’re going to taste me.”
The bedroom door opened. Erik stood there, a towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water clinging to the blond hair on his chest. He held two mugs of coffee. He took in the scene—Jane poised over Rose, the sheet tangled at their feet—and his easy, boyish smile appeared. “Breakfast is served,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
He put the mugs on the claw-footed table and dropped the towel. He was already half-hard, his cock thickening as he watched them. He came to the side of the bed, his fingers trailing through Jane’s hair before cupping Rose’s cheek. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “She’s perfect, Janie. Even all sleep-rumpled and guilty.”
“She hasn’t even started yet,” Jane murmured. Then she moved. In one fluid motion, she swung a leg over Rose’s head, reversing her position until she was kneeling over Rose’s face, her dripping sex hovering an inch above Rose’s mouth. The view behind her was Erik, climbing onto the bed, his hands spreading Rose’s thighs apart.
“You’re going to eat my pussy until I come,” Jane instructed, her voice leaving no room for anything but obedience. “And while you do that, Erik’s going to fuck that pretty, sore little ass of yours. You understand?”
Rose’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was different. Darker. A deliberate crossing of a line that made last night seem almost chaste. She looked up at Jane’s flushed, wet folds, then past the curve of her ass to Erik, who was slicking himself with something from a bottle on the nightstand, his gaze intent and hungry.
“Yes,” Rose breathed. The word was a surrender that felt like power.
Jane lowered herself, not gently. She ground herself against Rose’s mouth. “Open.”
Rose did. The taste was intense, salty and musky and uniquely Jane. Rose’s tongue tentatively sought her clit.
“Harder,” Jane gasped, her hands fisting in Rose’s hair. “Use your fucking tongue. Make me feel it.”
Rose obeyed, licking and sucking with a frantic need she didn’t recognize in herself. She was lost in the smell, the taste, the wetness coating her chin. Then she felt Erik’s blunt, insistent pressure at her other entrance.
She tensed.
“Relax, Rose,” Erik coaxed, his voice strained. He pressed slowly, inexorably. The burn was sharp, breathtaking. He pushed past the initial tight ring of muscle, filling her with a thick, stretching fullness that made her cry out, the sound muffled by Jane’s flesh.
“God, yes,” Jane moaned, rocking against Rose’s face. “Feel her clench around you, baby. She’s so fucking tight there.”
Erik began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, each one dragging a raw, choked sound from Rose’s throat. The dual sensation was madness—the soft, giving heat of Jane on her tongue, the brutal, claiming stretch from behind. Her body was a frayed wire, live and sparking.
Jane’s movements became more erratic, her hips stuttering. “Don’t stop. I’m gonna… right there, yes, just like that, you fucking perfect slut…”
Rose felt the orgasm hit Jane, a series of violent flutters against her tongue, a gush of wetness. Jane screamed, a ragged, beautiful sound, her whole body trembling.
Erik didn’t pause. He drove into Rose’s ass with new force, his hips slamming against her, the sound wet and slapping. “You take it so good,” he grunted. “Taking my cock in your married little ass. You love this. You love being our whore.”
The filthy words detonated inside her. The pain had melted, transmuted into a deep, shocking pleasure that radiated through her entire pelvis. She was moaning uncontrollably, her hips pushing back against him, begging for more.
“Come on her,” Jane panted, having shifted to the side, her fingers now circling her own clit as she watched Erik fuck Rose. “Mark her. Inside.”
With a final, guttural roar, Erik buried himself to the hilt and jerked, his release pumping into her. Rose felt the hot pulses deep in her core, a violation that felt like completion.
He collapsed beside her, spent.
Silence, save for their ragged breathing. Jane traced the sweat-slick line of Rose’s spine. “Look at you,” she whispered, awe and triumph in her voice. “Ruined. Perfect.”
Rose rolled onto her side, facing them. The sunlight was warmer now. The coffee on the table was cold. She felt hollowed out, scoured clean. The guilt was a distant, buzzing thing, easily ignored.
Erik leaned over, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that belied what they’d just done. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Rose said. Her voice was her own, yet different. She looked at Jane. “And then?”
Jane’s green eyes glinted. She picked up Rose’s phone from the floor, where it had fallen from her discarded purse. She held it up. Mark’s name glowed on the screen with three missed calls and a string of texts. Jane’s thumb hovered over the power button.
She smiled, and pressed it. The screen went black.
“And then,” Jane said, tossing the dead phone onto the heap of their clothes, “we see how many times we can make you scream before noon.”