Chapter 11: Dukes of Peril: Chapter 11

Remy and I ride home in the back seat together. Nick and Sy are in the front, and every now and then, one of them will shoot us furtive looks, Nick glancing back while his brother peers through the rearview. There’s a low vibration running between the brothers, like they’re afraid to ask what transpired in the lounge. Or maybe they already know. These men know one another inside and out. I’m the new one here, learning to understand the shorthand that passes between them. The looks. The gestures.

Like Remy’s hands never leaving my body.

Right now, he’s stroking my thigh, his green eyes fixed to the patch of skin like he’s greeting it after returning from a long deployment in a war. Every street we pass, his fingers change course for a new destination, tickling the thin skin of my inner elbow, caressing the bruises on my knuckles, tracing the edge of my collarbone. It’s almost like he needs to learn my body again–making up for lost time.

I let him, because every touch makes me shiver in a new way, even though both of us are fucked out and exhausted when we finally arrive at the tower.

The climb to the top is quiet and slow, but somehow, there’s still a restless energy flowing between all of us. It’s in Nick’s blue eyes when he passes me nearing the party room, his knuckles grazing mine before sliding away.

When we reach the top, Sy lets us in, holding the door for each of us as we filter through. Both brothers watch as Remy hems me in against the arch by the kitchen, caging me with his body.

“Come to my room tonight,” he says, forearm resting over my head. He towers over me, lean but muscular, the hem of his shirt rising up to give me a tease of the strip of flesh above his low-slung jeans. As I’m staring at it–

, maybe I’ve been missing his skin, too–he tucks his thumb into my shorts and circles the pad of it over the star, sending flares of heat radiating outward. “Please?” he adds, quiet and coaxing.

My eyes narrow. “What’s this idea of yours?” I ask. Although I’m partly nervous, I also can’t deny the part of me that’s excited, curious. With Remington Maddox, you never fucking know.

His green eyes search mine, curious in their own way. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

In case this idea of his involves more emotionally wrought, athletic sex, I warn, “Okay, but just so you know, I’m gonna need about ten ibuprofen and a heating pad.” I wince at a spot on my side. “You were right. Haley’s dirty.”

“Yeah,” he says, dipping his head to lazily lick my lips, “but you’re our badass Duchess, and dirtier.”

Across the room, I don’t miss the look exchanged between Sy and Nick. They’re not happy to have another night without me, but this thing with Remy is fresh and more fragile than ever. I don’t know where it’s leading, but I know I have to find out.

So I relent, body giving up its tension as he strokes the star on my hip. “Meet you in a minute? I need to change.”

His eyes brighten, and it’s odd. I’ve never seen Remy cautiously happy like this. He’s always either on or off, all or nothing. Now, however, he whispers, “Okay, Vinny,” and slowly drags his touch from me, sauntering away.

After clamping down on the part of myself that wants to chase him, I make a beeline for the spiral staircase to my loft, jolting in surprise when Nick stops me.

He grabs my wrist, pulling me into the wall of his body. “All night?” he asks, eyes hard and unhappy.

Nervous at his expression, I don’t bother bringing up that he’s the one who stayed away last night. “Nick.” I press my palm to his warm chest. “I won,” I say, hoping that’s enough to soothe this quiet intensity. It’s not often that I fight for something and win it, and the truth is, I don’t even know what that means yet.

But I want to find out–so badly that my blood is buzzing with it.

Nick holds my gaze, nodding. “I get it. To the victor go the spoils.” But then he pitches forward, lips brushing across mine. “You could set an alarm, though.”

“Oh, my god.” One hand pushes him away while the other drags him back, my fingers twisting in his shirt. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not waking up in the middle of the night to come back out here and fuck you.”

It’s only when I catch his gaze, seeing the sharp downturn of his mouth, that I realize what this stony, dark expression of his is.

He’s .

I’m so caught up in the dawning appreciation that when he reaches between my legs, hooking his fingers into the crotch of my shorts, I can’t do much more than lock up in surprise.

His fingers instantly find my hole, shoulder dropping as he pushes one inside. My jaw goes slack, hands catching his biceps to steady myself, and he freezes.

Nick stares into my eyes, a slow smirk pulling at his cheek. “He already fucked you.” At my jerky nod, he groans. “Fuck, I bet it was hot.”

Seeing that horny ember in his eyes growing, I bat his hand away. “It was also exhausting, and I’m too sore to do anything more tonight.”

His big hands palm my ass, the expression on his face intent. “Tomorrow.”

“I know.”

He tilts my chin up. “I’m serious, Little Bird.”

I see it in his eyes, a promise that might feel like a threat if I didn’t know better. A little niggle in the back of my mind wonders how long I could make him wait, but I still agree, “Tomorrow, I promise.” This man is hungry for me and now that we’ve started this up, there’s no going back.

His hands slide up my sides until he reaches my breasts and cups them in his hands. “At least send me a picture of your tits. I need something to jerk off to tonight.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure you can use your imagination.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Fuck, you’re killing me.” He kisses me again, squeezing my tits and running his thumbs over my nipples until they harden into peaks. I know it’s an attempt to get me horny for him and it’s not going to work.

Well, it’s absolutely going to work, but unlike the three of them, I actually have some self-control.

I pat his chest. “Goodnight, Nick.”

“Fine.” His shoulders drop in defeat, but when I turn to climb the stairs, he brings a palm down hard on my ass, the reverberating through the room. His smirk shines back at me when I yelp, whirling an outraged stare at him. He shrugs, sauntering backward toward his bedroom. “I’ll work off memory.”

I flip him off before returning to my task, going upstairs to change. When I come back down in a loose sweatshirt and pajama shorts, Sy is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a glass of water and two familiar capsules.

I stop short, surprised at the thoughtfulness. “Thank you.” I pop them in my mouth and swallow them down, wincing when the glass presses against my busted lip.

After taking the glass back, he reaches out, knuckles gently brushing the wound. “You kicked ass out there tonight.”

“I learned from the best.”

Sy’s eyes soften, fingers tilting my head to inspect the scratch on my cheek. “I’m not claiming responsibility for those chick moves, but they were effective enough. You stood up when you needed to, just like a Duke.” His eyes dart to Remy’s closed door. “You two good now?”

“I think so,” I say, following his gaze. “We will be.”

“Thank fucking Christ.” He looks to the ceiling like he may actually be thanking God. “Not that I think you’ll need it, but I’m next door if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.” But he’s right. I don’t need a protector in this house. Not anymore.

I tap on Remy’s door, and he calls me to come in. When I push it open, it’s dark inside. It’d be pitch black except for the singular lamp casting a harsh glow on his body. He’s sitting on his tattoo table in a pair of boxer briefs, his shirt and pants stripped off. He leans back on his hands and watches as I shut the door, his head cocked back lazily. It’s a struggle to tear my eyes away from the tendons in his throat, shifting to the table where he keeps his instruments.

They’re all lined up, neat and ready.

“You want to tattoo me?” My stomach plummets at the realization, even though the phantom feeling of his needle ghosts over my skin. The first tattoo he gave me, seared like fire into my shoulder blade, was done in the heat of battle, his body pinning mine to the bed that night at the Hideaway. It’s a tattoo that I’m grateful to be unable to see. The second–the star on my hip–was created in a fog of his own delusion, needing a compass to guide him back to reality. The massive moth on my chest took him weeks, hours beneath the heat of that overhead lamp as his green eyes glowed with laser-like intensity. They might vary in pain and intent, but all of them shared a singular thread of unspeakable intimacy.

I don’t think I’m ready to go there with him just yet.

“Actually,” he says, voice clearer than I’ve heard it in weeks, “I want you to tattoo me.”

I stop short. “You want me to ?”

“I’m yours,” he explains, tipping his head toward the tattoo gun. “Make your mark. Anywhere you want, anything you want.”

Wringing my hands, I start, “I don’t know…”

“Vinny,” he says, dark eyes capturing mine. “No one’s ever tattooed me before. No girl, not even another guy. This is all mine.” He dips his eyes to his body, to the intricate designs over his chest, arms, torso. “But now it’s yours, too. So go ahead. Pick a spot.”

Reluctantly, I step forward, eyes roving his skin. His chest and arms are pretty covered, and I can’t imagine adding anything to them. “I’m not good at drawing,” I worry as I walk closer, getting a good look at his neck.

He tilts his head, putting his neck on display for me. “Then I’ll draw whatever you want.”

Anxiously, I round the table, realizing now why his back is a wide, muscular swath of unblemished skin. Unthinkingly, I reach out to run my fingertips over his spine, watching as his skin erupts in goosebumps.

“Fresh meat back there.” He twists his head, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t reach it myself. You should take it. Make it yours.”

Shyly, I confess, “I like it like this,” running my palm down his shoulder. Some of the hardest moments during our time apart were watching him do pull-ups by the windows in the living area, just as fascinated by the wiry, shifting muscles as turned on by them.

So I keep going, rounding the other side of the table pensively.

In the end, it’s incredibly obvious. “Lay back,” I decide, watching as he situates himself on the table. I bite my lip, not missing the significance of this. Remy’s where I usually am, laid out for me like a canvas, hands tucked behind his head as he waits, looking as comfortable as I’ve ever seen him.

Until I reach for the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down.

He yanks his arms back down to his sides, abs flexing and tense. “Uh,” he says, suddenly pale. “Shit, yeah, I guess you would want to do it there.” He stiffens as I tug, revealing a soft patch of pubic hair. “Makes sense–dibs and all.” His eyes drop to the slow reveal of his long, half-hard dick, brows crushing inward. “Just your name, right? What’s ‘Lavinia’, like seven letters?” His voice pitches higher and higher, and then chokes off as I peel his boxer briefs down his legs, his green eyes flying wide. “You’re not going to do your last name too, are you? Because it’s not like there are that many Lavinia’s in Forsyth. If you think about it, initials would work just as–”

“Remy,” I say, throwing his underwear aside. “Relax. I’m not going to tattoo your dick.”

His head thumps back, body sagging in relief. “Oh, thank . Not saying I wouldn’t take it like a man, because–”

“Right here,” I say, thumbing a section right between his dick and hip.

“Yeah?” He eyes it curiously, some of the color returning to his face. “Like yours, huh?”

“Yep.” It’s in the same place as my star, but on the opposite side. “So…” I look around, wondering what to do next.

He stretches out, gesturing loosely to the table. “Gloves first, then wipe the skin down,” he instructs, green eyes following me as I ready the area. The sanctity of the routine washes over me. It’s something I’ve never done, but I’ve avidly watched Remy perform dozens of times, both for me and other people. Choosing my ink, adjusting the lamp, seeing the design in my mind and imagining how it might look on the skin.

By the time I’m ready, the heavy tattoo gun clutched in my hand, Remy looks relaxed, eyes hooded as he watches me with a silent intensity. When I pause, hand inching to his cock only to gently prod it toward his other hip, it twitches in interest.

Remy grins. “You remember, right?”

Nodding, I press the trigger on the gun, carefully dipping the needle into my ink. “Stay still,” I whisper, poised over the area. Before the needle touches him, however, I glance up, feeling skeptical.

He never even asked me what I’m going to draw.

It could be anything.

But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t even look concerned, forearm tucked behind his head as he waits, eyes dark and penetrating. He twitches at the first touch of the needle. I don’t stop, because I understand it’s not pain, but merely surprise, his body greeting the sensation with a little .

I’m positioned right over his thigh, my elbow held awkwardly to avoid grazing his cock as my wrist works the gun, when he touches my hair. Gently, he winds a lock around his forefinger, the weight of his eyes on my every move.

“Is the light always this bright?” he asks in a bizarrely slurred voice.

I dip the needle again, glancing up at his dazed expression. “Yes.”

There’s a beat where nothing but the buzz of the tattoo gun surrounds us, his fingers pulling shivers from my scalp as he strokes the hair. Softly, he offers, “Maybe I’ll blindfold you next time.”

The needle pauses over his skin, but I recover quickly, hearing the statement for what it is. I know from reading Sy’s textbooks that someone with Remy’s condition might be prone to making promises they can’t keep later.

This isn’t a promise, though.

It’s a dream.

I hear it in his voice, the wistfulness of wanting everything to be better, and that’s the only reason I agree. “Okay.”

I get lost in the task for a while, letting his gentle caresses of my hair lull me into a singular focus. Even though the design is small, I can still feel the responsibility of it heavy in my chest. This is something he’ll have forever, my victory immortalized inside his skin. Maybe this new leaf he’s turning won’t last. Maybe he goes off his meds again, or falls back into Scratch, or just gets sick of wanting me.

But this moment, the knowledge that at one time, we fought for it, will last until his decay.

I’m already mostly done when I glance over, startled by the sight that greets me.

His dick is rock-hard.

I look up into his hooded green eyes, exasperated. “Seriously?”

Remy chews his bottom lip, bucking his hips ever so slightly. “Never knew it was like this,” he rumbles, his cock giving an enthusiastic twitch, “feeling someone else do it to me.”

I cut my eyes at his dick again, watching a thin pearl of precum fall onto his belly. “Just a little more.”

When the needle touches his skin again, he lets out a deep, gravelly groan, cock surging. “Fuck.” His fingers twirl my hair, a stark contrast to the urgency of his voice. “Is it as purple for you as it is for me? Every nerve in your body begging to be touched?”

I can feel his heel behind me, grinding hard into the table. “Yes,” I answer honestly. “But this needs to be sterile. No shenanigans.” He looks like he might argue, but then the room goes silent, the tattoo gun ceasing. “There,” I say, carefully wiping down the skin.

“Already?” He pushes up on his elbows to finally look, his eyes so glassy that he might as well be half drunk. He stares at the shape for a long moment, fingers reaching out to ghost around the red edges of the crescent moon.

A somberness falls over us like lead gossamer, and I know we’re both remembering the sky that night.

“When we jumped,” he whispers, looking transfixed, “I wasn’t scared. I knew I couldn’t be, because I had you with me.” His eyes jump to mine, brimming with energy. “I wanted to be strong for you, Vinny. Like Nicky and Sy. Like steel. Like a Bruin.” He touches my face, fingers tracing a tender scratch beneath my temple. “I wanted to hold on to you, Vinny, but the river tore us apart. I knew where you were, even in the dark. My guiding star.” The curve of his grin is mocking and bitter. “But when it mattered, I couldn’t hold on.”

I search his eyes, knowing he’s not only talking about the river. “The first thing I saw from the water was this moon,” I say, eyes fixed to the new ink beside his hip. “And then you were there, dragging me to the shore. Because stars guide the way, but moons–they wax and wane, always revolving.” I pitch closer, willing him to hear me. “You strong, Remy. You were lost in the darkness, but you revolved back to me when I needed you. You saved me from drowning.”

But he’s clawing his fingers through his hair, face lined with misery. “My colors didn’t come with me. They got so lost in the pills and the black, and now I can’t make anything.”

“Hey.” I tug his fingers away from his hair, wincing at how hard he’s pulling. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He shakes his head. “I let you go.”

The red rimming his eyes makes my chest throb. “I didn’t hang on, either,” I insist, remembering how impossible and hopeless it felt. “The current was stronger than us.”

He gives the tattoo another assessing stare, knitting our fingers together. “Not anymore.” When he meets my gaze, his eyes are as bright and alive as the moon. “I won’t let you go again, Vinny.”

I don’t forgive easily. Not my sister. Definitely not my father. But I’ve made exceptions before. The man in front of me deserves some grace and as long as he’s willing to try, I’m willing to give it to him.

As much as I love the library, and yes, the scent of paperbacks is as warm and comforting as a pumpkin spice latte in early fall, sitting at a table in a 4th floor study room with the other house girls takes away the charm.

The door is closed for privacy, but a glass window spreads across the front wall, giving all five of us the sporadic view of passing students. The itchy feeling on my neck, the tension around us thick enough to cut with a knife, tells me this is good. If any shit goes down, there will be witnesses.

“Is everyone clear on their roles?” Story asks, looking around the table. She’s spent the last ten minutes detailing our responsibilities.

Once again, I have both Verity and Story to thank for not looking like a complete idiot in front of the other house girls. Turns out, Bianca, the former Duchess, was the primary organizer of this event last year. Verity had all the details in a notebook stashed in Mama B’s office, although I feel that same twinge of guilt, knowing she only had it because she was meant to be in my place.

Regina nods, her long, glossy black fingernails clicking over the keyboard on her phone. She’s quiet, barely saying a word, but she’s also not disagreeable about anything. Maybe she’s never allowed to be. Then again, maybe she’s just pissed at me for orchestrating the hostage thing between Sy and Maddox. I’d called Ballsack myself, using Nick’s phone, and made sure the whole plan went off without any harm coming to her.

“

” I told Ballsack, “

”

Looking at her now, the way she pointedly avoids my gaze, maybe that little tip-off didn’t gain me as much civility as I’d hoped. After everything I’ve learned about the Barons over the last few weeks, from the night in the crypt with Nick to learning the truth about Maddox, the more curious I am.

“Do you think Autumn has the details from last year?” Piper, the Princess, asks from the seat next to mine. She looks like a neurotic Barbie doll. Massive chest. Tiny waist. Chestnut hair pulled up into a tight, slicked-back, fluffy ponytail. Not exactly sure how she’s supposed to get a baby past those narrow hips. “My time is pretty limited right now and the last thing I need is more stress.”

Stressed is exactly how she looks, eyes going constantly to her phone. The crown ring on her finger gleams silver every time she smooths back her hair, something a Princess is only given when she conceives.

As much as I want to know about the Baroness, I’m perfectly fine staying in the dark about the Princess. What I do know is that the role is coveted. Girls all across Forsyth, from freshmen to post-grad, all pray for the chance to produce the next PNZ heir. But if Wicker Ashby is an example of the kind of fuckboy pedigree that comes with the opportunity, then God help her.

“You can try,” Story says, frowning at the mention of last year’s Princess. I remember Autumn from the night Felix was killed, and I rescued Archie from that shithole apartment. “I know she’s still local.” Story shifts her focus across the table. “Sutton, we good?”

I stiffen to realize Sutton is staring vacantly at me from across the table, her fingers either scratching at the scabs on her forearm or twisting in the necklace around her neck. She hasn’t spoken since she got here, although she did kick the leg of my chair on the way to her seat.

“Sutton,” Story says again, this time louder.

The Countess’ eyes snap up, making the rings underneath more noticeable. “Yeah. Beer and food. Whatever.”

The rest of us exchange wary looks. Beer and food are mandatory for any successful event, but for a crowd of college students? It’s an absolute necessity.

“If you need some help,” Story says in a forced, polite tone, “I’m sure we can adjust the plan.”

Sutton’s eyes flare with anger. “What I need is for someone to rein in her psycho boyfriend.”

I look around the table. To be fair, any one of us can be accused of having a ‘psycho boyfriend’, but when her eyes snap to mine, it’s clear who she’s talking about.

she’s talking about. Although we also all know there’s zero actual proof Nick killed anyone. Thanks to the fucking Barons.

“North Side is crumbling, you’ll be happy to know.” Sutton gives me a flat, humorless smile. “Charity work isn’t exactly a priority to us right now.”

“Why?” Regina snaps, abandoning her phone. “Because the drug trade is more profitable?”

“Fuck off, Elvira,” Sutton says, but doesn’t deny it. She shifts her gaze back to me, clearly not finished, and flashes a winning smile. “Duchess, you’re on rides and entertainment, right?”

I nod, not sure where this is going.

“Well, you should probably switch jobs with the Lady,” she gestures to Story, “because last year, Bianca lost her deposit from all the blood and semen she and her Lords left in the goddamn fun house.”

I had actually seen something about that in the margins of Bianca’s notes.

Story’s cheeks turn red, and she stands, slamming her palms on the table. “You’re lucky that blood didn’t belong to psycho boyfriend! After what Perez did to me, he deserved worse!”

Sutton and I hop up at the same time, her to lunge over the table at Story, me to stop her. The Princess cowers in her seat, hands clutched over her flat stomach, while Regina slinks back in hers, eyeing the show.

“Look,” I say, voice low. “Perez was living a reckless life, and it finally caught up to him. It happens and you know it.” Looking around the table, I lock eyes with the other girls, adding, “It could be one of ours someday, and we know that, too.” Ignoring how my stomach churns at the thought, I lock eyes with Sutton. “I’m sorry you lost someone who belonged to you, Countess. But North Side isn’t my concern anymore, so if it’s crumbling, then it’s up to you and whatever’s left of my father’s degenerate lapdogs to fix it.”

For the first time since the meeting started, I see a small glimmer of recognition in her eyes, and it legitimately startles me. Sutton is in deeper than I ever knew, pumped up on Scratch and barely functioning. Her fingers drop to her neck, scratching red streaks in her pale skin. “I’m not dealing with a bunch of traitors and whores,” she says, turning abruptly and walking out of the room. “I’m out.”

The room is quiet for a moment until the Princess sighs. “Does that mean one of us has to deal with the booze?”

“I’ll do it,” Story says, still glaring in Sutton’s wake. “Us whores have whorehouses, and the Velvet Hideaway already has a liquor license.”

“I’ll help,” I offer, edging away from the table. The less time with these girls, the better. “I need to get everything together for the alumni poker game, anyway.”

Regina and Piper hop up and quickly leave, probably hoping they don’t get roped into more work. I gather my things while Story’s phone buzzes and she shoots off a quick text.

“Hey.” I reluctantly stop her before we leave the room. “Should we.. do something about Sutton?”

Story’s head tilts, brows furrowed in confusion. “Why would we?” she asks. “She doesn’t exactly pose much of a risk without her attack dog.”

I shrug, balancing my notebooks. “I don’t know. Maybe because my family is part of the reason she’s… like that.”

She doesn’t look any less confused. “Like what?”

Awkwardly, I reply, “Addicted to Viper Scratch. Countess to a dead Royal. Victim of a crumbling territory?”

Story deflates, eyes sympathetic. “You were right before, Lavinia. North Side isn’t your problem any more than it’s mine, or Piper’s, or Regina’s. Take it from someone with some pretty heavy baggage in this department.” She gives me a significant look. “Your parents’ sins aren’t yours to answer for. North Side is going to sink or swim, and I think both of us agree which option we’re rooting for.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m rooting for it,” I say, although the denial is weak. At Story’s baffled expression, I try to explain. “Look, my sister could have been her. Hell, I could have been her.”

Story argues, “But you aren’t. You’re you. Duchess to three chaos goblins, leader of cutsluts, the hot talk of West End and apparently a pretty scrappy fighter to boot.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Until I take your ass down on Screw Year’s Eve, that is. I the reigning bitch.”

I bark a dry laugh, following her out. “Oh, Lady. I’m going to make you eat those words with so much Jell-O.”

She glances at me over her shoulder. “Hey, we could always throw it. Give them a show and make out at the end?” Her wink makes me laugh a little more genuinely.

“I can’t decide which of my Dukes would have an aneurysm or cream their pants.”

Story shoots me a wry smirk. “Well, we both know where on that spectrum Tristian would fall.” She jabs a thumb toward the elevator, where I’m only now noticing her Lord, Killian Payne, is waiting. “That one, however…” She rolls her eyes.

I eye him. The bulking mass. The crazy laser-eyes he has for her. The aggressive, borderline-hostile posture. “He’s the psycho boyfriend, huh?”

She walks backward, smiling. “All day, and definitely all night. Later, Lav!”

“Later,” I say, but the second she turns, I bring a palm down on her ass, fighting a smile at the scandalized look she throws at me.

“Traitor.”

“Whore.”

She flips me the bird as she saunters up to Killian, whose crazy laser-eyes are very close to jumping right out of his sockets. He looks between us before finally pinning her with a stare, hauling Story into the open elevator. I can’t hear what he says when he ducks down, whispering into her ear, but before the doors slide closed, I catch her deep, scarlet blush, his hand reaching down to grip a hard handful of the ass cheek I just whacked. Right as the doors meet, I see a flash of his kiss, just as aggressive as the rest of him.

Twenty bucks and my pistol says they’re going to fuck in that elevator.

A flicker of emotion sparks in my belly at the thought.

Envy.

Not because of the sex. God, no. I have three men fulfilling every desire I could possibly dream up. No, I’m envious of the fact she stepped into that elevator without falling apart. Just watching the doors shut makes my heart hammer anxiously and a sheen of sweat coat the back of my neck.

Maybe that’s why I asked her about Sutton. Story was right about us both wanting to see North Side fall, but I still carry a part of it inside me, like a festering infection. Until I get rid of it, North Side will always carry a part of me, too.

My phone vibrates, jarring me from my thoughts.

Rolling my eyes, I head toward the emergency stairs, moving quickly. I’m perfectly aware that Nick is starting to lose patience with our time apart. I keep expecting him to start shit with one of the others, because recently–if briefly–Nick had me all to himself, and now he has to share. But it’s not like that.

It’s like .

I start to text him again, to let him know I’m on my way down, when the door to the stairwell opens and I’m pulled inside.

“Beat you,” Nick says, arm sliding around my waist.

“Jesus, you scared me.” My shoulders loosen a little, but my heart hasn’t settled from the surprise.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “Time’s up.”

My pulse thrums as he leans in, mouth meeting mine in a sharp, bruising kiss. The split in my lip is still tender, but I hardly feel the throb when he coaxes my lips apart, sliding his hot tongue between them.

Being with Nick is always a swooping thrill, like dropping from the highest point of a rollercoaster for the very first time, and I’m just happy to be along for the ride. The feel of his hands on me, the pressure against my tense muscles, and the invasion of my mouth is all secondary to what’s driving it. The growl I can feel building in his throat, the way his hands keep moving from my tits to my ass, back to my face, like he wants to consume me all at once–it buzzes with a frantic need.

Nick once said no one could ever want me as much as he does.

That’s exactly how being with him feels.

It makes my prior anxiety slip away, hot arousal taking its place. I groan in approval, arching into his body, and he hums in response.

“You missed me too, didn’t you?” he asks, tipping my chin up to mouth at my throat.

“Yes.” I flatten my hands on his chest, running them down to the hard muscle of his abdomen. I stop at his buckle, panting as he sucks a painful bruise into my neck, and then begin clawing it open. Tugging at the waistband, I shove my hand inside to reach for his cock, finding it hard and radiating heat. “And this,” I whisper, stroking the length.

He shudders, forehead landing on mine. “Shit, Lavinia.” His cock swells in my hand, sparking warmth in my lower belly, but nothing is hotter than the way he’s looking at me, hooded and desperate.

I touch the sticky precum gathering on his tip, spreading it messily over the head of his cock. “I want to feel you in me, Nick.”

My request triggers something. I sense it in his rippling muscles, his clutching hands, the way his pupils blow wide, leaving nothing but the barest ring of blue. His face goes hard and intent, and then he’s grabbing the hem of my skirt and yanking up the fabric.

My breath catches as he wrenches my panties aside, eyes boring into me as his fingers trail over my clit. “Oh, fuck,” I breathe, knees wobbling.

“This,” he rumbles, fingers finding the slickness building in my folds, “is never off limits to me. You’re mine now, Little Bird. Do you understand what that means?”

I nod absently, fervently. He could ask me to magically grow a third tit and I’d probably agree when he’s looking at me like this, so unbearably intense. But when I say, “I understand,” I’m telling the truth. Giving myself to Nick wasn’t something I did lightly. A person doesn’t chain themselves to an atomic bomb without considering the ramifications. “You don’t want a third of me,” I say, driving this home. “You want it all.”

The lines on his face slowly ease, punctuated by my measured tugs on his cock. “So long as we’re clear.” His mouth crashes against mine, a groan reverberating between us, and I forget to consider how there simply isn’t enough of me to go around. Instead, I get lost in his rough whisper. “Fuck, I love how wet you get for me. Your pussy knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

Liquid heat pools between my legs and he tears his mouth away, spinning me around to bend over the rail. My ass juts out, pressing against his crotch.

“Hold on to that railing, Little Bird,” he tells me. I comply, wrapping my hands around the cool metal, listening to the sound of his zipper lowering. A second later, I feel the sticky tip of his cock slotting between my legs. I spread open, giving him access to my entrance, where he nudges at my pussy. “That’s my girl.”

My back arches and his hands grab my hips, lifting my body as he guides himself inside with a quick, impatient punch.

“

” I gasp, surging forward. The rail hits my abdomen, and my knuckles turn white against the black painted metal. I relish the feel of him inside, the push of his cock expanding against my walls. I look over my shoulder and beg, “Deeper.”

His hand shoots outward, wrapping around my neck, tilting my face so he can kiss me. His tongue burns hot in my mouth as he rocks his hips, dragging his cock out before slamming in again. “What did you two do last night?” he asks.

Biting down on a cry, my body jolts with another thrust. “We fucked.”

“Where?”

“At the gym,” I answer.

A gritty rumble escapes his throat, and then his hand dips down, fingers trailing down the cleft of my ass. “I meant ,” he says, fingertip pushing into the rim of my asshole.

I freeze, eyes widening. “Not !”

Dragging his hips back, he drives me into the rail with another slam of his hips. The force of our bodies meeting sinks the tip of his forefinger into my ass, making me hiss. Nick’s breath washes over the shell of my ear. “You know he wants it, don’t you? This pretty little ass of yours taking his cock.”

“He’s mentioned it,” I say, feeling Nick swelling inside me, his fingertip teasing at my rim.

He can feel me, too. “Fuck,” he groans, slamming a hand over mine on the rail. “Your pussy’s getting so wet for this. You’d like it, wouldn’t you?”

The truth is, if Nick had asked me that ten minutes ago, I would have said no. Now, I’m spreading my thighs for him, neck straining as I gulp in large, hungry breaths. “Deeper,” I demand, shoving my hips back. It makes his finger sink inside my ass, my belly erupting with rabid flutters. “Oh, god, Nick…”

His breath is just as quick and stilted as mine, and he lets loose a deranged rumble into my ear. “You better come fast, Little Bird, because I’m not gonna last much longer.”

The command spurs me on, and I bear down on his cock. It’s his turn to gasp, and he pours all of that desire into the slam of his hips, fucking me out of any other emotion that isn’t about him. My pussy clenches, tightening its grip around his cock. True to his word, the instant the orgasm rips through me, Nick grabs onto my hips and drops his forehead to the base of my neck, shuddering to his own release.

I cling to the railing, legs wobbly and numb. Without removing his cock, he wraps his arms around my body and kisses my neck. He asks, “That’s all you did? Just fucked at the gym?”

He almost sounds… disappointed.

“No,” I answer truthfully. “I tattooed him, and then we went to sleep.”

Nick’s breath stutters, arms tightening. “He let you–you inked him? Like, real ink, not a marker or–”

“A real tattoo,” I confirm, still winded and dazed. Fucking Nick Bruin is better than I imagine what it’s like to take Scratch. My muscles are loose, my breathing unsteady, not out of panic but exertion.

He kisses me again and pulls out, immediately dipping his fingers between my legs to catch any cum dripping down my thighs. I squirm against him as he pushes it back inside, fingers warm in my pussy.

“He’s never let anyone do that before,” he says, fucking his cum back into me. On one of these finger thrusts, he catches another drip and gently eases it into my asshole with his finger. When I tense, hissing his name, he just coaxes me back down, sliding the tip of his digit past the ring of muscle. “I want one,” he says, voice husky and dark.

It takes a moment to get my jaw unlocked. “One what?”

“A tattoo,” he answers, voice lost in thought as he fingers my ass. “You should mark me up, Little Bird.”

I finally wiggle my hips, nudging his hand away. “You’re jealous of the weirdest things, Nick Bruin.” Maybe that’s a part of why we work–two youngest siblings grasping for what we’re owed.

He watches me with dark eyes as I shimmy my panties back up, stepping forward to hem me in against the rail. “I’m drawing a line,” he says, eyes glued to my mouth. “I sleep where you sleep. Pick a bed–I don’t care whose. Mine. Sy’s. Remy’s. Sleep in the Archduke’s little kitty bed for all I care, but I’m going to be there with you.” His mouth hovers over mine, blue eyes pinging back and forth to capture every inch of my gaze. “Understand?”

I understand.

And more than that?

I’m thrilled.