Page 48 of Sweet Torment

“Bianca.” He tries to pull back, but she holds his hand tight against her, refusing to let him remove it.

“Please, Tristannn.” She’s grinding against his palm now. “Can’t think about anything else.”

A part of me wants to tear Tristan’s hands away from her. This feels too raw, too soon. But she’s already had someone controlling her body for years. Denying her now could only make her feel worse.

“Fuck.” Tristan’s voice drops lower. “Can you be quiet, pretty girl?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, I’ll be so quiet.”

The second he slides a finger inside her, she moans, the sound loud and desperate. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“That’s not quiet at all.” His other hand immediately covers her mouth.

She moans against his palm, eyes rolling back as he gently pumps two fingers inside her. Her hips buck.

“That’s it,” Tristan whispers. “Our most perfect girl. So ready for us.”

Her body begins shaking and then locks up, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Come on, Bianca,” he coaxes, his thumb against her clit. “Let go for me.”

She does, and it’s violent. Her body jerks as Tristan leans down and swallows her cries. We groan as her scent floods the air. Owen loses his footing, and Weller’s breathing becomes ragged.

“The best girl,” Tristan praises as she shudders through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulls his hand back, his fingers are covered in her. He licks them clean with a groan. “Fuck, you’re delicious,” he tells her.

She’s limp in Weller’s arms, but still looking at all of us. “Who wants to touch me next?”

“Should be me,” Owen says roughly. “In case I die.”

“Don’t say that!” She twists to glare at him. “That’s so not funny, Owen.”

“Not joking, Princess. Nowhere I’d rather die than between your thighs.”

“You’re not allowed to die,” she insists. “But I do want you inside me.”

“There are literally drones hunting us,” I point out.

“And guards,” Tristan adds.

“We need shelter,” Weller says firmly.

“I don’t care about drones,” she whines, squirming in his arms. “I care about di⁠—”

A drone cuts her off. Tristan grabs my gun, tracks it, and fires. It crashes somewhere to our left.

“See?” I say.

She sighs, pressing her face into Weller’s neck. “This is torture. Did anyone grab my backpack back there? There’s a toy in it. I could at least use that.”

A collective growl rumbles through the four of us. The idea of her being filled by some piece of plastic instead of one of us is suddenly, intensely offensive.

“No,” Weller says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “No toys. We’ll take care of you.”

We keep moving through the darkness. Owen’s getting heavier against me, his blood soaking through my shirt, but his grip on her ankle never loosens. We’ve already lost her too many times.

“Rock formation ahead,” Tristan points. “Might have cover.”