Chapter 2: The Night
The scent of jollof rice, rich with tomato, thyme, and a faint, smoky burn, filled the flat. Yaa stood at the stove, stirring the same pot for the third time in as many minutes. The grains were perfect, but her focus was elsewhere, her movements robotic. The chicken thighs Simon was seasoning beside her sat pale and waiting.
He watched her from his periphery. She’d chosen a grey cashmere turtleneck dress, the kind that hugged every one of her curves before falling softly to her mid-thigh. It was sophisticated, sexy, a deliberate armor. Her hair was a glorious, full afro, each curl a declaration of vitality that her tense shoulders betrayed.
“You’re biting your lip,” he said, his voice a low rumble against the gentle sizzle from his pan.
She started, releasing her lower lip. It was already slightly swollen. “Am not. Just… tasting the air. For science.”
“Right.” He nudged a thigh with the tip of the tongs. “The air around that pot is gonna taste of charcoal if you don’t stop stirring it into paste.”
She finally set the wooden spoon down, wiping her hands on a tea towel already stained with turmeric. She leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The fairy light strung over the window behind her flickered, casting a jumpy glow across her face.
“We don’t have to do this,” Simon said, not looking at her. He said it evenly, a simple statement of fact. “We can eat this very expensive rice, drink the wine, and watch something shite on the telly. They’ll get it. No questions.”
“I know.” Her voice was small. She picked at a thread on the tea towel. “It’s just… performance anxiety, isn’t it? What if my stomach decides to do an impression of a whale song during? What if I forgot to shave something? A whole patch. Like a weird landing strip gone wrong.” She huffed a laugh that had no joy in it. “Is the bathroom clean enough? Did I hoover properly? What if they think our taste in art is tragic?”
Simon turned the heat down under the chicken and moved to stand in front of her. He didn’t touch her, just blocked her view of the obsessive-compulsive cooking. “The flat is clean. Your body is perfect. That painting of the sad clown is, objectively, tragic, but we’ve had it since the carboot sale and it’s part of our lore now.” He finally reached out, a single finger tracing the line of her jaw where the cashmere met her skin. “You are beautiful. And you are in charge. This isn’t a mission brief. It’s a dinner that might, or might not, turn into something else. One thing at a time.”
She leaned into his touch, her dark eyes searching his. The playfulness from the kitchen counter two days ago was buried under a mountain of what-ifs. “You’re sure you’re okay? Not just… accommodating me?”
He let out a breath, a short, amused puff of air. “Yaa. I jerked off watching you sleep after you said the words. I am far beyond ‘okay.’ I am invested.” The crude honesty did what his softer reassurances couldn’t. It grounded her. This was their shared filth, their mutual curiosity.
A real, shaky smile touched her lips. “Right. Okay. So we eat. We drink. We… see.”
“We see,” he confirmed.
The doorbell rang.
It was an ordinary sound, the same cheap chime they’d heard a thousand times delivering takeaways or post. This time, it was a depth charge. Yaa’s eyes went saucer-wide. She mouthed ‘oh, shit’ silently. Simon saw the genuine panic flash across her face—the flight response of a startled animal.
He stepped close, his hands finding her hips, anchoring her. “Breathe. It’s just Soap and König. The same two twats who’ve eaten my cooking and stolen my good whisky for years.” He gave her a slight, deliberate squeeze. “You’re the most compelling person in any room. Go let them in. I’ll get the wine.”
She drew in a deep breath, nodded, and smoothed her hands down her dress. He watched her walk to the door, the cashmere stretching over the shift of her muscles, her posture squaring from scared to hostess in five determined steps.
He heard the door open, the gust of damp night air, and Soap’s voice, brighter than the situation warranted.
“Evening, gorgeous! Brought beverages. And myself. Which is a treat.” There was the rustle of a coat, the clink of bottles.
A deeper, quieter murmur followed. König.
Simon focused on uncorking the Malbec, letting the familiar ritual steady his own pulse. The low hum of conversation moved from the hallway into the living room. He poured four glasses, the rich purple liquid swirling, and carried them out.
Soap had made himself at home in one of the worn leather armchairs, already shrugging off his jacket to reveal a simple black henley. König stood somewhat awkwardly by the sofa, a monument of contained energy in a dark green cable-knit sweater that strained across his shoulders. He held a paper bag from a fancy German bakery. His eyes, when they flicked to Simon, were carefully neutral.
Yaa was in the space between them, a luminous figure in grey, her smile a bit too wide but her voice steady. “König brought apple streusel. From that place in Soho. Simon, look.”
“Appreciated,” Simon said, handing a glass to König first, then Soap, then Yaa. Their fingers brushed as she took hers, a tiny point of contact. He kept the last glass for himself, leaning against the doorframe.
“Place looks the same,” Soap said, taking a hearty swig. “Still smells like a spice cabinet had a riot. In a good way.”
“It’s the jollof,” Yaa said, relaxing a fraction at the mention of food. “It’s almost ready. You lot still eat meat, yeah? Simon did the chicken.”
“We’re not animals, Yaa,” Soap grinned. “Well. Not the vegetarian kind.”
A faint smile touched König’s lips, there and gone. “The chicken smells excellent.” His English was precise, the Austrian accent a soft rumble.
The next twenty minutes were a masterclass in normalcy so forced it became surreal. They moved to the small dining table, which Yaa had set with her grandmother’s good plates, the ones with the tiny gold cracks in the glaze. They passed bowls of steaming rice, the sticky, spiced chicken thighs, a simple salad Yaa had tossed at the last minute.
They talked about nothing. Soap’s maddening new DIY project—a shed he was convinced he could build but which currently resembled a timber crime scene. König’s recent security contracting job that involved mind-numbing hours watching warehouse CCTV. The rain. The perpetual, unremarkable London rain.
Simon watched Yaa. He saw the exact moment the wine began to untie the knot in her chest. It was in the way her laugh at one of Soap’s stories became less brittle, more real. It was in the way she leaned forward to ask König a follow-up question about Austrian pastries, her curiosity overriding her nerves. She was in her element, guiding the conversation, finding connections. The Guidance Counselor, even here.
He also watched his friends. Soap was his usual animated self, but his eyes kept tracking back to Yaa—the line of her neck as she turned, the movement of her hands as she spoke. It wasn’t leering. It was appreciation, edged with a new, permitted curiosity. König was harder to read, his gaze more indirect, often landing on Simon as if for confirmation, before sweeping the room and landing, briefly, on Yaa’s animated face.
“Right,” Soap said, pushing his clean plate away with a satisfied groan. “That was fucking sublime. I’m proposing a trade. My future shed for a lifetime supply of that rice.”
“The shed is a liability,” Simon stated. “I’ve seen the pictures.”
“It has character!”
While they bickered, Yaa started clearing plates. König stood immediately, silently stacking his with hers. “I will help,” he said, and it wasn’t an offer.
In the kitchen, the dynamic shifted. The room was smaller, warmer. The sound of the others’ faint conversation from the table was a distant backdrop. Yaa felt König’s presence behind her as she scraped leftovers into a container, a wall of quiet heat.
“Thank you for having us,” he said, placing the plates carefully in the sink.
“Thanks for coming.” She turned, leaning back against the counter, looking up at him. The height difference was even more pronounced here. He seemed to fill the entire doorway. “And for the streusel. Simon will probably eat it all in one go, like a animal.”
“He is a man of focused appetites,” König observed. His eyes held hers. There was no flirtation in it, just a profound, unsettling honesty.
It made her brave. “And you?”
He considered the question, his head tilted slightly. “I am… particular. I do not enjoy waste. Of food, or of opportunity.” He paused, his voice dropping even lower. “The other night. What you suggested. It was not just drunk words?”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The veneer of dinner was dissolving. “No,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “They weren’t.”
He nodded once, a slow, accepting motion. “Good.” He didn’t move closer. He just stood there, absorbing her answer, letting it settle between them. “Then we are all… particular, together.”
Soap’s voice called from the other room, breaking the tension. “Are you two plotting in there? The whisky’s out here!”
Yaa let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. König offered a small, almost imperceptible smile and gestured for her to go ahead of him.
Back in the living room, Simon had poured four fingers of amber Scotch into tumblers. Soap had commandeered the patchwork quilt on the sofa, making himself at home. Yaa sat in the other leather chair. Simon remained standing by the hearth, a sentinel.
The conversation stuttered, then found a new, lower gear. The whisky burned a warm path. The fairy light flickered. A log shifted in the gas fireplace with a soft whump.
Soap was telling a story about a botched extraction in Paraguay, his hands sketching shapes in the air. It was funny now, in retrospect, a tale of mud and miscommunication. Yaa listened, curled in her chair, her glass cradled in both hands. Simon watched König watching Soap tell the story, his large frame still on the sofa, his eyes occasionally cutting to Yaa’s profile, lit by the fire.
Then Soap’s story ended. The laughter faded. A heavy, expectant quiet descended, thicker than before. The only sounds were the faint hiss of the fire and the distant sigh of a car on the wet street outside.
Yaa uncurled. She set her glass down on the side table with a deliberate click. The sound was terribly loud. She looked at Simon across the room. He held her gaze, his expression unreadable, but he gave one slow, almost imperceptible nod.
She stood up.
The movement drew every eye. She felt their focus like a physical weight, thrilling and terrifying. She didn’t go to Simon. She walked to the center of the room, on the worn Persian rug between the sofa and the chairs. Her heart was a wild drum in her throat.
She looked at Soap, then at König, then back to Simon. Her voice, when it came, was clear, though it trembled at the edges.
“So,” she said, the word hanging in the fragrant, whisky-laden air. “What are the rules, then?"
The silence after her question felt absolute, a vacuum sucking the air from the room. Soap’s playful grin vanished, replaced by a focused neutrality. König’s gaze lowered to the rug, then lifted slowly to Simon. The unspoken question hung between the three men—a communication forged in a thousand tense holds and silent watches.
Soap tilted his head toward Simon. König gave a single, slow nod in the same direction.
Simon didn’t move from his place by the hearth. His eyes, blue-gray and intent, stayed fixed on Yaa. “Your show, sunshine,” he rumbled. “Your comfort. We’re just… orchestration.”
Yaa’s throat was dry. She swallowed, the sound audible. She clasped her hands in front of her, then let them fall to her sides. She was setting terms. On her turf. It was terrifying and electrifying.
“Right.” She took a deliberate breath. “Simon’s my husband. Even if you’re all… very fit.” She gestured vaguely, encompassing them. “He’s the number one guy here. He has me. That’s the… hierarchy.”
Soap’s lips quirked. “Noted. Boss man remains boss man. No coup attempts tonight.”
“Second,” Yaa continued, her voice gaining strength. “Nothing degrading. No pain stuff. I’m not into that. I’m pretty go-with-the-flow, but I’m not a masochist.” She looked at each of them. “I might lead if it feels right. But no slapping, no… cruelty.”
König inclined his head. “Understood.”
“Safe word is ‘strawberry’,” she said quickly. “If it gets too much, for any reason, that’s the full stop. Everyone stops.”
“Strawberry,” Soap repeated, committing it to memory. “Simple.”
“And I’d like another drink,” Yaa admitted, a flash of her earlier anxiety returning. “Just to… unclench a bit.”
Simon moved then, retrieving the whisky bottle and refreshing her tumbler. The liquid splashed, amber and potent. She took a sharp sip, the heat searing a path of false courage.
“What about you lot?” she asked, lowering the glass. Her curiosity was genuine, cutting through the nerve. “Your… preferences? What do you like?”
A new, different silence. They hadn’t expected the question to be reciprocal.
Soap recovered first, scratching the back of his neck. “Honest? Enthusiasm. A bit of noise. I like knowing it’s good for everyone.” He shrugged, his casual demeanor almost believable.
All eyes turned to König. He seemed to contemplate the fireplace, his jaw working. “Control,” he said finally, the word low and rough. “And the surrender of it. The trust in that.” He looked at Yaa, then Simon. “Quiet can be good. Intensity does not always require volume.”
Yaa absorbed this, nodding slowly. It made sense, fit the men she knew.
“Anyone calls it, we’re done,” Simon added, his voice leaving no room for debate. “For any reason. I doubt it’ll be needed, but it stands.”
“Also,” Yaa said, the word rushing out. She looked down at her own body, then back up, her expression vulnerably frank. “I get in my head. I’m… sort of self-conscious. So I like praise. The good kind. Just… tell me what you like. Respectfully.”
Simon’s expression softened infinitesimally. “You shouldn’t be self-conscious.” He turned his gaze to the others, a quiet command in it. “Tell her.”
Soap didn’t hesitate. “Your laugh, for a start. The way your whole face does it. And this,” he said, gesturing with his glass at her dress, his tone straightforward, appreciative. “The way that fabric sits on you is a mathematical miracle, love.”
König was quieter, his observation a studied thing. “Your hands. When you spoke earlier, they drew shapes in the air. They are expressive. Strong. I noticed them.”
A warm flush spread up Yaa’s neck, a different kind of heat than the whisky’s. It was validation, warm and liquid. It worked.
“Okay,” she breathed, feeling the knot inside her loosen another crucial degree. “So… let’s just go slow today. Exploration, yeah? Then we just… let the mood lead.”
Soap’s grin returned, a slow, knowing thing. “Exploration leading where the mood leads. Got it.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes sparkling. “Does that mean there’ll be a return trip? A follow-up mission, so to speak?”
Yaa’s face burned. She hid it in her whisky glass, taking a gulp. The sound of the men’s quiet laughter—Simon’s a low hum, Soap’s a chuckle, König’s a soft exhale—wrapped around her. It wasn’t mocking. It was complicit.
Simon put his own glass down. The finality of the sound drew attention. He moved then, crossing the space until he stood before her. He didn’t touch her yet. He simply looked down, his presence a shelter.
“Enough talking,” he stated, not a question.
Yaa’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She nodded.
His hand came up, fingers brushing a curl from her temple, tracing the shell of her ear. His touch was familiar, but the audience made it new. She shivered. He cupped the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her jawline. His eyes held hers, asking a silent question.
She answered by turning her head, pressing a kiss to his palm. Then she looked past him, first to Soap, then to König. Her invitation was clear.
Soap rose from the sofa, his movements fluid and unhurried. He came to stand beside Simon, a respectful half-step back, watching. König remained seated, but he was leaning forward now, his forearms on his knees, his gaze a physical weight.
Simon’s other hand came up to frame her face. He bent and kissed her. It was not their frantic, kitchen-counter kiss. This was slow, deep, and utterly performative. A demonstration. A claiming. She melted into it, a soft sound escaping her as her hands came up to rest against his chest.
When he broke away, her lips were parted, eyes hazy. He stepped back, just one pace, leaving her standing alone in the circle of their attention.
“Your turn,” Simon said, his voice gravel. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Soap.
Soap closed the distance with two easy strides. He didn’t touch her immediately, his eyes searching her face. “Alright, Mensah?” he asked, his voice softer than his usual banter.
She nodded, a quick, nervous dip of her chin. “Yeah. Just… be gentle with the goods, MacTavish.”
He grinned, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “No promises.” His hands finally came up, landing lightly on her waist. His touch was different from Simon’s—lighter, inquisitive. He traced the hem of her cashmere dress where it met her thighs. “This is a very nice dress,” he murmured, his Scottish lilt warm. “But I’m thinking it’s in the way.”
Her breath hitched as his fingers slid underneath the fabric, finding the bare skin of her hips. His palms were surprisingly rough, calloused. He gathered the material slowly, inching it upward. She raised her arms, a silent consent, and he pulled the dress over her head, leaving her standing in just her plain black bra and knickers.
The air in the room felt cooler, charged. Soap let out a low whistle, purely appreciative. “Fuck me,” he breathed, his eyes drinking her in. “You are a vision.”
From his chair, Simon watched, his posture rigid. Every muscle was coiled, a spring of intense focus. König was utterly still, his gaze a palpable heat on Yaa’s skin.
Soap’s hands returned to her waist, then drifted up her sides, his thumbs brushing the outer curves of her breasts. “Can I?” he asked, nodding toward her bra.
“Yes,” Yaa whispered.
He unhooked it with a practiced flick, letting it fall away. His hands covered her breasts, not roughly, but with a firm, worshipping weight. He leaned down, his mouth finding her neck, just below her ear. She gasped, her head lolling back.
“You smell amazing,” he muttered against her skin, his stubble scratching in a delicious way. “Like spices and that perfume you always wear.” One hand left her breast, skated down over her trembling stomach, and hooked into the waistband of her knickers. He looked her in the eye. “These too?”
She could only nod.
He drew them down her legs, helping her step out of them. Now she was fully exposed, standing in the center of the room under the gaze of three men. The vulnerability was terrifying, a nakedness beyond the physical. But the awe on Soap’s face, the heavy-lidded intensity from König, and the proud, possessive blaze in Simon’s eyes fed a furnace deep in her belly.
“Lie down,” Soap said, gesturing to the patchwork quilt on the sofa. “On your back. Let us look at you.”
She complied, lowering herself onto the soft fabric. The quilt smelled faintly of their flat, of Simon, of home. She felt incredibly vulnerable, splayed out like this. Soap knelt on the floor beside the sofa, his eyes tracing every line of her.
“So fucking perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. His hand returned to her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it tightened into a hard peak. He bent his head and took it into his mouth.
The sensation was electric, sharp and wet. Yaa cried out, her back arching off the sofa. He sucked, hard, his tongue working over the sensitive nub. His other hand stroked down her flank, over the curve of her hip, and slid between her legs.
He found her soaking wet. “Christ,” he groaned against her breast. “You’re dripping.” He slid two fingers through her folds, gathering the slickness, then pushed one finger inside her.
Yaa moaned, a deep, throaty sound. He worked the finger in and out, slowly, curling it just so. Then he added a second. The stretch was exquisite. His mouth moved to her other breast, giving it the same relentless attention while his fingers fucked her with a steady, rhythmic pace.
“That’s it,” Simon’s voice cut through the haze, a rough anchor. “Look at her. Look how she takes it.”
Soap glanced over his shoulder, grinning around her breast. “She’s a natural.” He increased the pace of his fingers, the wet, sucking sounds obscenely loud. Yaa’s hips began to move against his hand, seeking more friction, more depth. She was hurtling toward an edge, her breaths coming in short, sharp pants.
“Stop,” Simon commanded.
Soap instantly stilled, withdrawing his fingers. Yaa whined in frustration, her body throbbing with denied release. “Simon,” she pleaded.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He looked past Soap, to the massive, quiet man still seated in the armchair. “König. Your turn.”
König stood. The room seemed to shrink. He approached the sofa, his movements deliberate, controlled. Soap moved back, giving him space, wiping his wet fingers on his own jeans.
König looked down at Yaa, his expression unreadable. “You are certain?”
“Yes,” she breathed, spreading her legs wider in invitation.
He didn’t kneel. He simply unbuttoned his trousers, freed his cock. It was as massive as she’d imagined, thick and heavy, the head already glistening. A bolt of pure, animal fear mixed with want shot through her.
“On your knees,” he instructed, his voice a low rumble. “Facing the back of the sofa.”
She scrambled to obey, turning over and getting on her knees, her chest pressed against the sofa cushions. From this position, she could see Simon. He had moved closer, standing just a few feet away, his own arousal evident in the tight press of his jeans. His eyes were dark, burning.
König’s hands, enormous and warm, settled on her hips. He positioned himself behind her, the blunt, broad head of his cock nudging against her entrance. He applied pressure, but didn’t push.
“You must relax,” he said, his tone almost clinical. “Or this will not work.”
She forced a breath out, trying to soften. The sheer size of him was daunting. “I’m trying.”
“Breathe in,” he ordered. She did. As she exhaled, he pushed forward, a relentless, slow invasion that stole the air from her lungs. He was stretching her wider than she’d ever been stretched, a thick, relentless burn that bordered on pain. She cried out, her fingers clawing at the quilt.
He paused, fully seated, buried to the hilt inside her. They were both still, connected. The fullness was overwhelming, a possession that rewired her senses. “You are okay?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”
He began to move. It was not a frantic pounding, but a deep, piston-like rhythm that reached parts of her Soap’s fingers couldn’t touch. Each stroke was a claiming, a fundamental rearranging. The initial burn melted into a devastating, full-body pleasure. He fucked her with a focused intensity, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her steady for his relentless pace.
“Fuck, look at that,” Soap muttered, his voice thick. He had moved to stand beside Simon, watching König’s massive form drive into Yaa’s smaller one. “Taking it like a fucking champion.”
Simon said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. He was gripping his own cock through his jeans, his knuckles white.
König’s rhythm began to falter, his control slipping. His thrusts became harder, faster, less precise. A guttural groan tore from his throat. “I am close,” he warned, the words gritted out.
“Not inside her,” Simon snapped, the order clear.
With a final, powerful thrust, König pulled out of her. Thick stripes of hot cum shot across the small of Yaa’s back and the curve of her arse, marking her with his release. He stayed hunched over her for a moment, breathing raggedly, before stepping back.
Yaa shuddered, feeling empty and used and profoundly satisfied. The world was fuzzy at the edges. She felt Soap’s hands on her then, turning her over onto her back again. His eyes were wild with hunger.
“My turn again,” he said, undoing his jeans. He was already hard. He didn’t ask. He just positioned himself between her legs, nudged his cock against her—wet with her slickness and König’s spend—and slid home in one smooth stroke.
This was different. Soap was not as thick as König, but he was faster, instantly finding a frenetic, driving rhythm. He braced himself over her, his face inches from hers. “This what you wanted, eh?” he panted, fucking into her with sharp, focused thrusts. “All of us? Filling you up?”
“Yes!” she cried, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The overstimulation was incredible, her sensitive flesh singing with every movement. She was hurtling toward another peak, her body tightening like a coiled spring.
Soap looked over at Simon, a challenge in his eyes. “You just gonna watch, Lt.?”
That was all it took.
Simon was on them in two strides. He gripped Soap by the back of the neck, not pulling him off, but holding him in place. “Move,” he growled.
Soap shifted, still buried inside Yaa, turning them both onto their sides, facing Simon. Yaa was now curled against Soap’s chest, his cock still pistoning inside her from behind, while Simon stood over them.
Simon freed his own cock, thick and angry red. He placed a hand on Yaa’s cheek, guiding her face toward him. “Open,” he commanded.
She understood. She opened her mouth. Simon fed his cock past her lips, groaning as her mouth enveloped him. The taste of him, salt and skin, filled her senses. He began to fuck her face with the same deliberate, powerful rhythm König had used on her cunt.
It was overwhelming. Soap was pounding into her from behind, his grunts hot in her ear. Simon was gripping the back of her head, his hips driving his cock deep into her throat. She was pinned, stuffed, used at both ends. Tears leaked from her eyes, her moans guttural and choked around Simon’s length.
Soap’s thrusts became erratic. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice tight.
“Do it,” Simon grunted, not stopping his own movement.
Soap slammed into her one last time, his body jerking as he emptied himself inside her. She felt the hot pulse of it, joining the mess already there. He collapsed against her back, spent.
Simon pulled his cock from her mouth, a string of spit connecting them. He looked at König, who was watching, his eyes dark, his own cock hardening again. “Hold her,” Simon told him.
König moved forward. He pulled Yaa from Soap’s limp embrace, laying her back on the quilt. He knelt, lifting her legs over his shoulders, spreading her wide. The evidence of both Soap and König’s releases gleamed on her thighs and between her swollen lips.
Simon positioned himself over her, lining up his cock with her ravaged, dripping cunt. He looked down at her, his expression fierce, tender, and utterly possessive. “Mine,” he said, the word a vow.
He pushed inside. The feeling was transcendent. Stretched, filled, claimed by her husband while the others watched. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his eyes locked on hers. “Come for me, Yaa,” he snarled. “Now.”
The command, the overwhelming fullness, the voyeuristic heat of the other men’s gazes—it broke her. Her orgasm crashed through her with the force of a freight train, a silent, screaming wave that convulsed her entire body, clamping down on Simon’s cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
It triggered his own. With a roar that was almost pained, he drove deep and came, flooding her with his release, mixing with what was already there. He collapsed forward, catching himself on his arms above her, breathing ragged gusts of air against her neck.
Silence descended, broken only by the ragged sound of four people trying to remember how to breathe. The air was thick with the smells of sex, sweat, and spent whisky. Yaa felt boneless, wrecked, profoundly connected to all three men in the room.
Soap was the first to speak, his voice hoarse. “Well,” he exhaled. “That’s my fucking shed building sorted for the next decade. Christ.”
A weak, giddy laugh bubbled out of Yaa. Simon raised his head, looking down at her. He brushed her damp curls from her forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. “Alright?”
She nodded, words beyond her. She looked past him to König, who was watching them with a deep, quiet satisfaction, and then to Soap, who gave her a tired, brilliant grin.
It had been an overwhelming, beautiful spectacle. And it was just the beginning.