Chapter 2: Taste
The echo of her confession seemed to hang in the cedar-scented air, a tangible thing the men now circled. Eve’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic prisoner. Jule’s smile didn’t waver.
“A virgin,” he repeated, the word a soft, possessive bite. He glanced at Rhys, then Dun. “That simplifies one thing. It eliminates choice.”
“How?” The word scraped out of Eve’s throat.
Jule’s hand came up, not to touch her, but to gesture, a CEO outlining a hostile takeover. “The contract states you will bear a child for one of us. But the which was always a point of… friendly contention.” A low chuckle from Dun backed him up. “Your inexperience presents an elegant solution. We have two nights here before the car returns. We’ll all have you. Repeatedly. Let nature decide which seed takes. It’s Darwinian, really. The strongest swimmer wins.”
The clinical brutality of it left her cold. She was to be a living petri dish. She stared at the floor, at the intricate pattern of the rug, trying to find an anchor in the spinning room. She thought of the money, the life-altering sum promised. It was the only thought that could pierce the numbness. She gave a small, jerky nod.
“Good girl,” Rhys purred. “Consent is so much more interesting when it’s trembling.”
“But,” Jule continued, his voice slicing through the quiet. “There’s a prerequisite. You’ve never been opened. That requires… acclimation.” He finally reached out, a single finger tipping her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Tonight, no one takes that virginity. Tonight, you learn to come for us. In front of us. Because if you can’t come with our hands and mouths on you, you’ll never survive what comes after.”
The directive was absurd, terrifying. Her body, a clenched fist of fear, was supposed to unclench on command? Under their watching eyes?
“Where?” was all she could ask.
“The master suite,” Dun said, already moving toward the spiraling staircase. “Better lighting. And the bed is the size of a small country.”
They moved as a unit, herding her without touch. Up the stairs, the steps groaning under their weight. The loft opened into a vast space, all dark wood and glass, the storm a wild mural beyond the windows. The bed was indeed massive, a plateau of charcoal linen.
“Clothes off,” Jule said, standing at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t a request.
Her fingers, clumsy and cold, went to the buttons of her simple blouse. She fumbled. Rhys sighed, a sound of theatrical impatience, and stepped forward. “Allow me.” His artist’s hands were swift and efficient, not tender, but not rough either. He peeled the fabric from her, his gaze cataloging every inch of skin revealed. Dun dealt with her jeans, tugging them and her plain cotton underwear down her legs in one motion. She stepped out of them, naked and shivering in the room’s cool air, acutely aware of three pairs of eyes mapping her: the small breasts, the curve of her hips, the vulnerable blonde nest between her thighs.
“On the bed. On your back,” Jule instructed.
She scrambled onto the cool sheets, lying stiff as a cadaver, arms rigid at her sides. The men remained standing, a half-circle of appraisal around the bed.
“This is a demonstration, Eve,” Rhys said, his head cocked. “Not an autopsy. Try to be… present.”
“Who’s first?” Dun asked, rubbing his chin.
“Alphabetical,” Jule said, a thread of dark amusement in his voice. “Devereux, Moreau, Blackwood. An order even she can remember.”
Jule approached. He didn’t join her on the bed immediately. He just looked, his eyes traveling her body with a proprietary intensity that made her skin feel branded. Then he sat on the edge, the mattress dipping. His hand, warm and broad, settled on her stomach. She flinched.
“Relaxation is not optional,” he murmured. His hand slid down, past the tense plane of her abdomen, his fingers combing through the fine hair. He didn’t touch her core, not yet. He simply let his hand rest there, a claim staked. His other hand came up to cup a breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it tightened into a painful peak. “See? The body knows what it wants, even if the mind is screaming.”
He bent his head, his mouth replacing his thumb. The sensation was a lightning bolt—strange, wet, sharp. A sound, a gasp that was almost a sob, escaped her. His hand between her legs began to move, not penetrating, just stroking in slow, maddening circles. He was methodical, relentless, studying her face for every micro-reaction. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin. “Watch them watching you learn.”
She forced her eyelids up. Rhys was leaning against a post, his arms crossed, a faint, fascinated smile on his lips. Dun had pulled a chair closer, sitting forward, elbows on his knees, utterly focused. The humiliation was a live wire. But beneath it, under the terror and the shame, a treacherous thread of sensation began to unspool. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
Jule felt it. His finger slid lower, finding the swollen nub of her clit. He applied pressure, a precise, circular rhythm. His mouth moved to her other breast. The dual assault was overwhelming. The coil of tension in her belly, one she never knew existed, began to tighten. Her breaths came in short pants. She was mortified. She was melting.
“There it is,” Jule said, lifting his head. His finger never stopped its devastating orbit. “That’s the edge. Go on. Fall.”
She shook her head, a weak denial. She couldn’t. Not here, not like this.
“Do it,” Dun said, his voice husky.
“Let us see,” Rhys added, softly.
The permission, the demand, broke something. The coil snapped. A wave crashed through her, silent at first, a vast, inner rupture that arched her back off the bed. A high, thin cry followed, torn from her lungs. Her body shuddered, uncontrolled, as the pleasure, bright and shocking, electrified her nerves.
Jule removed his hand as the last tremor subsided. He looked at his glistening fingers, then at her wrecked expression. “One,” he said, matter-of-factly.
He moved away. Eve lay boneless, gasping, the aftershocks making her twitch. She had no time to recover. The weight on the bed shifted.
Rhys. He smelled of turpentine and clean linen. His touch was different—lighter, more inquisitive. He traced the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw. “Such a vivid response,” he mused. “Like a canvas reacting to the brush.” He didn’t kiss her. He simply lowered his mouth between her legs.
The difference was immediate. Where Jule was direct, Rhys was experimental. He licked and sucked with a painter’s variation in pressure and tempo. He’d slow to a near-stop, making her whimper, then dart his tongue with shocking speed. He held her hips down when they tried to buck, pinning her for his examination. He was cataloging her sounds, her movements, storing them away. The climb this time was less of a shock, but faster, a sly, cunning buildup that cornered her. She came again with a choked gasp, her hands fisting in his dark hair, not to push him away, but to hold on.
Rhys withdrew, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Two.”
Dun was there before the last pulse had faded. His youth translated to a hungry, impatient energy. He kissed her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting of whiskey. He was less interested in finesse, more in reaction. His fingers plunged into her wetness, not inside, but scissoring, stretching, making her cry out at the unfamiliar sensation. He watched her face, his own flushed with arousal.
“Come on, girl,” he muttered, his breath hot against her neck. “Once more for the team. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
His thumb worked her clit with a frantic, technical precision that felt like being tuned to a breaking point. The orgasm, when it hit, was less a wave and more a sharp, sustained detonation. She screamed, the sound raw and broken, her vision spotting at the edges.
Dun laughed, a breathless, triumphant sound. “Three. Hell yeah.”
He rolled away. Eve was dissolved. A creature of pure sensation and trembling exhaustion. She felt used, hollowed out, and terrifyingly awake in ways she never knew possible. She heard the rustle of clothing, low voices.
Cracking open an eye, she saw them. All three were standing again, closer to the bed. They were still fully naked, their arousal evident, thick and heavy against their bodies. They weren’t touching themselves, not yet. They were just watching her, their breaths not quite even, a silent, shared hunger hanging in the space between them and her ravaged body on the sheets.
The storm outside battered the glass. Inside, the only sound was the ragged saw of her own breathing and the low, approving hum of theirs.