Marcus pressed through the estate's front door and let it swing shut behind him. The sound echoed through the foyer, swallowed by silk wallpaper and old money. His jaw was still tight from the café, from Elena's face when she'd said his name, from the way she'd walked away with his number in her pocket and guilt in her eyes.
He needed a drink.
He turned toward the bar, then stopped.
From the drawing room, two voices. Melinda's—soft, fragile, the voice of someone still nursing wounds. And another. Lower. Confident. Familiar.
He stepped into the doorway.
Melinda sat on the settee, a cup of tea cooling between her palms. Across from her, a woman with long copper-red hair falling behind her reaching her waist, green eyes that caught the afternoon light, a skirt that rose a few inches past her knees when she crossed her legs. Jessica. Melinda's best friend since childhood. The one who'd introduced her to Madame Isadora's club in the first place.
They both looked up at his sudden appearance.
"Marcus," Melinda said, and something flickered in her eyes—hope, maybe. Or fear. They looked the same on her now.
Jessica smiled. A careful smile. "Marcus. We didn't expect you back so soon."
He leaned against the doorframe, let his gaze settle on her. On the way her blouse fell open at the collar, the curve of her throat, the way her fingers wrapped around her teacup. He hadn't looked at her like this before. Hadn't needed to.
"Jessica," he said, and her name felt different in his mouth now. "I should thank you."
Her smile faltered. "Thank me?"
"For recommending Madame Isadora to my wife." He let the words sit. Watched Jessica's cheeks color. "I've been… making good use of the connection."
Melinda's teacup clinked against its saucer. "Marcus, I don't think—"
"I take my own husband there," Jessica said quickly, and the words tumbled out before she could catch them. Her eyes widened. "To the club, I mean. For his—for our needs."
Marcus's gaze sharpened. He'd known Jessica as Melinda's friend. The proper one. The one who laughed at dinner parties and touched Marcus's arm when she thought no one noticed. But a woman who took her husband to a club like Madame Isadora's—that was a different kind of woman entirely.
"Interesting," he said. And filed it away.
He pushed off the doorframe. "I'll leave you to your tea."
Upstairs. The master bedroom was quiet. Empty.
Natasha's clothes were gone from the chair where she'd left them. Her phone charger, the lipstick she'd left on the nightstand—all vanished. She'd slipped out while he was at the café, while he was thinking about Elena, while Melinda was downstairs pretending her marriage wasn't in pieces.
Rage tightened his chest. Clean. Familiar. He pulled out his phone.
Where are you? — sent.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then: — Penthouse. Your wife told me to leave with her friend standing by— I didn't want cause trouble in your life so I left.
He typed fast, thumb hard against the screen: — Be at the door in thirty minutes. Naked. Kneeling. Don't make me wait.
Sent.
He tossed the phone onto the bed. It bounced once and landed face-up, the screen dark.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Marcus."
Melinda. He didn't turn around. He heard her step inside, heard the soft swish of her skirt, the click of the door closing behind her.
"I wanted to—" She stopped. Started again. "I thought maybe we could talk. About last night."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Marcus, please." Her hand landed on his arm. Light. Trembling. "I know I—I saw you with her. But I understand now. I do. You need—different things. And I can be that. I can try to be that."
He turned. She was wearing a blouse, buttoned covering her throat, a skirt that fell above her knees. She'd attempted something. Lipstick. A flush on her cheeks. She looked like a woman who'd read a magazine article about seduction and followed every instruction.
He was too angry for this. Too frustrated. Too full of Elena's face and Natasha's absence and the hunger that had been building in his chest all morning.
Melinda stepped closer. Her hand found his chest. "Let me show you," she whispered. "Please. Let me show you I can be what you need."
He grabbed her wrist.
She gasped. He shoved her backward. Her legs hit the edge of the bed and she fell onto the mattress, her skirt riding up her thighs, her blouse pulling loose from her waistband.
He was on her before she could breathe, ripping off the blouse.
His mouth found her neck. Rough. No preamble. He bit down and she gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders. "Marcus—"
He didn't answer. He yanked her skirt up, bunched it around her hips. She was wearing underwear—lacy, pink, clearly new. He pulled them aside, didn't bother taking them off. His other hand shoved her blouse up, bared her stomach, her chest.
"Slow down," she whispered. "Please, please slow down—"
He didn't. He unfastened his trousers, freed himself, and pushed into her without warning. She cried out—not pleasure, not pain, something in between—and her body arched beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Oh god, oh god—"
He moved. Hard. Fast. The bed creaked beneath them. Melinda's breath came in short, ragged gasps, her legs trying to find a rhythm, to match his, to grind into him the way she saw Natasha do it— like she imaged it countless times in her dream. But this time it was happening. It was real.
He felt her try. Felt her hips tilt, her muscles clench, her hands slide down his back. She was trying so fucking hard.
Her mouth found his neck. Her tongue, tentative. Her teeth, gentle. "I love you," she whispered against his skin. "I love you, Marcus, I've always—"
His eyes opened.
He looked down.
Her blouse had fallen open. Her chest was bare. Small breasts, nipples peaked, her skin flushed. She was arching into him, trying to press her chest against his, to feel his skin on hers.
The haze cracked. The lust drained out of him like water through fingers.
She was too small. Too eager. Too desperate. Every movement she made was something she'd read about, practiced, planned. A clumsy, hopeful performance for a man who didn't want the curtain to rise.
He pulled out. Rolled off her. The bed dipped as he stood.
"Marcus?" Her voice, thin. Confused.
He didn't look at her. He refastened his trousers, the movement mechanical, cold.
"Marcus, what's wrong?"
He heard her move. Heard the rustle of her skirt as she sat up, the shuffle of her knees on the mattress. She grabbed his arm.
"Please. Please, talk to me. Tell me what I did wrong and I'll fix it. I'll fix anything, just tell me—"
He looked at her then. Her skirt still bunched around her hips. Her panties twisted on one leg. Her blouse hanging open, her small breasts exposed, her nipples still hard from a desire he no longer shared. Her face, flushed. Her eyes, wet.
He saw her. Really saw her. Melinda Blackthorne, the wife he'd never wanted, the woman who loved him with a desperate, starving love he couldn't return. And he saw something else.
Her connection to Elena.
Half-sisters. Elena, who had his number. Elena, who was eighteen and innocent and reluctant. Elena, who might need a reason to trust him.
Melinda was that reason. A bridge. A tool.
He filed the thought away.
"Get out," he said.
She stared at him. "What?"
"Get out."
Her hand tightened on his arm. "No. No, I'm not—you can't just—"
He brushed her off. Walked to the door instead. Left her there, bent over the edge of the bed, her body still humming with unfinished need, her tears finally falling.
He didn't look back.
An hour later, he was in his Aston Martin, the city bleeding past the window. His phone buzzed. Natasha again. He'd ignored her last three messages.
He scrolled to Jessica's contact. Typed. Sent: — Late lunch. My new restaurant on Hastings. I want to hear about your experience with the club. 2pm.
The reply came before he'd merged into traffic: — I'll be there.
The restaurant was glass and steel, floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the space with natural light, greenery hanging from the ceiling, a pond running through the center of the main floor. Open. Airy. The kind of place designed to impress. Satisfied with how it look, as he spent months designing it.
Marcus sat in the downstairs private area, a booth hidden behind a half-wall of ferns, his jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He'd ordered a whiskey. It sat untouched.
He heard her before he saw her. Heels. A confident rhythm. Then she appeared around the fern wall, and he sat up straighter.
Jessica had changed.
Gone was the modest blouse and skirt she'd worn at the estate. She was in a fitted top, deep green, that clung to her torso and showed the curve of her waist. A skirt that stopped mid-thigh, hugging her hips. Her hair was different too—pulled back in a long braid that fell over one shoulder, the tail end brushing her ass. She'd swapped her simple earrings for small gold hoops. A touch of lipstick. A confidence in her posture that hadn't been there this morning.
She looked like a woman who knew exactly what she was walking into.
"Marcus." She slid into the booth across from him. Her smile was careful, but her eyes were bright. "This place is beautiful."
"I own it."
Her eyebrows rose. "Of course you do."
He gestured to the glass in front of him. "Drink?"
"Surprise me."
He signaled a waiter, ordered. Then he leaned back, let his gaze travel over her face, her throat, the hollow at her collarbone, the way the green fabric pulled across her chest.
"So," he said. "The club."
She picked up her water glass, took a sip. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
She laughed. A nervous sound, but she didn't look away. "There was trouble in the bedroom. My husband and I—we'd lost something. A friend recommended Madame Isadora. Said she could help."
"And?"
"And she did." Jessica set down the glass. Her fingers traced the rim. "He enjoys watching me with other people. Men. Women. Doesn't matter. It makes him more enthusiastic afterward. More present. We've been going for three years now."
Marcus leaned forward. "He watches?"
"Yes." Her voice dropped. "He sits in a chair in the corner. Doesn't touch himself. Just watches. And when it's over, he fucks me like I'm the only woman in the world."
His pulse ticked up. "And you?"
"I love it." She held his gaze. "I love being watched. I love knowing he's there. I love the attention.”
The wine arrived. Marcus didn't touch his. He was watching her mouth, the way her lips moved around the words, the way her tongue touched the glass's rim when she drank.
"You're full of surprises," he said.
"So are you." She set the glass down. Her foot brushed his under the table. "I always wondered what it would be like. With you."
"Wondered."
"Since high school." She said it like a confession. "I saw you at the dinners, the fundraisers, with a different girl at your side each time, and I was the girl who couldn't stop looking at you."
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Natasha.
He picked it up, put it on speaker, set it on the table.
"Where are you?" Natasha's voice, whining through the speaker. Petulant. Nervous. "I've been waiting at the hotel. I did what you said. I'm naked. I'm kneeling. And you're not here."
Jessica's eyes widened. Her gaze flicked from the phone to Marcus's face.
"Be good," Marcus said. "And wait."
His hand found the back of Jessica's head, fingers tangling in her braid, and he pulled her in.
The kiss was slow at first. Teasing. His mouth on hers, tasting wine and want. She opened for him, her tongue sliding against his, her breath a soft moan that vibrated through her chest. His other hand found her ass, gripping through the thin fabric of her skirt, pulling her closer.
"Marcus." Natasha's voice wavered. "Who are you with? Is it—has it only been two days and you're already—"
Jessica's foot slid up his calf beneath the table. Her hand found his thigh, fingers light, exploratory.
"Tell me," Natasha said, her voice smaller now. "If you're with someone else, I want to know. I want to—" She paused. "I want to watch."
Marcus looked at Jessica. "She wants to watch."
Jessica's breath caught. Color flooded her cheeks. Her hand tightened on his thigh.
"Do you want that?" he asked. "An audience."
She leaned into him. Her mouth found his, soft, testing. "Yes," she breathed against his lips.
He ended the call. Dropped the phone on the table.
She melted into him, her body molding against his, her fingers curling into his shirt. She kissed him like she'd been waiting years for this moment, and in a way, she had. Her leg lifted, hooking over his thigh, pressing her center against the hard line of his cock through his trousers.
He groaned into her mouth. Ground against her. Felt the damp heat of her through the layers between them.
She pulled back, just enough to trail her lips down his jaw, his throat. "I've thought about this," she whispered against his skin. "So many times. Watching you with Melinda at your side. Wishing it was me instead.”
His grip tightened in her hair. "And now?"
"Now I want to remember every second of however long this will be."
He pushed the straps of her top down her shoulders. The green fabric slipped, baring her breasts. They were smaller than Natasha's, but full, the nipples already peaked, her skin freckled across the tops. He lowered his mouth to them, licking a slow circle around one nipple before sucking it between his lips.
Jessica gasped, her back arching, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "God—yes—"
He took his time. Licking. Sucking. Biting gently. Her breath came in short, sharp moans, her hips grinding against his leg, her skirt bunching higher. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, feeling her tremble beneath his mouth.
When he came back up, her cheeks flushed, her freckles standing out against pinked skin. She looked thoroughly wanted.
"You've surprised me," he said, his voice low. "I thought you were a proper girl. I would have fucked you years ago if I'd known otherwise."
She beamed, breathless. "I've been in love with you for so long, Marcus. But you were already promised to Melinda. I didn't have a chance."
He chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. "I said I'd fuck you. Not make love to you." He watched her face, saw the flicker of embarrassment, the hope that hadn't quite died. "If you think this is more than what it is—if you think I'll fall for you—leave now."
He stood. Buttoned his shirt. Rolled his sleeves back down.
"I'm going to meet my first contract. The girl on the phone. You can come with me, or you can go home."
He walked toward the exit, not looking back.
Behind him, he heard the scramble of her heels, the rustle of fabric as she fixed her clothes. She caught up to him at the stairs, her hand landing on his arm, her breath quick.
"I'm coming," she said. And there was something in her voice that hadn't been there before. Determination. Hope. A willingness to believe she could change his mind, one day, if she stayed long enough.
Marcus didn't answer. He just led her out into the afternoon light, the city waiting, the hotel waiting, Natasha kneeling and naked on the other side of a door.
And somewhere, across town, Melinda was calling Jessica, looking for comfort, not knowing her best friend was already in his car.
The Aston Martin's engine turned over with a low purr. Marcus's hand found the gear shift, his other hand already reaching for the wheel, when Jessica's body pressed against him from the passenger seat. She'd unbuckled before he'd even pulled out of the spot, her mouth finding the hollow of his throat before he could ask what she was doing.
Her lips were warm. Her tongue traced the line of his jaw, soft and deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin. Her hand landed on his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers, squeezing lightly.
"Jessica." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "I'm driving."
"I know." She didn't stop. Her mouth found his ear, her breath hot against the shell of it. "Drive."
He pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other landing on her thigh. Her skin was warm through the thin fabric of her skirt. She'd hitched it higher when she'd climbed in, and now her bare leg pressed against his, her foot finding its way to his calf.
"You're eager," he said.
"I've waited years." Her mouth trailed down his throat again, her teeth grazing his skin. "I'm done waiting."
The city slid past the windows. High-rises. Cafés. People living ordinary lives, unaware of the scene unfolding in the black car gliding through traffic. Marcus's grip tightened on the wheel. His cock was still hard, pressing against his trousers, and Jessica could feel it. Her hand slid higher on his thigh, her fingers brushing the growing bulge.
"Tell me what you want," she said against his skin. "Tell me what you're going to do to me when we get there."
He didn't answer. He took a turn faster than necessary, the tires gripping the asphalt, and Jessica purred — a low, breathless sound that vibrated against his throat.
Her hand found his belt. Undid it with practiced ease, one-handed, the leather sliding free. His trousers loosened. She didn't stop. Her fingers found his zipper, pulled it down, the sound loud in the quiet cabin.
"Jessica." His voice was a warning now. "We're not there yet."
"I know." She was already pushing his trousers down his hips, already freeing his cock from his boxers. It sprang up, thick and hard, and she made a sound — a soft, appreciative hum — before she lowered her mouth to it.
His breath caught. His foot eased off the accelerator. She took him into her mouth, warm and wet, her tongue circling the head, her hand gripping the base. She worked him slowly at first, deliberately, her eyes flicking up to meet his, watching him watch the road while she took him deep.
Traffic lights blurred past. A pedestrian crossed in front of the car, and Marcus's hand found Jessica's hair, gripping the thick braid, holding her steady while she worked. She moaned around him, the vibration traveling through his cock, up his spine, settling hot in his chest.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He ignored it.
Jessica's mouth was relentless. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, her tongue working the underside of his shaft. Her hand cupped his balls, squeezing gently, and his hips bucked involuntary, pushing deeper into her mouth. She didn't flinch. She swallowed around him, took it, kept going.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She pulled back, just enough to speak. "I've wanted to do this since I was seventeen." Her lips brushed the head of his cock as she spoke. "At your graduation party. You were wearing a white tuxedo. I watched you dance with three different girls and I told myself one day — one day — I'd have you."
She took him back into her mouth, deep and slow, and he felt the tip of her tongue trace the vein on the underside. His hand tightened in her hair. The car slowed at a red light, and he let it idle, let the moment stretch, let her have this.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. Loud. Insistent. She ignored it. Her mouth kept working, her cheeks hollowing, her spit slick on his cock.
It buzzed again. And again.
She pulled off with a wet sound, gasping for breath, her hand still wrapped around him. "Who the hell—"
She dug into her purse. Pulled out the phone. The screen lit up with a name.
Melinda.
The name hung between them. Jessica's face went still. Her mouth was wet, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, and she was staring at the phone like it was a snake that had just bitten her.
"Answer it," Marcus said.
Her eyes snapped to his. "What?"
"Answer it."
The light turned green. The car behind them honked. Marcus accelerated, one hand on the wheel, his cock still hard and wet with her spit, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Jessica's thumb hovered over the screen. "She'll hear—"
"She'll hear a friend who's busy. Who's driving. Who can't talk long." He glanced at her. "Answer it."
She took a breath. Swiped to accept. Pressed the phone to her ear.
"Melinda? Hey—" Her voice was breathy, but she covered it well. "I'm in the middle of something, can I call you back?"
A pause. Melinda's voice, tinny through the speaker, too quiet to make out the words.
"I know. I know it was hard. I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer." Another pause. Jessica's hand was still wrapped around Marcus's cock, her grip loose, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. "No, I can't tonight. I have—a thing. With my husband."
The lie came smooth. Easy. Jessica's eyes met Marcus's, and he saw something flicker in them. Shame. Excitement. A cocktail of both.
"I'll call you tomorrow. I promise." She waited. "Okay. Okay. Take care of yourself, Mel. Drink some tea. Get some sleep."
Another pause. Then, softer: "I love you too."
She ended the call. Dropped the phone back into her purse. For a moment, she just sat there, her hand still on him, her breathing uneven.
Then she laughed. A broken sound. "I just—I just told my best friend I loved her while I was holding your cock."
"You did."
"And I'm not sorry." She said it like a discovery. Like she'd found a version of herself she didn't know existed. "I'm not sorry at all."
She lowered her mouth to him again, and this time there was something different in her movements. More urgent. More desperate. Like she was trying to burn the betrayal from her memory, to not feel it.
Marcus let her work. Let her take him deep. Let her gag slightly, pull back, breathe, and go again. His hand stayed in her hair, guiding but not forcing, letting her set the rhythm while he watched the road and the buildings and the afternoon light slanting through the windshield.
His own phone buzzed. Natasha.
He picked it up, held it to his ear without taking his eyes off the road.
"Yes."
"Marcus." Natasha's voice was strained. "I've been waiting. I've been kneeling. My knees hurt."
"Good."
A pause. Then, smaller: "Are you bringing someone?"
He glanced down at Jessica, her head moving in his lap, her mouth slick and hungry. "Yes."
"Oh…Who?"
"Her name is Jessica. She's Melinda's best friend."
Natasha was quiet for a long moment. Then she let out a breath. "Your wife's best friend. You're bringing your wife's best friend to watch. Or to join?"
"Both."
"Okay." Her voice was steady now. "Okay. I'll be ready."
The call ended. Marcus tossed the phone back into the cup holder. His hand found Jessica's hair again, gripping tighter as she moaned around him, her pace quickening, her throat working.
"We're two minutes out," he said.
She pulled back, gasping, her chin slick with spit, her lips red and raw. She looked at him with something like adoration. "Then I'll finish this in the elevator."
She tucked him back into his trousers, did up his belt, smoothed his shirt. By the time he pulled into the hotel's private garage, she was sitting upright in her seat, her skirt still hitched, her top still loose, her hair still mussed from his grip. She looked thoroughly debauched. She looked like she'd never been happier.
He parked. Cut the engine. Turned to her.
"You understand what's about to happen?"
She nodded. "There's a girl upstairs. Naked. Kneeling. Waiting for you."
"And you?"
"I'm going to watch. And then you're going to use me however you want." She said it without hesitation. "That's what I'm here for."
He studied her face. The flush on her cheeks. The brightness in her eyes. The way she said it like a vow.
"Get out," he said.
She did. He followed. The garage was cool and dim, echoing with the distant hum of ventilation. His footsteps were steady on the concrete. Hers were quicker, lighter, her heels clicking as she hurried to keep up.
At the elevator, she pressed the button. The doors slid open. They stepped inside.
The doors closed. They were alone.
Jessica turned to him. Her hand found his chest. Her mouth found his. She kissed him like she was trying to memorize the shape of his lips, his tongue, his breath. The elevator hummed upward, floor after floor, and she didn't break the kiss until the doors slid open again.
The penthouse hallway was silent. Thick carpet. Soft lighting. A door at the end.
Marcus walked to it. Jessica followed. He didn't knock. He swiped his keycard, heard the lock click, pushed the door open.
The penthouse was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The air smelled like her—Natasha's perfume, rose and vanilla, already familiar. The living room was empty. The bedroom door was ajar.
He walked through. Pushed the bedroom door open.
Natasha was on her knees beside the bed, facing the door. She was naked. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Her head was bowed, her dark hair falling forward, hiding her face. She hadn't moved at the sound of the door opening. She was waiting. Perfectly still. Obedient.
Behind him, Jessica let out a soft breath.
Marcus stepped inside. "Look at me."
Natasha raised her head. Her eyes were dark, her pupils wide, her lips slightly parted. She looked at him with hunger and relief and a flicker of something else—jealousy—as her gaze slid past him to Jessica.
"This is Jessica," Marcus said. "She's going to watch for now."
Natasha's gaze didn't waver. She looked at Jessica like she was sizing her up. Then she lowered her head again. "Yes, daddy."
Jessica's hand found Marcus's arm. Her fingers tightened. The air in the room was thick, charged, waiting.
And Marcus stood at the center of it, two women in his orbit, a wife in pieces across town, and a half-sister's number burning a hole in his pocket.
The afternoon was still young.
Marcus moved past Natasha without touching her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. He stopped at the window, his back to both of them, and let the silence stretch. Behind him, he heard Jessica's breath catch, heard the soft rustle of fabric as she shifted her weight, heard the faint creak of Natasha's knees against the floor as she adjusted her position without being told.
"Natasha." He didn't turn around. "Tell me what you were thinking this morning."
A pause. Then her voice, steady but small: "I was thinking you'd be back. I was thinking I'd wait."
"And when you left?"
"I was thinking I'd made a mistake." Another pause. "I was thinking I didn't want to be the girl who got sent home after one night."
He turned. She was still kneeling, her hands still clasped behind her back, her head still bowed. But her shoulders were tight, her spine rigid, her fingers white-knuckled where they gripped each other. She was nervous. Good.
"Stand up," he said.
She rose, slow and fluid, her body unfolding like she was performing for him. Her breasts swayed with the movement, her dark hair falling back to reveal her face, her eyes, the flush on her cheeks. She stood before him, naked and waiting, her hands now at her sides, her fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for him but knew better.
"Turn around."
She obeyed. Faced Jessica. The two women stood ten feet apart, one dressed, one bare, both breathing too fast.
"Jessica." Marcus didn't move from the window. "Tell her what you want."
Jessica's mouth opened. Closed. She looked at Natasha's naked body, at the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the way her dark hair fell between her shoulder blades. Then she looked at Marcus.
"I want to touch her," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it didn't waver. "I want to see what she feels like."
Marcus nodded once. "Then do it."
Jessica stepped forward. Her heels clicked against the hardwood, then softened as she crossed onto the rug. She stopped in front of Natasha, close enough to touch, close enough to smell her perfume. Her hand rose, hesitated, then landed on Natasha's shoulder.
Natasha didn't flinch. She stood still, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead, her breath shallow.
Jessica's hand slid down her arm, fingers trailing over her skin, mapping the texture. She stepped closer, her body brushing against Natasha's back, her other hand finding Natasha's hip. She leaned in, her mouth close to Natasha's ear.
"You're beautiful," she whispered. Loud enough for Marcus to hear. "I've never done this before."
"It's easy," Natasha said, and her voice was steady now, almost warm. "Just follow what feels good."
Jessica's hand slid around to Natasha's stomach, flat and warm, then higher, cupping her breast. Natasha let out a soft breath, her head tilting back, her eyes closing. Jessica's thumb found her nipple, circled it slowly, felt it harden under her touch.
"Like this?" Jessica asked.
"Yes." Natasha's voice was a sigh. "Just like that."
Marcus watched from the window, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His cock was hard again, pressing against his trousers, but he didn't move toward them. He let them explore each other. Let Jessica learn the shape of Natasha's body with her hands, her mouth, her breath.
Jessica's other hand slid down Natasha's stomach, lower, fingers brushing through the dark hair between her thighs. Natasha's hips shifted, opening, inviting. Jessica's fingers found her wet, found her slick and ready, and Natasha moaned—a low, throaty sound that filled the room.
"She's ready for you," Jessica said, and her voice was different now. Thicker. Hungrier. "She's been ready."
Marcus uncrossed his arms. Walked toward them. His footsteps were deliberate, each one a beat, a countdown. He stopped behind Jessica, his chest brushing her back, his hands landing on her hips.
"You want to taste her?" he asked, his mouth against Jessica's ear.
Jessica's breath caught. "Yes."
"Then get on your knees."
She lowered herself slowly, her skirt riding up as she knelt, her hands finding Natasha's thighs for balance. She looked up at Natasha, then at Marcus, her eyes dark with want.
Marcus stepped behind Natasha. His hands found her hips, turned her to face Jessica fully. Then he pressed down on her shoulders, guiding her down, until she was on her knees too, face to face with Jessica, both women kneeling on the thick carpet.
"Now," he said. "Show each other what you've learned."
Jessica leaned in first. Her mouth found Natasha's, soft and tentative at first, then deeper, her tongue sliding against Natasha's lips, asking for entry. Natasha opened for her, her hand rising to cup Jessica's jaw, pulling her closer. They kissed like they were discovering something, slow and deliberate, their breath mingling, their bodies pressing together.
Marcus circled them, watching from every angle. The way Jessica's hand found Natasha's breast again, squeezing gently. The way Natasha's fingers tangled in Jessica's red hair, pulling her closer, holding her there. The soft sounds they made—whimpers, sighs, the wet sound of their mouths meeting.
Natasha pulled back first, breathless, her lips red and swollen. "I want to taste you," she said, echoing his words. "Let me taste you."
Jessica nodded. Leaned back. Spread her knees wider, an invitation.
Natasha lowered her head. Her mouth found Jessica's cunt, her tongue tentative at first, exploring. Jessica gasped, her hips bucking, her hand finding the back of Natasha's head, pressing her closer. Natasha's tongue worked deeper, finding rhythm, finding the places that made Jessica moan, her fingers gripping Natasha's hair, her breath coming in short, sharp cries.
Marcus watched. His hand found his cock, freed it from his trousers, stroked slowly. He didn't join them. Not yet. He let the scene build, let the tension coil, let Natasha please the woman he brought in.
Jessica's cries grew louder. Her hips ground against Natasha's mouth, her thighs trembling, her fingers white-knuckled in Natasha's hair. "Don't stop," she gasped. "Please don't stop—"
Natasha didn't stop. She worked faster, harder, her tongue circling Jessica's clit, her fingers sliding inside her. Jessica's back arched, her mouth open in a silent cry, and then she came, her body shuddering, her breath ragged, her hands gripping Natasha's hair like a lifeline.
Natasha pulled back, her chin slick, her eyes bright. She looked up at Marcus, proud, wanting approval.
He gave it. A single nod. Then he stepped forward, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her, tasting Jessica on her lips, tasting the proof of what she'd done.
"Good girl," he said against her mouth.
And Natasha melted into him, her body soft and warm, her hands finding his chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The afternoon light was fading through the curtains. Somewhere across town, Melinda was still waiting for a call back that would never come. And in the penthouse, three bodies found each other in the dimming light, the city humming below them, the night still unwritten.