Yumna lay sprawled across the bed, still catching her breath, the marks from Haris's nails fading on her thighs. Musab sat at the edge, one hand resting on her ankle, the other reaching for his phone. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something settled.
"So." Yumna rolled onto her side, grinning. "You gonna tell me what you said to him? After?"
"Told him to delete everything. Told him if he ever touched you again, I'd bury him." Musab shrugged. "He believed me."
"Hmm." She traced a finger along his calf. "And now? What about my sister?"
Musab turned, looking at her. "You want her to join?"
"Not want." Yumna's grin widened. "I'm saying she will. I already talked to her."
He let out a breath. "You don't waste time."
"Neither do you." She sat up, her mouth finding his. "You'll like her. She's got my mouth."
The morning came in gold through the villa's windows. Musab found Alina on the balcony, staring out at the pool, her arms wrapped around herself. The air between them was still fragile. He stopped at the door.
"Hey."
She turned. Her eyes were red at the edges, but dry now. "Hey."
He crossed the tiles slowly. Leaned against the railing beside her, not too close. The heat was already building, the sun a low hammer.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't thinking straight. I lost it."
"Don't worry, my girl." He said it soft. "It's all good."
She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face. "Is it?"
He met her gaze. "Yeah. And yeah — no matter how many girls, no one is better than you. Abeeha is good, but you… you are my treasure."
Her lips parted. Something in her chest unhooked.
Yumna appeared in the doorway, half-dressed, hair a mess. "Yeah, yeah. But I suck deeper."
Alina laughed. It cracked, then caught, then became real. Musab shook his head, grinning. Yumna padded over and wrapped her arms around both of them from behind.
"Group hug," she announced. "Now can we eat? I'm starving."
The villa settled into a new rhythm. Things opened. Abeeha moved into the guest room without hesitation, her bag already packed, her grin aimed at Musab every time she passed him in the hall. Alina watched, waited, then let herself laugh one night when Abeeha stole the last slice of pizza off her plate.
"You're just like your sister."
"Better," Abeeha said, chewing. "I don't snore."
"I don't snore."
"You do. Yumna confirmed."
The nights became long. Musab took Abeeha for the first time in the penthouse — the one he had just bought, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city, a bed the size of a car. She was on her back, her dark hair fanned across the sheets, and he pushed into her slow, watching her face, the way her lips parted, the way her fingers dug into his shoulders.
"Fuck," she breathed. "You feel—"
"Good?"
"Don't stop."
He didn't.
Alina watched from the doorway the second time. She had been invited. The first time she just watched, then she crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, her mouth finding Abeeha's, their tongues meeting while Musab moved behind her. He lined himself up and slid into Alina from behind, fucking both of them as their bodies pressed together, their clits grinding, their hands in each other's hair.
"Like this," Abeeha gasped against Alina's mouth. "Fuck, yes—"
Musab reached around and pressed his thumb against Abeeha's clit while he fucked Alina. The rhythm found itself. Alina's hips rocked back against him, her mouth still on Abeeha's, and he watched the two of them kiss while he pushed deeper, faster, until Alina's thighs started shaking.
"I'm gonna—"
"Come on her," Musab said. "I want to watch you come on her."
Alina cried out, her body arching, her cunt clenching around him. Abeeha held her through it, hands on her hips, mouth on her throat. Musab pulled out and turned Abeeha onto her stomach, spreading her legs, and pushed into her from behind. He was still wet from Alina, and the sound Abeeha made was raw and hungry.
After, they lay tangled. Abeeha's back against his chest, Alina's head on his arm. The city lights blinked below.
"That's a pretty tattoo," Alina said, tracing the ink on Abeeha's ribs. A small crescent moon.
"Thanks. Got it last year." Abeeha shifted. "I'm thinking of getting another."
"Me too," Alina said. "On my clit. Small hearts." She looked at Musab. "Is that okay? Something you'd like?"
He pulled her closer. "Yeah. I'd like that."
The nights continued. Alina got the tattoo — tiny red hearts, delicate, hidden. She showed him in the bathroom light, legs spread, fingers parting herself. He knelt and pressed his mouth to it.
"Perfect," he said against her skin. "My girl."
The villa filled with laughter. Anabia found him in the study one afternoon, locked the door, and dropped to her knees without a word. She took him into her throat and held there, her hands gripping his thighs, her eyes closed. He came with a fistful of her golden hair and watched her swallow every drop.
"Missed that," she said, wiping her mouth.
Ayesha cornered him in the shower that same week. The water ran hot over both of them, steam thick, and she pressed him against the tile and rode him slow, her breasts heavy against his chest, her mouth open against his neck. The water pooled between them, and when she came, she bit his shoulder to keep quiet.
Yumna was rougher. She always was. She dragged him to the pool house, pushed him onto the couch, and rode him until the cushion was ruined. She slapped his chest and told him to fuck her harder, and he did, gripping her hips, pulling her down onto his cock until she screamed.
Sundays became holy. Pool days. The four of them — Alina, Abeeha, Anabia, Yumna, Ayesha — in bikinis and bare skin, floating on rafts, drinking something cold. Musab sat on the edge, watching them, feeling full in a way he couldn't name.
Anabia swam over and pulled him in. He hit the water and came up laughing, and she kissed him, salt and chlorine, her legs wrapping around his waist. Alina cannonballed beside them, soaking everyone, and Yumna grabbed Abeeha and spun her in a circle until they both fell into the deep end.
Later, on the loungers, limbs drying in the sun. Musab lay with his eyes closed, a girl on each side. Alina's hand traced patterns on his chest. Abeeha's head rested on his thigh. Yumna was dipping her toes in the water, still half in her bikini, watching them with a lazy smile.
"This is good," Ayesha said, her voice quiet. "This is really good."
No one argued.
The years slipped past like water through cupped hands. School ended. Graduation came in a blur of robes and photos and promises. Everyone scattered, but the Sunday rule never broke.
Anabia moved to Los Angeles. Six months later, her face was on a billboard. The movie was a thriller — she played a detective's wife — and critics called her "electric." Musab flew out for the premiere, watched her walk the red carpet in a silver dress, and felt something swell in his chest. She found him backstage afterward, back against the wall, her mouth on his.
"I want you," she breathed. "Right here."
He fucked her against the dressing room door, her dress pushed up, her thighs wrapped around him, and she came with her mouth pressed to his shoulder to keep quiet. The crowd outside had no idea.
He opened a production company. Her movies became his movies. They won awards together — sat at tables with champagne flutes and cameras flashing, and under the table, her hand was on his thigh. At the after-parties, in the limos, on his private plane — she found him. Every time. Hungry.
Alina hit Milan. Paris. New York. Her body became a weapon on the runway, her face a brand. She walked for names Musab had only seen in magazines, and he paid for her shows, sat front row, watched her own the light. After, in the hotel room, he made her wear the dress — the same one she had closed the show in. He unzipped it slow, pushed it off her shoulders, and fucked her on the king bed with the city glittering below.
"You're mine," he said against her throat. "My treasure."
"Always," she said. "Always."
Ayesha became a doctor. White coat, stethoscope, a body that had filled out in ways that made male patients stammer. Musab visited her hospital, asked for a checkup. She closed the door, locked it, and dropped to her knees behind the examination table. He sat on the edge and let her suck him while the intercom called for Dr. Reyes in cardiology.
He fucked her on the desk once — her legs spread, her white coat open, her bra undone. Her moans slipped under the door, and a nurse knocked once, then walked away.
Yumna became a star in another world. Her videos hit millions. She did gangbangs, cuckold scenes, orgies — the rougher, the better. But for Musab, she was still the same. She came to the villa every week, a bag of powder in her purse, a fresh tattoo somewhere new. Her neck said his name. Her collarbone said owned. Her clit had a crown above a heart with M.M. inside it.
Some nights she was feral. She sniffed a line before she walked through the door, her eyes wide and bright, and she rode him until he came dry and she was still grinding, still hungry, the cum leaking out of both her holes while she kept going. He held her hips and let her take what she needed.
Abeeha stayed. She ran his office, managed his calendar, answered his calls. She fucked him on the desk during lunch breaks, in the bathroom before meetings, in the penthouse with Alina every Thursday night. She was the glue. The one who made sure everyone had what they needed, including him.
The Sundays never broke. The pool at the villa became a gathering of six bodies, laughing, drinking, skin against skin. Sometimes Anabia was in town between shoots, her sunglasses pushed up, her body wet. Sometimes Alina and Abeeha were a tangle on a lounger, kissing slowly while the others watched. Ayesha carried a tray of drinks from the kitchen, her white bikini the only fabric in sight.
And Yumna — Yumna was always there, a joint in her hand, a grin on her face, her body marked with the proof that she belonged.
They traveled together. Maldives — a private villa over the water, the six of them naked on the deck, Musab fucking Anabia while Yumna watched from the hot tub. Bali — camping in the hills, a tent big enough for all of them, the sound of jungle rain on the canvas while bodies moved in the dark. Musab's private plane — a king bed in the back, the six of them falling into each other at 40,000 feet, the autopilot silent, the stars too close to count.
It was messy. It was loud. It was full.
And everyone got exactly what they wanted.