Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
11
CHAPTER ELEVEN — THE MORNING AFTER
Marnie
The first thing I feel is light, so sharp and brilliant it cuts the backs of my eyelids to ribbons. The second thing is the ache—dull and lovely, everywhere, each muscle with a fresh, handprint-shaped memory. The third thing is the cool slip of Egyptian cotton sheets on bare skin, the impossible plushness of a mattress engineered for billionaires or world-class degenerates.
I open my eyes and immediately freeze.
Brent’s bedroom is so enormous it warps perspective. The walls are all glass, the city outside blazing in morning sun, thirty stories up. There’s an antique armoire in one corner, and a rug that could feed a small nation if you liquidated it. I am the only living thing in the bed, which is the size of a minivan and twice as soft. For a minute, I forget what planet I’m on.
I stretch, utterly nude in this massive bed all alone, and wince at the delicious protest from my thighs. My hair is a disaster. There are caked fluids on my thighs, and god knows, it’s a mixture of all three of us. I get up to clean myself but then realize there’s a folder on the nightstand, thick and official-looking, my name written in all caps across the tab. Could it be what I’m looking for?
I sit up too fast and the world tilts. I clutch the sheet to my breasts, instinct, then remember no one is here to see. The folder is right where I can’t miss it—like a trophy or a threat, or maybe just proof that the last twenty-four hours weren’t a fever dream. The urge to open it is so strong my hands shake.
But I make myself wait. I swing my feet to the floor, which is covered in sheepskin so soft that I sink two inches immediately. Last night’s clothes are nowhere to be seen, so I open the armoire and grab one of Brent’s big white shirts. It goes practically down to my knees while also slipping off one shoulder, but it’s fine. I button it in place, and then sit again on the edge of the bed and run my hands over the folder’s cover. My name, inked by a careful, masculine hand: Williams, Marnie. Below that, in smaller letters: “Confidential—Do Not Remove.” Like that ever stopped anyone. I flip the folder open a finger’s width and see page after page of legal print, police reports, phone logs. The evidence. This is going to clear my dad’s name.
My stomach flips, and I close the folder again. Am I truly ready? A swirl of emotions hits my tummy, and I literally bend over a bit, trying to ease the stress. I’ve worked so hard, done so many depraved things, including servicing two men at once. All for this.
Yes, but you loved it Marnie, the voice in my head whispers. You enjoyed being with two men, and lost yourself in the debauched menage.
My subconscious is right, and I try to reason with myself. There’s nothing wrong with a threesome. Lots of people are polyamorous these days! But there’s still the irrefutable fact that I had two cocks buried in me simultaneously last night, and I loved it. I loved having a pulsing, veiny dick crammed deep up my ass, while another thick shaft pushed its way into my pussy. That’s the long and the short of it: I’m a slut, and I adored being with James and Brent.
At that moment, a sound rouses me from my reverie—deep voices, and the snap of a pan from somewhere else in the apartment. I breathe slowly. The air smells like aftershave and coffee. Also bacon. My stomach growls, and I follow the scent.
The penthouse kitchen is ridiculous—miles of marble, steel, and glass, enough counter space to host a fashion show and a surgical procedure simultaneously. The sun is everywhere, turning every chrome surface into a blinding display of shine. At the stove, James is flipping eggs with one hand, the other holding a mug that says “I Love Dogs” in block print. He’s in pajama bottoms and nothing else, tanned and muscular and so relaxed it makes my heart clench.
At the marble island sits Brent, paging through the Financial Times, hair damp and spiky, wearing a t-shirt that’s so thin I can see the tattoos on his chest. He’s got loose grey sweatpants draped over his hips, and his feet are bare. Both men radiate masculine energy, even in this casual state.
James glances over his shoulder and flashes a grin, bright and wolfish. “Morning, sweetheart.”
I try to answer, but my mouth is too dry.
Brent glances up from the paper. “You look gorgeous, baby girl. Well-fucked to the max.”
My cheeks flare as I pat at my mussed hair, as if that’s going to help. “Really?”
Both men smirk as James slides a glass of juice towards me.