Victoria and Nastya knew that. Counted on it. On the twins’ inability to cause a scene without it reflecting on their family.
Checkmate before the first piece moved.
Six girls filed past Paige and Brielle next.
College girls. Victoria and Nastya’s inner circle—the ones they’d arrived with, each carrying the specific energy of won who’d been briefed on exactly one task tonight and took it seriously.
They moved in a loose, deliberate formation that blocked every sightline between the Heavenchild twins and the couch—a living wall of designer dresses, cold eyes, and the unspoken ssage: the approach is closed. Go find sowhere else to be wet and disappointed.
One of them—a redhead with cheekbones that could’ve been carved by a Renaissance sculptor on a particularly vindictive bender—looked back at Paige and sneered.
Small. Precise. The kind of sneer that said we know what you were planning, and we planned better, and isn’t that just the saddest little thing.
Paige’s hands curled into fists at her sides—nails biting palms hard enough to leave crescents.
Brielle’s jaw worked—teeth grinding audibly.
Neither moved.
****
Phei noticed two things at once.
The six new girls who’d arranged themselves between his vision with the casual precision of a chess opening—filed them into background architecture, registered the formation as interesting without yet deciding what it ant.
And two girls walking toward him.
His brain went quiet.
Not the Ice Prince flatline. Just... quiet. The way a room goes still when sothing worth paying attention to enters it and his predator’s mind stilled when the prey decided to walk right up and introduce itself.
Victoria ca first.
She moved through the crimson light like she’d been born in it—long dark hair spilling past her shoulders in a violet-black cascade, loose and untad in a way the daylight version of Victoria Maxton would never allow.
The hood of her cropped black hoodie was pulled up, framing her face in shadow that only made her features sharper—high cheekbones, full lips painted deep plum, dark eyes burning beneath the hood’s edge with an intensity that was neither shy nor bold.
Just certain. Absolutely, immovably certain.
The hoodie was cropped high. Deliberately high. Cut short enough that it ended inches below her chest, leaving a wide band of exposed stomach the crimson light painted in shades of rose and shadow.
The fabric clung to her breasts—full, heavy, straining against the black cotton like the hoodie had been chosen specifically because it was too small, specifically because it would do this: the outline of her nipples pressing hard through the material, dark and stiff, the deep cleavage spilling over the cropped hem like an invitation written in flesh.
A glowing purple emblem sat between them—ornate, mystic, ancient—a design that belonged on cursed crowns and fever dreams.
Below the bare stomach—a black pleated skirt.
Short.
Obscenely short.
It barely existed. A whisper of fabric that started at her waist and surrendered sowhere around upper-mid-thigh, the pleats fanning with every step, flashing glimpses of black lace beneath—thong so thin it was more string than underwear, the front panel already dark and clinging with arousal.
Her thighs were—
Christ.
Thick. Full. They strained against the lace-top stockings clinging to them, black material biting into soft flesh and creating that devastating indent where fabric t skin—the border between covered and exposed that made the covered part look more obscene than nudity ever could.
The stockings ended at mid-thigh, held by garter straps that traced dark lines up the outer edges of her legs and disappeared beneath the pleated skirt, promising more lace, more skin, more everything waiting to be peeled away.
She walked like she knew exactly what every inch of her was doing to every eye in the room. Unhurried. Devastating.
Hips rolling with each step, pleats swaying, exposed stomach catching light, round waist curving inward above hips that flared outward in a ratio that shouldn’t exist outside of ancient fertility statues and modern wet dreams.
Nastya walked beside her.
If Victoria was midnight, Nastya was the hour just before dawn—warr, softer, sohow more dangerous for the gentleness.
Honey-brown hair fell in loose waves around a face that shouldn’t have worked but did—green eyes bright and impossibly vivid beneath the dark hood of her own cropped hoodie, cheeks flushed with the pink of a girl who’d had exactly one glass of champagne and was pretending it was responsible.
A small purple flower pinned where her hair gathered at the side—delicate, almost innocent, a detail that made you forget the girl wearing it ca from a family that solved problems with phone calls to n who didn’t exist in any public record.
Her hoodie was the sa cut—cropped, tight, ending above the navel. Black fabric bore a gold crest between her breasts, ornate and ancient, pressed flat by the swell of her chest pushing against the material.
Her breasts were full, round, sohow both modest and aggressive—the cotton pulling taut between them, nipples stiff and visible through the thin layer, the deep cleavage spilling over the cropped hem like an invitation she hadn’t bothered to wrap.
The exposed band of her stomach was soft, flat, skin catching the club’s light in warm tones that made it look like it would be fever-hot to the touch.
Like it was ant to be touched.
Below—
Her skirt was crimson.
Deep, rich, arterial red—every filthy promise a girl makes to herself when she’s decided tonight she’s getting fucked and doesn’t care who knows it.
Pleated like Victoria’s, just as obscenely short, the hem barely kissing mid-thigh before surrendering, fanning open with every step to flash the black lace garter clips that traced cruel, teasing lines up the thick, devastating swell of her thighs.
Thighs that were full and round and heavy—the kind that quivered with each stride, soft flesh pressing against the stocking tops hard enough to leave deep, delicious indents where lace bit into skin like it was trying to claim territory.
Her waist curved in—tight, cinched, almost cruelly narrow—before exploding outward into hips that rolled like they were built for riding cock and nothing else.
The crimson pleats whispered against her skin with every sway, the garter straps pulling taut and snapping faintly against her thighs, the stockings digging in deeper, creating those devastating creases that made every man in the room imagine burying his face between them and licking until she scread.
Two girls.
Two college-aged princesses.
Walking toward him with the calm, predatory certainty of won who’d already cleared the field, marked the territory, and decided the prize belonged to them before they’d even taken the first step.
Phei’s arms stayed spread wide across the back of the couch—without moving a muscle.
Legs open just enough that the thick outline of his cock strained visibly against his pants—long, heavy, already half-hard from the fairy’s earlier tornt and now throbbing harder at the sight of them.
Athyst eyes—warr than they’d been all night, thawed, alive, still carrying that dark, unsatisfied hunger Eira had ignited and left smouldering—tracked their approach with slow, deliberate focus.
Victoria.
His cousin. Eldest Maxton daughter.
Nastya.
They were fifteen feet away.
Ten.
Five.
Phei didn’t move. Didn’t adjust his posture or make room or do any of the things a normal boy would do when two of the most devastatingly beautiful won were walking toward him with intent written across every inch of exposed, trembling flesh.
He just watched.
And for one suspended, bass-heavy, crimson-lit heartbeat—he just stared.
Victoria reached him first.
She didn’t hesitate.
She slid onto the leather on his left—close enough that her thick thigh pressed flush against his, the heat of her skin bleeding through the pleated skirt like a brand.
Her full breast dragged across his arm as she settled—nipple rock-hard through the cropped hoodie, scraping against his sleeve in a slow, deliberate grind that made her breath hitch audibly. She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice low and dark and dripping.
Her hand found his thigh—high, possessive—fingers digging in just enough to feel the muscle jump beneath her palm. She squeezed once—hard—then let her nails trace upward, stopping just short of the thick bulge straining against his zipper.
User Comments
0 comments from readers