ForFun-101

I thought my hot biker Bank was finally willing to go public with our relationship, but he just called me to come and see...a club hooker was on his lap. Her black skirt shoved high, his hand spread at the back of her thigh where the fishnet had torn. His shirt hung open. Her mouth was wet. There was lipstick on his chest, the deep red kind women wore when they wanted to leave evidence. The way the room smelled of intercourse and bourbon... Then Banks looked up, seeing me. Shock flared there. I saw the instant his body tried to move and the instant he understood he was still holding another woman. “Clare. I didn’t—” But he had. He had. The room was full of proof. I smirked. “Don’t.” I stripped off the vest. The leather stuck to the damp skin at the back of my neck. I laid the vest in his hands, and because the hallway light was weak and the leather was slick, it slid through his fingers and dropped. “Jerk. You don’t get to improve it.” On the workbench lay the silver ring he swore he'd fit into my ignition plate for luck. I left that too. Then I walked out into the rain and didn't look back. ———————— The red stitching on the Property Of patch scratched the back of Clare Sherman’s neck every time she turned the wheel. She kept reaching up to smooth it flat at the stoplights, fingertips catching on damp hair and the cheap satin edge she had sewn down twice because the original seam had rubbed her raw. The vest lay heavy over her shoulders, still cold from hanging by the window unit in her apartment, and the storm outside turned the inside of her truck humid enough to lift the scent of wet denim, leather, and the vanilla body oil she’d dabbed at her throat with a hand that had not stopped shaking since Luka Park showed up at the diner with Banks’s message. Come after church. Wear the vest. Luka had tried to say it like it was nothing, like he wasn’t sixteen and terrified of getting caught in grown people’s business. He’d stood by the pie case with rain dripping off his bangs and repeated the words exactly, careful as a boy carrying ammunition. Now Clare drove the last mile to the Black Veil Kings’ compound with her wipers fighting for their lives and her heart banging so hard against her ribs it made her shoulders ache. Church first. Celebration after. That was how the club worked. Adan Robinson held meetings in the long room behind the bar where the patched men sat in rank and sweat and cigarete smoke, hashing out runs and debts and who had crossed whom. If Banks had sent for her after church, told her to wear the vest, maybe he was done keeping her in the side doorway, the garage, the places that felt private until they felt hidden. Maybe he was tired of the half-life as much as she was. Maybe tonight he would finally let the room know what she was to him. The thought made her smile, quick and stupid and young. The compound gate stood open when she turned in. Gravel snapped under her tires. Bikes lined the front of the clubhouse in a shining row under the security lights, rain beading on tanks and handlebars. Banks’s bike was not out front. Her stomach dipped. He always parked by the garage. Prospects were hauling a keg under the awning when she killed the engine. One of them glanced at her vest and looked away so fast he nearly dropped his end. Another opened the clubhouse door before she reached it, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “Banks around?” she asked. The boy wiped rain from his upper lip. “Back.” Just that. Not ma’am. Not Clare. Not You look nice. Nothing that would have been ordinary enough to steady her. The clubhouse hit her all at once when she stepped inside: the hot smell of spilled beer baked into old wood, fryer oil gone stale in the kitchen, wet denim, cigarettes sucked down to filters, men who lived too hard and bathed when they remembered. Music shoved through the speakers from the corner, something with a hard drumbeat and a woman singing like her throat hurt. Laughter cracked from the pool tables, but it landed wrong, each burst of it clipped short as she crossed the room. Faces turned. A few women by the bar went still in the middle of talking. Gemma Burnett shifted her glass from one hand to the other and looked at the floor. Kiara Boyd opened her mouth, closed it, and pressed her lips together until the lipstick blanched at the edges. Clare slowed. The room around her did not. Adan stood near the end of the bar with a tumbler of bourbon in one hand and his cut hanging open over a charcoal henley that probably cost more than Clare’s monthly rent. The president had a way of taking up air without moving. Tonight he watched her come in with his face arranged into something too careful to be welcome. “You just miss church, sweetheart,” he said. He never called her sweetheart unless he wanted her to stay soft. “Banks asked me here.” Adan’s gaze touched the patch on her back, then slid off it. “Did he.” That was all. No grin. No clap on the shoulder. No Well, about time. Tobias stood two stools down, big arms folded, beard still dripping from the rain. He didn’t look at her at all. He looked at Adan. It was the kind of glance men traded before a bad decision. Clare’s pulse tripped. “Where is he?” she asked. “In back,” Tobias said. A woman at the bar made a small sound behind her hand. Clare turned too late to catch whether it had been a laugh or pity. The hallway to the back rooms was narrower than she remembered, walls yellowed with age and old smoke. The music from the front thudded through the floorboards while rain tapped the high windows. Somebody had left a crate of liquor by the office door. One bottle had cracked in transit; whiskey threaded down the wood in amber lines and pooled dark at the baseboard. Banks’s voice did not carry. Neither did anyone else’s. ...... At the end of the hall, the red EXIT sign over the back room washed the doorway in a cheap motel glow. The door sat half-open. Clare put one hand to the frame because the floor had gone strangely loose under her boots. She heard a woman laugh low in her throat. Not flirtatious. Not shy. The sound a person made when she already knew the answer. Clare pushed the door wider. Valentina Reilly was on Banks’s lap. Not standing close. Not leaning in. On him. Her black skirt shoved high, his hand spread at the back of her thigh where the fishnet had torn. His shirt hung open. Her mouth was wet. There was lipstick on his chest, the deep red kind women wore when they wanted to leave evidence. For one ruined second, Clare’s mind tried to sort it wrong. She noticed the details first because details were easier than truth. The way the room smelled of intercourse and bourbon and the peppermint gum Valentina chewed when she wanted to cover cigarete breath. The oil stain on Banks’s wrist from working in the garage. The silver snap missing from Valentina’s cuff. A beer can tipped on its side by the couch, foam drying in a line down the torn vinyl. Then Banks looked up. The change in his face would have meant something, maybe, if she had found him almost anywhere else. Shock flared there so sharp it stripped years off him. She saw the instant his body tried to move and the instant he understood he was still holding another woman. “Clare—” Her name broke in the middle. Valentina went rigid and slid off him so fast she banged her knee on the table. “I didn’t—” But she had. He had. The room was full of proof. Clare’s fingers slipped from the doorframe. She might have said something. She would never remember it clearly later. It was either nothing at all or Banks’s name leaving her mouth like it had cut her on the way out. He stood too quickly, knocking the table askew. “No. No, listen to me.” Listen to what. That was the part that arrived, cold and complete. Not the image. Not even the act. The humiliation had edges. The room outside had known. Gemma’s silence. Kiara’s white mouth. Adan’s careful voice. Tobias looking anywhere but at her. She had walked down that hallway wearing Banks’s patch while half the clubhouse waited to hear if she would scream. Valentina stepped back until she hit the wall, face stripped of whatever she'd worn in there before Clare opened the door. She looked young. Not cruel. Just caught. It should have made Clare hate her less. It did nothing at all. Banks came toward her with both palms out, like she was an injured horse he might still calm if he moved slowly enough. “It’s not—” She laughed. The sound startled all three of them. “It is,” she said. Her voice came out level, which felt like the one mercy left to her. “You don’t get to improve it.” He stopped close enough that she could smell soap under the whiskey. His chest rose once, hard. “Let me explain.” From the doorway behind her came the scrape of a boot. Tobias. Of course Tobias had followed. Clare didn’t turn around. She could feel the width of him there, could picture the set of his shoulders, the way he would plant himself as if bodies could hold together what words had failed to. “Don’t,” she said, and she meant all of them. Banks’s face changed when he understood the don’t was for him too. Some part of her had once loved how much force lived in that body. Tonight it only showed her the size of what he had chosen to throw away. She walked past Tobias, and he moved without touching her. Men in the front room tried not to stare with the kind of intensity that was worse than staring outright. Music still played. Someone had racked the balls on the pool table and forgotten to break. Rain hammered the roof in thick, steady blows. No one stopped her. That would matter later as much as anything else. In the room Banks kept over the garage, her duffel sat under the bed where she had pushed it after moving in piece by piece over the last year, never trusting any version of happiness enough to fully unpack. She yanked it free, shoved in jeans, two T-shirts, the sweater she wore on cold mornings, the envelope of cash she kept inside a boot. Her toothbrush hit the floor. She left it there. In the bathroom mirror over the sink, a woman with soaked hair and a blotch of red on one cheekbone stared back at her like she’d been slapped. Someone pounded on the door. “Clare.” Banks. No mistaking that voice, even muffled through old wood. She zipped the bag. “Clare, open the door.” The knob turned once, stopped. He wouldn’t force it with the whole clubhouse listening. Not yet. She stripped off the vest. The leather stuck to the damp skin at the back of her neck. When she opened the door, he was there in the hall, shirt dragged back on crooked, hair still mussed from another woman’s hands. The sight nearly buckled her knees, not because he looked good, but because he looked familiar. He reached for her. She laid the vest in his hands, and because the hallway light was weak and the leather was slick, it slid through his fingers and dropped.

I thought my hot biker Bank was finally willing to go public with our relationship, but he just called me to come and see...a club hooker was on his lap. Her black skirt shoved high, his hand spread at the back of her thigh where the fishnet had torn. His shirt hung open. Her mouth was wet. There was lipstick on his chest, the deep red kind women wore when they wanted to leave evidence. The way the room smelled of intercourse and bourbon... Then Banks looked up, seeing me. Shock flared there. I saw the instant his body tried to move and the instant he understood he was still holding another woman. “Clare. I didn’t—” But he had. He had. The room was full of proof. I smirked. “Don’t.” I stripped off the vest. The leather stuck to the damp skin at the back of my neck. I laid the vest in his hands, and because the hallway light was weak and the leather was slick, it slid through his fingers and dropped. “Jerk. You don’t get to improve it.” On the workbench lay the silver ring he swore he'd fit into my ignition plate for luck. I left that too. Then I walked out into the rain and didn't look back. ———————— The red stitching on the Property Of patch scratched the back of Clare Sherman’s neck every time she turned the wheel. She kept reaching up to smooth it flat at the stoplights, fingertips catching on damp hair and the cheap satin edge she had sewn down twice because the original seam had rubbed her raw. The vest lay heavy over her shoulders, still cold from hanging by the window unit in her apartment, and the storm outside turned the inside of her truck humid enough to lift the scent of wet denim, leather, and the vanilla body oil she’d dabbed at her throat with a hand that had not stopped shaking since Luka Park showed up at the diner with Banks’s message. Come after church. Wear the vest. Luka had tried to say it like it was nothing, like he wasn’t sixteen and terrified of getting caught in grown people’s business. He’d stood by the pie case with rain dripping off his bangs and repeated the words exactly, careful as a boy carrying ammunition. Now Clare drove the last mile to the Black Veil Kings’ compound with her wipers fighting for their lives and her heart banging so hard against her ribs it made her shoulders ache. Church first. Celebration after. That was how the club worked. Adan Robinson held meetings in the long room behind the bar where the patched men sat in rank and sweat and cigarete smoke, hashing out runs and debts and who had crossed whom. If Banks had sent for her after church, told her to wear the vest, maybe he was done keeping her in the side doorway, the garage, the places that felt private until they felt hidden. Maybe he was tired of the half-life as much as she was. Maybe tonight he would finally let the room know what she was to him. The thought made her smile, quick and stupid and young. The compound gate stood open when she turned in. Gravel snapped under her tires. Bikes lined the front of the clubhouse in a shining row under the security lights, rain beading on tanks and handlebars. Banks’s bike was not out front. Her stomach dipped. He always parked by the garage. Prospects were hauling a keg under the awning when she killed the engine. One of them glanced at her vest and looked away so fast he nearly dropped his end. Another opened the clubhouse door before she reached it, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “Banks around?” she asked. The boy wiped rain from his upper lip. “Back.” Just that. Not ma’am. Not Clare. Not You look nice. Nothing that would have been ordinary enough to steady her. The clubhouse hit her all at once when she stepped inside: the hot smell of spilled beer baked into old wood, fryer oil gone stale in the kitchen, wet denim, cigarettes sucked down to filters, men who lived too hard and bathed when they remembered. Music shoved through the speakers from the corner, something with a hard drumbeat and a woman singing like her throat hurt. Laughter cracked from the pool tables, but it landed wrong, each burst of it clipped short as she crossed the room. Faces turned. A few women by the bar went still in the middle of talking. Gemma Burnett shifted her glass from one hand to the other and looked at the floor. Kiara Boyd opened her mouth, closed it, and pressed her lips together until the lipstick blanched at the edges. Clare slowed. The room around her did not. Adan stood near the end of the bar with a tumbler of bourbon in one hand and his cut hanging open over a charcoal henley that probably cost more than Clare’s monthly rent. The president had a way of taking up air without moving. Tonight he watched her come in with his face arranged into something too careful to be welcome. “You just miss church, sweetheart,” he said. He never called her sweetheart unless he wanted her to stay soft. “Banks asked me here.” Adan’s gaze touched the patch on her back, then slid off it. “Did he.” That was all. No grin. No clap on the shoulder. No Well, about time. Tobias stood two stools down, big arms folded, beard still dripping from the rain. He didn’t look at her at all. He looked at Adan. It was the kind of glance men traded before a bad decision. Clare’s pulse tripped. “Where is he?” she asked. “In back,” Tobias said. A woman at the bar made a small sound behind her hand. Clare turned too late to catch whether it had been a laugh or pity. The hallway to the back rooms was narrower than she remembered, walls yellowed with age and old smoke. The music from the front thudded through the floorboards while rain tapped the high windows. Somebody had left a crate of liquor by the office door. One bottle had cracked in transit; whiskey threaded down the wood in amber lines and pooled dark at the baseboard. Banks’s voice did not carry. Neither did anyone else’s. ...... At the end of the hall, the red EXIT sign over the back room washed the doorway in a cheap motel glow. The door sat half-open. Clare put one hand to the frame because the floor had gone strangely loose under her boots. She heard a woman laugh low in her throat. Not flirtatious. Not shy. The sound a person made when she already knew the answer. Clare pushed the door wider. Valentina Reilly was on Banks’s lap. Not standing close. Not leaning in. On him. Her black skirt shoved high, his hand spread at the back of her thigh where the fishnet had torn. His shirt hung open. Her mouth was wet. There was lipstick on his chest, the deep red kind women wore when they wanted to leave evidence. For one ruined second, Clare’s mind tried to sort it wrong. She noticed the details first because details were easier than truth. The way the room smelled of intercourse and bourbon and the peppermint gum Valentina chewed when she wanted to cover cigarete breath. The oil stain on Banks’s wrist from working in the garage. The silver snap missing from Valentina’s cuff. A beer can tipped on its side by the couch, foam drying in a line down the torn vinyl. Then Banks looked up. The change in his face would have meant something, maybe, if she had found him almost anywhere else. Shock flared there so sharp it stripped years off him. She saw the instant his body tried to move and the instant he understood he was still holding another woman. “Clare—” Her name broke in the middle. Valentina went rigid and slid off him so fast she banged her knee on the table. “I didn’t—” But she had. He had. The room was full of proof. Clare’s fingers slipped from the doorframe. She might have said something. She would never remember it clearly later. It was either nothing at all or Banks’s name leaving her mouth like it had cut her on the way out. He stood too quickly, knocking the table askew. “No. No, listen to me.” Listen to what. That was the part that arrived, cold and complete. Not the image. Not even the act. The humiliation had edges. The room outside had known. Gemma’s silence. Kiara’s white mouth. Adan’s careful voice. Tobias looking anywhere but at her. She had walked down that hallway wearing Banks’s patch while half the clubhouse waited to hear if she would scream. Valentina stepped back until she hit the wall, face stripped of whatever she'd worn in there before Clare opened the door. She looked young. Not cruel. Just caught. It should have made Clare hate her less. It did nothing at all. Banks came toward her with both palms out, like she was an injured horse he might still calm if he moved slowly enough. “It’s not—” She laughed. The sound startled all three of them. “It is,” she said. Her voice came out level, which felt like the one mercy left to her. “You don’t get to improve it.” He stopped close enough that she could smell soap under the whiskey. His chest rose once, hard. “Let me explain.” From the doorway behind her came the scrape of a boot. Tobias. Of course Tobias had followed. Clare didn’t turn around. She could feel the width of him there, could picture the set of his shoulders, the way he would plant himself as if bodies could hold together what words had failed to. “Don’t,” she said, and she meant all of them. Banks’s face changed when he understood the don’t was for him too. Some part of her had once loved how much force lived in that body. Tonight it only showed her the size of what he had chosen to throw away. She walked past Tobias, and he moved without touching her. Men in the front room tried not to stare with the kind of intensity that was worse than staring outright. Music still played. Someone had racked the balls on the pool table and forgotten to break. Rain hammered the roof in thick, steady blows. No one stopped her. That would matter later as much as anything else. In the room Banks kept over the garage, her duffel sat under the bed where she had pushed it after moving in piece by piece over the last year, never trusting any version of happiness enough to fully unpack. She yanked it free, shoved in jeans, two T-shirts, the sweater she wore on cold mornings, the envelope of cash she kept inside a boot. Her toothbrush hit the floor. She left it there. In the bathroom mirror over the sink, a woman with soaked hair and a blotch of red on one cheekbone stared back at her like she’d been slapped. Someone pounded on the door. “Clare.” Banks. No mistaking that voice, even muffled through old wood. She zipped the bag. “Clare, open the door.” The knob turned once, stopped. He wouldn’t force it with the whole clubhouse listening. Not yet. She stripped off the vest. The leather stuck to the damp skin at the back of her neck. When she opened the door, he was there in the hall, shirt dragged back on crooked, hair still mussed from another woman’s hands. The sight nearly buckled her knees, not because he looked good, but because he looked familiar. He reached for her. She laid the vest in his hands, and because the hallway light was weak and the leather was slick, it slid through his fingers and dropped.

“On the bench. On your hands and knees. Butt to butt.” Doctor. Tobias held a long, flexible double-ended dildo, a deep purple, each end bulbous and thick. Brooklyn felt the cool, slick nudge of one end of the dildo against her swollen, sensitive kitty lips. At the same time, she saw the doctor. Robert position himself behind Abbey, guiding the other end to her entrance. The thick, lubed head parted her, a burning, stretching fullness that made her cry out. It was so much, too much, after the paddling. They were linked. Joined by the thick, penetrating length inside each of them. “Begin,” Doctor. Robert said, his voice a low command. The sensation was unbelievable—she was being screwed by Abbey’s movement. A jolt of electric pleasure-pain shot through her. A warm, lubed hand smoothed over her buttock. “Today,” Doctor. Robert’s voice came from near her head, “we take all three holes. You like feeling me in your butt, don’t you?” ———————— Down the hall, her stepfather Tobias’s low, measured voice murmured with her mother’s. A nightly debrief from his clinic, The New Leaf Program. His personal crusade to “save” girls just like her. The threat of it hung in the house, a cold, clinical promise. Shape up, or I’ll show you what structure really means. Joey: Come out back. Brought you something. A thrill, sharp and electric, cut through the boredom. This was the antidote. The rebellion. She slipped from the bed, the old floorboards silent under her practiced steps. The window screen slid up with a soft, forgiving sigh. She dropped into the damp grass below, the earth cool and giving under her bare feet. He was there, leaning against the big oak, a silhouette haloed by the neighbor’s porch light. Joey. All lean muscle and easy grin. He held up a bottle, amber liquid catching the faint light. “For you, baby,” he said, his voice a low rasp. She took it, the glass smooth and cool. The first swallow was fire, tracing a molten path down her throat to settle, warm and pooling, in her belly. He didn’t waste time. His mouth found hers in the dark, tasting of whiskey and mint gum. His hands cupped her face, then slid down her neck, over her shoulders. The thin fabric of her tank top felt like nothing. His palms were rough against her ribs, his thumbs finding the underswell of her breasts through the cloth. A sound escaped her, not a moan, but a sharp, eager exhalation. She fumbled for the button of his jeans, her movements urgent. The denim gave way. She pushed her hand inside, past the band of his boxers, and her fingers closed around him. He was already hard, the skin hot and velvety smooth over rigid flesh. She began to move her hand, a firm, steady rhythm. “Screw, Brooklyn,” he muttered against her lips, his hips pushing forward into her grip. She smiled into the peck, a rush of power flooding her. She broke the peck, her breath coming in short, visible puffs in the cool air. Without a word, she sank to her knees in the soft grass. The dew was cool against her skin. She looked up at him, his face shadowed, before taking him into her mouth. The first taste was salt and clean skin. She worked him slowly at first, her tongue tracing the prominent vein on the underside, her lips creating a tight, wet seal. His fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, the head of his shaft hitting the back in a way that made her own stomach clench with sympathetic heat. The sounds were obscene and perfect—the wet slide of her mouth, his ragged breathing above her, the distant hum of a neighbor’s air conditioner. He pulled her up, his hands clumsy and fast. Her tank top was over her head and discarded in the grass. The night air pecked her bare skin, pebbling her papilla. His mouth was on her neck, then lower, sucking one tight peak between his lips. His tongue was rough, lapping at her, and a jolt of pure sensation arrowed straight down between her legs. She arched into him, a wordless plea. Her shorts and panties were shoved down her thighs in one rough movement. He turned her, his hands firm on her hips, and guided her forward until her palms were flat against the cool, rough siding of the house. She was exposed, bent over, the darkness a flimsy curtain. He positioned himself behind her. She felt the broad, blunt pressure of him against her entrance, already slick and open for him. He pushed in. It was a filling, stretching, perfect invasion. A full, deep stroke that drove the air from her lungs in a silent gasp. He didn’t wait, didn’t tease. He set a hard, driving pace from the start, each thrust slamming her forward against the wall. The force of it rattled the loose screen in her window above. The pleasure was a bright, coiling wire in her gut, tightening with every impact. The friction was exquisite, a rough, delicious burn that melted into liquid fire. She could hear the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies meeting, a private, filthy music. His grunts were short and sharp in her ear, his hands digging into the soft flesh of her hips, sure to leave marks. “Yeah… just like that,” she managed to pant, the words fractured. Her world narrowed to this: the solid wall under her palms, the punishing rhythm of him inside her, the gathering storm in her core. It built fast, a pressure so intense it felt like it would crack her open. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, demanding more. The climax tore through her without warning. It wasn’t a wave, but a sudden, silent detonation. Her entire body locked, a strangled cry caught in her throat. Her inner muscles clutched at him in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking his length as the sensations rolled through her in endless, shimmering waves. She trembled violently, held up only by his grip and the wall. Feeling her convulse around him tipped him over the edge. With a raw, choked sound, he buried himself to the hilt and held there. She felt the hot, sudden rush of his release flooding her depths, a final, intimate claim. They stayed like that for a long moment, joined, breathing in ragged unison, the scent of intercourse and crushed grass thick in the air. He softened, slipped out of her. A traitorous trickle of warmth followed. He pulled up his jeans, his movements sluggish. A quick, absent peck on her shoulder. “Gotta go. Got work tomorrow morning.” And then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows beyond the oak tree. Brooklyn stood up slowly, her legs unsteady. She pulled her shorts up, the damp cotton uncomfortable against her sensitive skin. She found her tank top, pulled it on. The ordinary fabric felt strange, a costume over the raw, humming reality of her body. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Silence. The house was dark. She’d avoided detection. She hoisted herself back through the window, moving with a careful, feline grace. She landed softly on her bedroom carpet. The door was still closed. She could hear the low drone of the television from her parents’ room now. Safe. She padded to her bedroom door, heading to the bathroom to clean up. She turned the knob, pulled the door open a crack. And froze. The hallway light was on. Tobias stood right there, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, still in his dress shirt and slacks, a glass of water in his hand. He was looking straight at her. His dark eyes took in her disheveled hair, her grass-stained shorts, the flush she could feel burning on her skin. His expression wasn’t angry. It was something worse. Cold. Clinical. Disappointed. He took a slow sip of water. “Sneaking out again, Brooklyn?” --- The hallway light felt like a surgical lamp, exposing every detail. Tobias didn’t move. He took another slow sip of water, his eyes never leaving hers. Brooklyn’s heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, trapped bird. The scent of Joey, of intercourse and night air, seemed to bloom around her in the sterile hallway. “Get in the kitchen,” he said. His voice was flat, devoid of the anger she’d braced for. She obeyed, her bare feet silent on the cool linoleum. He followed behind her. He didn’t sit down at the kitchen table. He stood before her, crossing his arms. The dress shirt stretched taut over his shoulders. “I had security cameras installed last week,” he began, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Motion-activated. The entire backyard. The feed is on my tablet.” The bottom dropped out of her stomach. A cold, slick dread pooled there, chilling the lingering warmth from Joey. “I saw everything, Brooklyn.” He paused, letting it sink in. “The drinking. The… physical contact. The complete lack of judgment.” “Tobias, please—” The words tumbled out, thin and desperate. “Please what?” he interrupted, a single eyebrow arching. “Please don’t tell your mother that her daughter is having unprotected intercourse with a boy of questionable character in our backyard?” Each clinical term was a lash. Her face burned. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how her papilla were still hard against the thin tank top, how the damp patch from Joey’s release was probably soaking through her shorts. “She’ll be disappointed in me,” Brooklyn whispered, the truth of it a sharp stone in her throat. “She will,” he agreed, no sympathy in his dark eyes. “Given your sexual activity, a medical examination is necessary. To ensure you haven’t contracted anything.” “What? No, that’s… I’m fine.” “Your assurance is not medically valid.” He picked up his tablet from the desk, tapped the screen. “The alternative is The New Leaf Program. Intensive, residential. No phone, no internet, no… boys.” He looked up. “Which would you prefer?” It wasn’t a choice. It was a trap with one exit. The program was a whispered horror story—a place where girls were broken down and rebuilt into bland, obedient shadows. The examination was a violation, but it would be over. A private, awful price. Her voice was a dry leaf. “The examination.” “Good choice.” He flipped on overhead fluorescent lights, bleaching the familiar room into something stark and alien. The granite countertops gleamed. He pulled out a large, heavy-looking black medical bag from a closet and set it on the center island with a solid thud. “Remove your clothing. Everything. Place them on the chair.” He gestured to a dining chair. He was already opening the bag, his movements efficient, practiced. Her fingers felt numb. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on her skin as she pulled the tank top over her head. She pushed her shorts and panties down, stepping out of the small pile on the floor. She moved the clothing to the chair as instructed, keeping her back to him. The cool air touched every part of her. She felt utterly exposed. “On the table. On your back. Legs spread.” Her stomach twisted. This was real. He was really going to do this. Swallowing hard, she climbed onto the smooth, cool wood. She lay back, staring at the ceiling fixture, a modern glass bowl. She could see the blurred reflection of her own splayed form below. Shame washed over her, hot and prickling. Tobias approached, having washed his hands at the sink. He dried them on a paper towel. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box in his bag. The snap as he rolled them on was obscenely loud. “Relax your legs,” he instructed, standing between them. His gaze was impersonal, scanning. “Hmm. Visible erythema. Swelling of the kitty minora.” His gloved hand touched her outer lips, parting them. A shock of sensation—cold latex on sensitized skin. “Significant residual lubrication. Evidence of recent arousal and penetration.” His touch was clinical, but it wasn’t rough. It was precise. And her traitorous body, still humming from Joey, responded to the direct contact. A low, unwelcome throb began between her legs. She bit the inside of her cheek. He slid a single finger inside her. Brooklyn jerked, a gasp tearing from her. “Be still.” His voice was calm. The finger probed deep, curling. It was an invasion, but it was also… specific. Searching. He withdrew his finger, holding it up under the light. It glistened, streaked with white. “Presence of seminal fluid. He didn’t use a protection.” It wasn’t a question. She shook her head, mute. “Irresponsible.” He wiped his finger on a gauze pad. From the bag, he produced a metal speculum. He coated it with a clear lubricant from a squeeze bottle. The cold metal touched her entrance. “You’ll feel pressure.” He inserted it, the cold, hard edges a stark contrast to Joey’s flesh. A mechanical click as he turned the screw, spreading her open wider than she’d ever been. She could feel the stretch, the unnatural openness. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Cervix appears healthy,” he murmured, more to himself. “No visible lesions or discharge indicative of common STIs. Good coloration.” He adjusted something, and a bright pen light clicked on, aimed inside her. She flinched. “No signs of chlamydia or gonorrhea. That’s fortunate.” He removed the speculum with a soft clatter, setting it on a tray. The relief of its removal was immediate, but short-lived. He coated his fingers with more lubricant. This time, his touch went lower, circling the tight pucker of her anus. “Have you engaged in anal intercourse?” “No,” she breathed, the word barely audible. “Good. This will be a digital examination to assess tone.” The lubricated tip of his finger pressed against the resistant ring of muscle. It yielded slowly under steady pressure, and then he was inside her there, too. The sensation was utterly foreign—a filling, stretching pressure in a place never touched. It burned faintly, then the burn melted into a deep, shocking fullness. He moved his finger, a slow in-and-out glide. And something shifted. The shame was still there, a heavy blanket. But underneath it, a new current sparked. The absolute taboo of it—her stepfather’s finger in her butt, in her mother’s kitchen—collided with the sheer physical novelty. The friction of his gloved finger, the precise movements, began to generate a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment. A warm, pooling sensation started low in her belly, spreading outward. He saw it. His eyes, which had been focused on his task, flicked up to her face. He saw the flush on her chest, the way her breathing had shallowed. He didn’t comment. Instead, his other hand moved. His thumb found her cherry. Brooklyn cried out, her hips lifting off the table of their own volition. He rubbed in a small, perfect circle. The touch was expert, applying just the right amount of pressure. The pleasure from that focused point fused with the deep, internal stimulation of his moving finger. The twin sensations coiled together, tightening into a knot of impossible intensity. Her moans were soft, helpless things, escaping into the quiet kitchen. “Keep quiet,” he ordered, his voice still calm, even as his thumb worked her. “You wouldn’t want to wake your mother.”

Screw by two daddies? In public? While the show? “Little girls need to be taught lessons sometimes. Be a good girl and be quiet. We don’t want to attract attention, baby.” It doesn’t take much for Daddy to line my undressed, wet kitty up with his hard shaft. "Oh-"I moan. When I quickly scan the crowd around us, everyone’s eyes are glued to the stage except Aiden. His eyes wander my papilla, still pinched tight, and my kitty that is nestled right on top of Daddy’s shaft. “Screw,” he murmurs as he watches us. "That’s right, baby. Tonight you’re our pain hooker.” Daddy stays inside my kitty and Aiden finds some hidden space to push his shaft in. I’m being torn in half. “Yes, baby, take his shaft. You’re such a hooker, aren’t you?” I feel Aiden move his manhood almost out of my butt, then back again. Underneath me, Daddy grips my hips as he pistons in and out of me, too. The pain recedes. Pleasure replaces it, so that I’m moaning and whimpering, too overstimulated to say anything intelligent. “That’s right, baby. Take both our cocks. You’re such a good hooker. So perfect for Daddy.” ———————— “Hi, Daddy, how are you?” I ask as I pick up my phone. “Good, sweetheart. Ready for graduation?” “Yes! I can’t wait.” “Perfect. I sent you something. Do you have it there?” I reach over to grab the envelope he had mailed me earlier that week, along with a note telling me I had to wait to open it until we were talking. “Got it.” “Good. Go ahead and open it.” Even on the other end of the phone, I can hear his smile. I rip open the paper and pause for a moment as I make sense of the words. “A week at a Mexican resort?” I squeal. “Really?” “Absolutely, sweetheart. You deserve it. Now, I’ve already cleared it with your mom. I’ll send over all your flight information. We land in Cancun about the same time, so just wait for me at the baggage claim, and I’ll be there.” “Do we really get to spend a whole week together?” I bite my lip to stop the tears from forming. Luke is my stepdad, or was my stepdad, to be more accurate. When I was eight, my mom brought home a date for the first time. Luke made the most delicious spaghetti and meatballs, and even brought a strawberry cheesecake for dessert. I was hooked. The day after their wedding, I awkwardly asked Luke if I could call him Daddy. In response, he engulfed me in the biggest hug ever. Even as I got older, he was never Dad. Always Daddy. When I was thirteen, what I thought was their perfect marriage ended. To say I was devastated was an understatement. Luke was the only father I knew, as my biodad was out of the picture before I could even walk. Luke remained Daddy, even as I grew older. It worked for us, and neither of us questioned it. After the divorce, Mom moved us to Boston for a job, and Luke stayed in San Francisco for his work. We talk every week, but we usually only see each other twice a year. “Yes, baby. A whole week. Just you and me.” “I can’t wait!” “Just three more weeks and then we’ll see each other. Now, enjoy your high school graduation. Be a good girl.” “Yes, Daddy.” I roll my eyes. I’m the epitome of a good girl. My stepdad hangs up, and then, even though the trip isn’t for another three weeks, I immediately start to pack. Soon, my suitcase is full of all my favorite summer dresses and bathing suits. Three weeks later, my plane touches down in Mexico. After the five-hour flight, I stop in a washroom to make myself slightly more presentable. My long brown hair is a little frazzled, so I quickly brush it out. It already feels hotter, even though we’re in an air-conditioned airport, so I take off my sweater, leaving me in just a pink summer dress. The spaghetti straps highlight how pale I am. I hope I can get more of a tan before having to head back to Boston. Not for the first time do I wish I were going to San Francisco to live with Luke. Wanting to only focus on the present, I apply a glossy pink Chapstick to my lips, then head out towards the baggage claim. When I get there, I scan the crowd for Luke and spot him almost instantly. He’s always been taller than most people. And, even though he’s forty, he’s still incredibly fit. There’s the barest hint of grey in his dark brown hair, and even though I like to tease him about becoming older, he’s ridiculously handsome. “Daddy!” I squeal from too far away. He turns automatically, a delighted smile on his face. I practically run toward him and, even though my dress is far too short, I hop into his arms and wrap my legs around him. “Gracie!” His hands hold me tight around the back, but when I start to slip off him, he moves so he’s supporting my bum. I like this – I can burrow even more into him when he holds me like this. “How was your flight, sweetheart?” “Good. ” Daddy lowers me down to the floor, but when I frown, he chuckles and grabs my hand as we walk over to our baggage carousel. “How was your flight?” “Good. Not as fun as yours. I had a bunch of work I needed to finish.” I wrinkle my nose. Daddy pecks it. “I know, my thoughts exactly. But the good news is that I don’t have to worry about any work for the rest of the week. It’s just going to be me, you, and the beach.” “Sounds perfect,” I positively purr. Daddy slings his laptop bag over his shoulder and grabs our luggage as it pops up. Then, we head out front to grab a taxi to our hotel. Outside, the heat immediately hits us. June in Mexico is way hotter than I thought it would be. Thankfully, my dress is light and breezy. Daddy’s dressed for the weather, too, in khaki pants and a white button-up shirt. The cab ride takes a while, but I don’t mind. I catch Daddy up on graduation, and he tells me about some project he’s working on. Before I know it, we pull up to our resort. I didn’t have time to do much research on it, as I still had finals and all the graduation events. It’s even more spectacular than the picture on the printout Daddy sent me. Palm trees cover the entire front entrance, and the lobby is expansive and open. There are tropical flowers everywhere. We head up to the front desk, Daddy back to holding my hand, so we can check in. I zone out a little as the receptionist goes over our details. Wi-Fi passwords and themed restaurants. But then she keeps talking, and I actually pay attention. “So it’s closing optional on the beach and the pool. The lounges, too, after eight pm.” “What?” I squeak out. I look at my stepdad, but he doesn’t think this is weird. “Yes, it’s an adults-only resort. Of course, everything is optional,” she smiles warmly at me, and I swallow down my panic. I’m an adult now. I try not to embarrass myself. “Of course, not a problem,” I finally manage. She goes on about credit card charges and other boring stuff as I try to process the information. Clothing optional? It’s not like it’s going to be an all-out orgy, I tell myself. And actually, wouldn’t it be nice to have an all-body tan? Except I’m with my stepdad. That would be weird, right? To be undressed around him. My eyes fly open. And then he might be undressed around me. That would be really weird. Except my body tingles just a little at the thought of us being undressed around each other. But no, that’s not what grown-ups would think about, I chide myself. “Ready, sweetheart?” Daddy asks me. He holds his hand out, so I take it, my suitcase dragging along behind me. “Did you, um, know about the clothing optional part?” I ask him as we head to the elevator. Daddy presses the Up button, and the doors open almost right away. “Yeah, I sort of remember seeing it on their website. A lot of adult-only places are like that down here. I just figured it would be easier to relax if there weren’t a gaggle of kids screaming in the pool.” I laugh, easily relaxed. “You always think of everything, Daddy.” I rest my head on his shoulder, and then the elevator dings at our floor. When Daddy swipes the key card and opens the door for us, I’m amazed at the opulence of the room. There’s a separate sitting area and a little kitchenette. The balcony has sweeping views of the ocean, and I can’t wait to wake up in the morning and have it be the first thing I see. “Oh,” I say as I look around the rest of the room. Inside the bedroom, there’s only one bed. “You don’t mind bunking with your stepdad, do you, sweetheart?” Daddy asks. He puts my suitcase on the bed for me. “By the time I booked our room, this was the only option left. The bed is big, easily king-sized. “No, of course not.” I sit on it, and it bounces just a little. “Feels comfy.” Daddy rifles through his suitcase and pulls out a black pair of swim trunks. “I don’t know about you, but that water is calling my name. Why don’t we go for a quick swim, and then we can come back here to get ready for dinner?” “Perfect!” I brought a few bathing suits with me. I grab a purple halter top bikini combination. I’m just about to go into the bathroom to change when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke whip his khakis off. He already has his shirt off, leaving him just in his boxer briefs. He’s turned around from me, so all I can see is his bum. His back muscles are well-defined, and as he bends over, I can see his glutes are, too. Hastily, I grab my stuff and head to the bathroom. I’m sure my stepdad wants privacy. After I change into my bikini, I slip on a gauzy cover and my flip-flops. Luke grabs us towels but doesn’t put on a shirt. I grab my book, sunscreen, and a few bottles of water from the mini fridge, and then we’re off. The beach is even more spectacular. Shades of every color of blue float by. The sun is lower on the horizon as it’s late afternoon, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky. “Wow,” I say as I take it all in. “Something else, isn’t it, baby?” “Thanks, Daddy. This is already the best present ever.” “Well, the week is just getting started. Come on, let’s find somewhere to set up.” There are lounge chairs and umbrellas set up along our beach, and we make our way through them to find an empty pair. Along the way, I try not to stare. I’m immensely glad I’m wearing sunglasses, so that it makes it less obvious. There are undressed people everywhere. Sure, there are some people wearing bathing suits, but the majority of people aren’t. Men and women lie on their loungers, some on their stomachs, others on their backs. Nothing is sexual. Not really. But only in the sense that people aren’t making out or having intercourse. But seeing so much nakedness all at once brings back those tingles from earlier. Especially because up until now, I’d never seen an undressed man before. “How about these ones?” Daddy asks. I almost stumble as I clue into what he’s saying. The lounge chairs are under an umbrella, angled to protect us from the bulk of the sun’s rays. It’s fairly close to the water. “Perfect,” I agree. I put all our stuff down. “So, see anything interesting?” Daddy asks with a chuckle as he sits down. “Oh, um.” “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s perfectly natural to be curious. Unless…” he trails off and brings his sunglasses down his nose. “Unless you’ve seen undressed men before.” His voice is stern. “No, Daddy,” I saw quickly. “I mean not before today.” “Good, sweetheart. I know you’re an adult, but giving yourself to a man is a special gift. Not one to take lightly.” “Yes, Daddy.” “Good.” His tone instantly lightens. “Now, pass me my book, will you? I’m on vacation, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.” I pass him his book and take out mine. I scroll through the options I’ve downloaded. One title catches my eye. As soon as I start reading, my cheeks warm, and not from the Mexican heat. The book is spicy. Very spicy. I’ve read a few romance books, but I think this would be better classified as smut. “How’s your book, Gracie?” Daddy asks. I almost drop my book. “Oh, um, it’s good. Thanks.” “Good.” Luke goes back to his book, and so do I. It’s about a secretary and a billionaire. Kind of a simple plot, but then the boss starts to be more dominating. When he spanks her, I squirm a little in my chair. “Comfy, Gracie?” Daddy asks. “If you want to find a different chair, we can look around.” “Oh, no, Daddy, it’s fine.” I try to keep still after that, but it gets harder as the book progresses. They have intercourse just about everywhere. At home, in his office. Even against a back alley. There’s more spanking and even handcuffs. “Phew, it sure is hot out!” says Daddy, bringing me out of my reverie once again. “I’m gonna head into the water. Want to join me, sweetheart?” I nod in agreement. Yes, cool water is exactly what I need. When I get up, Daddy looks at me. He’s taken his sunglasses off as we’re in the shade, so I can see as his gaze moves down my body. He frowns just a little. “What exactly are you reading, sweetheart?” “Oh, um, just a romance book. Something silly.” “Hm,” is all he offers. He takes his sunglasses off and starts to head to the water. When I look down at my body, I’m instantly mortified. My papilla are hard and practically poke through the material of my bikini. And there’s a very noticeable wet spot on the front of my bottoms. Did my stepdad realize I was turned on by my book? Or maybe he thought it was from all the undressed people on the beach? Whatever the reasons, I need to get in the water immediately.

Screw by two daddies? In public? While the show? “Little girls need to be taught lessons sometimes. Be a good girl and be quiet. We don’t want to attract attention, baby.” It doesn’t take much for Daddy to line my undressed, wet kitty up with his hard shaft. "Oh-"I moan. When I quickly scan the crowd around us, everyone’s eyes are glued to the stage except Aiden. His eyes wander my papilla, still pinched tight, and my kitty that is nestled right on top of Daddy’s shaft. “Screw,” he murmurs as he watches us. "That’s right, baby. Tonight you’re our pain hooker.” Daddy stays inside my kitty and Aiden finds some hidden space to push his shaft in. I’m being torn in half. “Yes, baby, take his shaft. You’re such a hooker, aren’t you?” I feel Aiden move his manhood almost out of my butt, then back again. Underneath me, Daddy grips my hips as he pistons in and out of me, too. The pain recedes. Pleasure replaces it, so that I’m moaning and whimpering, too overstimulated to say anything intelligent. “That’s right, baby. Take both our cocks. You’re such a good hooker. So perfect for Daddy.” ———————— “Hi, Daddy, how are you?” I ask as I pick up my phone. “Good, sweetheart. Ready for graduation?” “Yes! I can’t wait.” “Perfect. I sent you something. Do you have it there?” I reach over to grab the envelope he had mailed me earlier that week, along with a note telling me I had to wait to open it until we were talking. “Got it.” “Good. Go ahead and open it.” Even on the other end of the phone, I can hear his smile. I rip open the paper and pause for a moment as I make sense of the words. “A week at a Mexican resort?” I squeal. “Really?” “Absolutely, sweetheart. You deserve it. Now, I’ve already cleared it with your mom. I’ll send over all your flight information. We land in Cancun about the same time, so just wait for me at the baggage claim, and I’ll be there.” “Do we really get to spend a whole week together?” I bite my lip to stop the tears from forming. Luke is my stepdad, or was my stepdad, to be more accurate. When I was eight, my mom brought home a date for the first time. Luke made the most delicious spaghetti and meatballs, and even brought a strawberry cheesecake for dessert. I was hooked. The day after their wedding, I awkwardly asked Luke if I could call him Daddy. In response, he engulfed me in the biggest hug ever. Even as I got older, he was never Dad. Always Daddy. When I was thirteen, what I thought was their perfect marriage ended. To say I was devastated was an understatement. Luke was the only father I knew, as my biodad was out of the picture before I could even walk. Luke remained Daddy, even as I grew older. It worked for us, and neither of us questioned it. After the divorce, Mom moved us to Boston for a job, and Luke stayed in San Francisco for his work. We talk every week, but we usually only see each other twice a year. “Yes, baby. A whole week. Just you and me.” “I can’t wait!” “Just three more weeks and then we’ll see each other. Now, enjoy your high school graduation. Be a good girl.” “Yes, Daddy.” I roll my eyes. I’m the epitome of a good girl. My stepdad hangs up, and then, even though the trip isn’t for another three weeks, I immediately start to pack. Soon, my suitcase is full of all my favorite summer dresses and bathing suits. Three weeks later, my plane touches down in Mexico. After the five-hour flight, I stop in a washroom to make myself slightly more presentable. My long brown hair is a little frazzled, so I quickly brush it out. It already feels hotter, even though we’re in an air-conditioned airport, so I take off my sweater, leaving me in just a pink summer dress. The spaghetti straps highlight how pale I am. I hope I can get more of a tan before having to head back to Boston. Not for the first time do I wish I were going to San Francisco to live with Luke. Wanting to only focus on the present, I apply a glossy pink Chapstick to my lips, then head out towards the baggage claim. When I get there, I scan the crowd for Luke and spot him almost instantly. He’s always been taller than most people. And, even though he’s forty, he’s still incredibly fit. There’s the barest hint of grey in his dark brown hair, and even though I like to tease him about becoming older, he’s ridiculously handsome. “Daddy!” I squeal from too far away. He turns automatically, a delighted smile on his face. I practically run toward him and, even though my dress is far too short, I hop into his arms and wrap my legs around him. “Gracie!” His hands hold me tight around the back, but when I start to slip off him, he moves so he’s supporting my bum. I like this – I can burrow even more into him when he holds me like this. “How was your flight, sweetheart?” “Good. ” Daddy lowers me down to the floor, but when I frown, he chuckles and grabs my hand as we walk over to our baggage carousel. “How was your flight?” “Good. Not as fun as yours. I had a bunch of work I needed to finish.” I wrinkle my nose. Daddy pecks it. “I know, my thoughts exactly. But the good news is that I don’t have to worry about any work for the rest of the week. It’s just going to be me, you, and the beach.” “Sounds perfect,” I positively purr. Daddy slings his laptop bag over his shoulder and grabs our luggage as it pops up. Then, we head out front to grab a taxi to our hotel. Outside, the heat immediately hits us. June in Mexico is way hotter than I thought it would be. Thankfully, my dress is light and breezy. Daddy’s dressed for the weather, too, in khaki pants and a white button-up shirt. The cab ride takes a while, but I don’t mind. I catch Daddy up on graduation, and he tells me about some project he’s working on. Before I know it, we pull up to our resort. I didn’t have time to do much research on it, as I still had finals and all the graduation events. It’s even more spectacular than the picture on the printout Daddy sent me. Palm trees cover the entire front entrance, and the lobby is expansive and open. There are tropical flowers everywhere. We head up to the front desk, Daddy back to holding my hand, so we can check in. I zone out a little as the receptionist goes over our details. Wi-Fi passwords and themed restaurants. But then she keeps talking, and I actually pay attention. “So it’s closing optional on the beach and the pool. The lounges, too, after eight pm.” “What?” I squeak out. I look at my stepdad, but he doesn’t think this is weird. “Yes, it’s an adults-only resort. Of course, everything is optional,” she smiles warmly at me, and I swallow down my panic. I’m an adult now. I try not to embarrass myself. “Of course, not a problem,” I finally manage. She goes on about credit card charges and other boring stuff as I try to process the information. Clothing optional? It’s not like it’s going to be an all-out orgy, I tell myself. And actually, wouldn’t it be nice to have an all-body tan? Except I’m with my stepdad. That would be weird, right? To be undressed around him. My eyes fly open. And then he might be undressed around me. That would be really weird. Except my body tingles just a little at the thought of us being undressed around each other. But no, that’s not what grown-ups would think about, I chide myself. “Ready, sweetheart?” Daddy asks me. He holds his hand out, so I take it, my suitcase dragging along behind me. “Did you, um, know about the clothing optional part?” I ask him as we head to the elevator. Daddy presses the Up button, and the doors open almost right away. “Yeah, I sort of remember seeing it on their website. A lot of adult-only places are like that down here. I just figured it would be easier to relax if there weren’t a gaggle of kids screaming in the pool.” I laugh, easily relaxed. “You always think of everything, Daddy.” I rest my head on his shoulder, and then the elevator dings at our floor. When Daddy swipes the key card and opens the door for us, I’m amazed at the opulence of the room. There’s a separate sitting area and a little kitchenette. The balcony has sweeping views of the ocean, and I can’t wait to wake up in the morning and have it be the first thing I see. “Oh,” I say as I look around the rest of the room. Inside the bedroom, there’s only one bed. “You don’t mind bunking with your stepdad, do you, sweetheart?” Daddy asks. He puts my suitcase on the bed for me. “By the time I booked our room, this was the only option left. The bed is big, easily king-sized. “No, of course not.” I sit on it, and it bounces just a little. “Feels comfy.” Daddy rifles through his suitcase and pulls out a black pair of swim trunks. “I don’t know about you, but that water is calling my name. Why don’t we go for a quick swim, and then we can come back here to get ready for dinner?” “Perfect!” I brought a few bathing suits with me. I grab a purple halter top bikini combination. I’m just about to go into the bathroom to change when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke whip his khakis off. He already has his shirt off, leaving him just in his boxer briefs. He’s turned around from me, so all I can see is his bum. His back muscles are well-defined, and as he bends over, I can see his glutes are, too. Hastily, I grab my stuff and head to the bathroom. I’m sure my stepdad wants privacy. After I change into my bikini, I slip on a gauzy cover and my flip-flops. Luke grabs us towels but doesn’t put on a shirt. I grab my book, sunscreen, and a few bottles of water from the mini fridge, and then we’re off. The beach is even more spectacular. Shades of every color of blue float by. The sun is lower on the horizon as it’s late afternoon, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky. “Wow,” I say as I take it all in. “Something else, isn’t it, baby?” “Thanks, Daddy. This is already the best present ever.” “Well, the week is just getting started. Come on, let’s find somewhere to set up.” There are lounge chairs and umbrellas set up along our beach, and we make our way through them to find an empty pair. Along the way, I try not to stare. I’m immensely glad I’m wearing sunglasses, so that it makes it less obvious. There are undressed people everywhere. Sure, there are some people wearing bathing suits, but the majority of people aren’t. Men and women lie on their loungers, some on their stomachs, others on their backs. Nothing is sexual. Not really. But only in the sense that people aren’t making out or having intercourse. But seeing so much nakedness all at once brings back those tingles from earlier. Especially because up until now, I’d never seen an undressed man before. “How about these ones?” Daddy asks. I almost stumble as I clue into what he’s saying. The lounge chairs are under an umbrella, angled to protect us from the bulk of the sun’s rays. It’s fairly close to the water. “Perfect,” I agree. I put all our stuff down. “So, see anything interesting?” Daddy asks with a chuckle as he sits down. “Oh, um.” “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s perfectly natural to be curious. Unless…” he trails off and brings his sunglasses down his nose. “Unless you’ve seen undressed men before.” His voice is stern. “No, Daddy,” I saw quickly. “I mean not before today.” “Good, sweetheart. I know you’re an adult, but giving yourself to a man is a special gift. Not one to take lightly.” “Yes, Daddy.” “Good.” His tone instantly lightens. “Now, pass me my book, will you? I’m on vacation, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.” I pass him his book and take out mine. I scroll through the options I’ve downloaded. One title catches my eye. As soon as I start reading, my cheeks warm, and not from the Mexican heat. The book is spicy. Very spicy. I’ve read a few romance books, but I think this would be better classified as smut. “How’s your book, Gracie?” Daddy asks. I almost drop my book. “Oh, um, it’s good. Thanks.” “Good.” Luke goes back to his book, and so do I. It’s about a secretary and a billionaire. Kind of a simple plot, but then the boss starts to be more dominating. When he spanks her, I squirm a little in my chair. “Comfy, Gracie?” Daddy asks. “If you want to find a different chair, we can look around.” “Oh, no, Daddy, it’s fine.” I try to keep still after that, but it gets harder as the book progresses. They have intercourse just about everywhere. At home, in his office. Even against a back alley. There’s more spanking and even handcuffs. “Phew, it sure is hot out!” says Daddy, bringing me out of my reverie once again. “I’m gonna head into the water. Want to join me, sweetheart?” I nod in agreement. Yes, cool water is exactly what I need. When I get up, Daddy looks at me. He’s taken his sunglasses off as we’re in the shade, so I can see as his gaze moves down my body. He frowns just a little. “What exactly are you reading, sweetheart?” “Oh, um, just a romance book. Something silly.” “Hm,” is all he offers. He takes his sunglasses off and starts to head to the water. When I look down at my body, I’m instantly mortified. My papilla are hard and practically poke through the material of my bikini. And there’s a very noticeable wet spot on the front of my bottoms. Did my stepdad realize I was turned on by my book? Or maybe he thought it was from all the undressed people on the beach? Whatever the reasons, I need to get in the water immediately.

Tonight, another woman wore my biker Knox's jacket as if it was a passport into my marriage. Memorial nights were not parties. All I knew at first was that the clubhouse smelled wrong. Then I saw Talia Rusk, sister of the late Abel. Her eyes were red. Dressed in charcoal silk, she had one shoulder exposed beneath Knox's leather jacket. A small oval pendant rested just below Talia's collarbone, half-hidden against her skin. The chain. My chain. "Only the woman who rides through he1l with me wears this." The memory arrived whole. Blood in my mouth. Rain on the road. Knox's voice cracking against my ear. "Stay with me, Vale. You hear me? Stay with me." I looked at the chain around Talia's neck. Rage was too honest. What filled me first was a sick rearranging of memory. At first, I had explained it to myself. Abel's sister. Broken girl. Club debt. Knox coming home late with gasoline in his hair and vanilla on his shirt. Knox stepping outside to take calls. Knox saying, "You're tired, baby. Don't make this into something dirty." He corrected me in front of Talia when I questioned why she was sleeping upstairs at the clubhouse instead of in one of the rental rooms near the garage. "She's safer here." Safer. I had been unsafe in this world for seven years and never once used that word to steal another woman's place. _________ The dead did not always stay buried; sometimes they came back polished, shining, and warm against another woman’s skin. Serena Vale did not understand that thought when it first crossed her mind. Not fully. Not yet. At first, all she knew was that the clubhouse smelled wrong. Not bad. Wrong. It smelled the way Iron Front always smelled on memorial nights—old smoke trapped in wood, spilled whiskey, engine oil baked into denim, leather warmed by bodies, and the faint bite of gun cleaner from men who never entered a room without preparing to leave it bloody. But beneath it tonight was something sweeter. Vanilla. Soft. Expensive. Out of place. Serena paused at the entrance with one hand still on the heavy metal door, her wedding ring cold against the handle. The bass of men’s voices rolled through the main room, low and rough, broken now and then by a woman’s laugh that died too fast, like someone had remembered where they were. Memorial nights were not parties. They were warnings dressed as grief. A black-and-white photograph of Abel Rusk sat on the long table near the front, framed between two fat candles and a bottle of Tennessee whiskey. Abel had been dead three years, shot off his bike on County Road 9 while riding back from a weapons handoff nobody was supposed to know about. Iron Front called him brother. The town called him trouble. His sister called him the only person who ever came back for her. Talia Rusk. Serena stepped inside. A few heads turned. Not many. That was the first cut. In this clubhouse, Serena had never needed to announce herself. Men moved when she entered. Prospects straightened. Old ladies made room. Not because she demanded it, but because seven years beside Knox “Viper” Marlowe had carved her name into the bones of this place. President’s wife. Old lady. Keeper of books no cop would ever understand. The woman who had once pressed towels against a brother’s bullet wound while Knox held the back door with a shotgun. The woman who had ridden through hells and stayed. Tonight, men saw her and looked away. Serena kept walking. Her boots crossed the scarred wooden floor, each step slow enough to look calm. She passed Ryder and Smoke near the bar. Ryder lifted his beer, then lowered it without drinking. Smoke suddenly became interested in the label on his bottle. Cowards had small tells. Serena knew them all. Mara Quinn leaned against the far wall, arms folded, gray eyes sharp under dark lashes. Mara was not Iron Front anymore, not officially. Her man had died before Serena ever came into the club, and she had walked out with his ashes in one hand and a pistol in the other. But she still appeared on memorial nights like a ghost with better aim. When Mara saw Serena, her mouth tightened. Not sympathy. Warning. Serena’s stomach went hard. She found Knox near the front table. Of course she did. Men like Knox did not stand in corners. Corners were for people who needed protection. Knox Marlowe stood where rooms bent around him. He wore black denim over a white shirt, his president patch cut across his shoulders, his dark hair pushed back like he had dragged his hand through it too many times and gotten angry at the result. There was a fresh bruise along his jaw. His knuckles were split. He looked brutal, beautiful, and tired in the way that used to make Serena want to take him home and put her hands on the parts of him nobody else got to see. Beside him stood Talia Rusk. Serena stopped three feet inside the room. There it was again. Vanilla. Talia’s perfume. She had not worn black like the other women. Not properly. Her dress was charcoal silk, too soft for this place, too carefully helpless. It slipped off one shoulder beneath Knox’s leather jacket. Knox’s jacket. Not club property. His. Serena felt the room narrow. Talia’s hand rested on the edge of the memorial table near Abel’s photograph. Her eyes were red, but her mouth was steady. She looked like grief had dressed her and vanity had made the final adjustments. Knox leaned toward her slightly as one of the older brothers spoke about Abel’s last ride. Slightly. That was the thing about betrayal. It never needed to shout when it had already been living in the room. Serena watched Knox’s shoulder angle toward Talia. Watched Talia tilt her face toward him like she knew he would hear even the breath she did not release. Watched two old ladies glance at Serena, then away. Something cold moved down Serena’s spine. She had seen Talia beside Knox before. At first, she had explained it to herself. Abel’s sister. Broken girl. Club debt. A woman with no family but the men who had failed to save her brother. Then Talia started answering Knox’s phone when he left it on the bar. Then she started bringing him coffee the way Serena used to, black with one sugar when he was angry enough to pretend he didn’t need softness. Then she started sitting in Serena’s chair near the officers’ table. Then Serena had asked Knox why Talia knew about a route change before some patched brothers did. And Knox had looked at her like she had brought a knife to a funeral. “She’s Abel’s sister,” he’d said. As if grief was a passport into another woman’s marriage. Tonight, Talia wore his jacket. Serena waited for rage. It did not come. Not yet. Rage was too honest. What filled her first was something quieter, a sick rearranging of memory. Knox coming home late with gasoline in his hair and vanilla on his shirt. Knox stepping outside to take calls. Knox saying, “You’re tired, baby. Don’t make this into something dirty.” Knox correcting Serena in front of Talia when Serena questioned why the girl was sleeping upstairs at the clubhouse instead of in one of the rental rooms near the garage. “She’s safer here.” Safer. Serena had been unsafe in this world for seven years and never once used that word to steal another woman’s place. The older brother finished his speech. Glasses lifted. “To Abel,” someone said. “To Abel,” the room answered. Serena did not lift her glass because she had not taken one. ....... Knox saw her then. Really saw her. His face changed. Not enough for anyone who did not know him. But Serena knew every language his face spoke. The tightening beside his mouth. The flicker in his eyes. The half breath he trapped before it could become a curse. Guilt looked ugly on him. Good. Talia followed Knox’s stare and turned. For one second, something like satisfaction moved across her face. Then she covered it with grief. Too late. Serena started walking again. The room sensed it before it understood it. Conversation thinned. Someone’s chair scraped backward. A prospect near the door muttered, “Screw,” under his breath. Knox moved first. “Serena.” His voice carried command by habit. It used to work on men. It had once worked on her. She did not stop until she stood in front of him and Talia, close enough to see the pulse beating at the base of Talia’s throat. That was when the dead came back polished. Serena saw the chain. Silver. Thin but strong. A small oval pendant rested just below Talia’s collarbone, half-hidden against her skin. It was scratched on one side from where it had scraped asphalt years ago when Serena crawled behind an overturned truck with bullets chewing bark from the trees above her head. Her chain. No. Not simply hers. The chain. The one Knox had fastened around Serena’s neck with hands that still shook from killing two men to get back to her. The one he had pressed his mouth against afterward, not pecking her skin first, but the silver, like the metal had carried her back to him. Only the woman who rides through hells with me wears this. The memory arrived whole. Blood in Serena’s mouth. Rain on the road. Knox’s voice cracking against her ear for the only time she had ever heard it break. “Stay with me, Vale. You hear me? Stay with me.” Then later, his fingers at the clasp. Silver cold against her throat. His forehead against hers. “Only the woman who rides through hells with me wears this.” Serena looked at the chain around Talia’s neck. The room fell away. Now she understood the thought that had met her at the door. The dead had come back polished. Because something sacred had been killed, cleaned, and hung on another woman like decoration. Serena lifted her eyes to Knox. “Why,” she asked, her voice calm enough to make the nearest brothers go still, “is she wearing my chain?” No one breathed. Talia’s fingers rose to the pendant. That tiny movement was worse than a confession. Possessive. Defensive. Familiar. Knox’s jaw locked. “Serena.” “Answer me.” His eyes cut around the room. Not to her. Around. Measuring witnesses. Calculating damage. Seeing the men, the old ladies, the candles, Abel’s photograph, the rival hang-around near the back wall pretending not to listen. Serena watched him choose. Not between two women. That choice had already been made somewhere in the dark, in a room that smelled like vanilla and cowardice. No, Knox was choosing between truth and control. He chose control. “Not here,” he said. There were sentences that ended marriages softly. Papers signed. Doors closed. Names no longer spoken in bed. And then there were sentences that took a marriage by the throat in public and snapped its neck. Serena stared at him. Not here. Not, I’m sorry. Not, I can explain. Not, I hurt you. Not even a lie. Not here. As if her humiliation had been acceptable while it stayed quiet. As if the wound was not the chain around Talia’s neck, but Serena daring to point at the blood. Something inside Serena went silent. Talia whispered, “This is Abel’s memorial.” Serena turned her head slowly. Talia should have been smarter than that. “So take off what belongs to the living,” Serena said. Talia’s face flushed. Her hand closed around the pendant. Knox stepped between them by half an inch. Half an inch was enough. Serena laughed once. It was not loud. It was not hysterical. It had no humor in it at all. Several men flinched anyway. “There it is,” she said. Knox’s eyes darkened. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” Serena asked. “Don’t embarrass you? Don’t ruin the memorial? Don’t make the club uncomfortable?” She looked past him, at the men suddenly fascinated by their boots and bottles. “You all looked comfortable enough while she wore it.” No one answered. Rook Calder stood near the bar, his VP patch catching candlelight. His face was pale under his beard. Serena met his eyes. He looked away. There. Another grave opened. ...... Knox lowered his voice. “Baby, we’re going outside.” Baby. The word landed like a dirty hand. Serena looked at his fingers when he reached for her elbow. He stopped before touching her. At least some animal part of him still wanted to live. “No,” she said. “You are going to stand exactly where you chose to stand.” Knox’s nostrils flared. Talia’s mouth trembled, but her eyes did not. “He gave it to me because I needed something real.” The room died. Even Knox went still. Serena looked at him. There it was. Not the whole story, maybe. But enough. He had not just touched another woman. He had given her a relic from the night Serena almost died for this club. He had taken proof of survival and used it to comfort the woman who had helped make Serena doubt her own mind. Serena reached for her left hand. Knox saw the movement. “Serena,” he said, and this time his voice cracked at the edge. Too late. She twisted the old lady ring from her finger. It resisted for one cruel second. Seven years of heat and work and blood had shaped her hand around it. Then it slid free. The silver band sat in her palm, heavier than it had any right to be. Knox stared at it like she had drawn a gun. Maybe she had. Serena stepped closer to him. Close enough to smell leather, smoke, and under it— Vanilla. Her mouth tightened. She picked up his whiskey glass from the memorial table. The amber liquid trembled once, catching candlelight. Then she dropped the ring into it. The sound was small. A soft clink. But every person in the clubhouse heard it. Serena looked at Knox for the last time as his wife. “You wanted private,” she said. “Keep the ring quiet too.” Then she turned and walked away. No one stopped her. Not Knox. Not Rook. Not the men who had once sworn they would take a bullet before letting disrespect touch her. Her boots crossed the clubhouse floor. The same floor she had scrubbed blood from. The same floor where Knox had once danced her barefoot at three in the morning after a war ended and before the next one began. The same floor where another woman had apparently learned how easy it was to stand in Serena’s shadow and call it home.

Tonight, another woman wore my biker Knox's jacket as if it was a passport into my marriage. Memorial nights were not parties. All I knew at first was that the clubhouse smelled wrong. Then I saw Talia Rusk, sister of the late Abel. Her eyes were red. Dressed in charcoal silk, she had one shoulder exposed beneath Knox's leather jacket. A small oval pendant rested just below Talia's collarbone, half-hidden against her skin. The chain. My chain. "Only the woman who rides through he1l with me wears this." The memory arrived whole. Blood in my mouth. Rain on the road. Knox's voice cracking against my ear. "Stay with me, Vale. You hear me? Stay with me." I looked at the chain around Talia's neck. Rage was too honest. What filled me first was a sick rearranging of memory. At first, I had explained it to myself. Abel's sister. Broken girl. Club debt. Knox coming home late with gasoline in his hair and vanilla on his shirt. Knox stepping outside to take calls. Knox saying, "You're tired, baby. Don't make this into something dirty." He corrected me in front of Talia when I questioned why she was sleeping upstairs at the clubhouse instead of in one of the rental rooms near the garage. "She's safer here." Safer. I had been unsafe in this world for seven years and never once used that word to steal another woman's place. _________ The dead did not always stay buried; sometimes they came back polished, shining, and warm against another woman’s skin. Serena Vale did not understand that thought when it first crossed her mind. Not fully. Not yet. At first, all she knew was that the clubhouse smelled wrong. Not bad. Wrong. It smelled the way Iron Front always smelled on memorial nights—old smoke trapped in wood, spilled whiskey, engine oil baked into denim, leather warmed by bodies, and the faint bite of gun cleaner from men who never entered a room without preparing to leave it bloody. But beneath it tonight was something sweeter. Vanilla. Soft. Expensive. Out of place. Serena paused at the entrance with one hand still on the heavy metal door, her wedding ring cold against the handle. The bass of men’s voices rolled through the main room, low and rough, broken now and then by a woman’s laugh that died too fast, like someone had remembered where they were. Memorial nights were not parties. They were warnings dressed as grief. A black-and-white photograph of Abel Rusk sat on the long table near the front, framed between two fat candles and a bottle of Tennessee whiskey. Abel had been dead three years, shot off his bike on County Road 9 while riding back from a weapons handoff nobody was supposed to know about. Iron Front called him brother. The town called him trouble. His sister called him the only person who ever came back for her. Talia Rusk. Serena stepped inside. A few heads turned. Not many. That was the first cut. In this clubhouse, Serena had never needed to announce herself. Men moved when she entered. Prospects straightened. Old ladies made room. Not because she demanded it, but because seven years beside Knox “Viper” Marlowe had carved her name into the bones of this place. President’s wife. Old lady. Keeper of books no cop would ever understand. The woman who had once pressed towels against a brother’s bullet wound while Knox held the back door with a shotgun. The woman who had ridden through hells and stayed. Tonight, men saw her and looked away. Serena kept walking. Her boots crossed the scarred wooden floor, each step slow enough to look calm. She passed Ryder and Smoke near the bar. Ryder lifted his beer, then lowered it without drinking. Smoke suddenly became interested in the label on his bottle. Cowards had small tells. Serena knew them all. Mara Quinn leaned against the far wall, arms folded, gray eyes sharp under dark lashes. Mara was not Iron Front anymore, not officially. Her man had died before Serena ever came into the club, and she had walked out with his ashes in one hand and a pistol in the other. But she still appeared on memorial nights like a ghost with better aim. When Mara saw Serena, her mouth tightened. Not sympathy. Warning. Serena’s stomach went hard. She found Knox near the front table. Of course she did. Men like Knox did not stand in corners. Corners were for people who needed protection. Knox Marlowe stood where rooms bent around him. He wore black denim over a white shirt, his president patch cut across his shoulders, his dark hair pushed back like he had dragged his hand through it too many times and gotten angry at the result. There was a fresh bruise along his jaw. His knuckles were split. He looked brutal, beautiful, and tired in the way that used to make Serena want to take him home and put her hands on the parts of him nobody else got to see. Beside him stood Talia Rusk. Serena stopped three feet inside the room. There it was again. Vanilla. Talia’s perfume. She had not worn black like the other women. Not properly. Her dress was charcoal silk, too soft for this place, too carefully helpless. It slipped off one shoulder beneath Knox’s leather jacket. Knox’s jacket. Not club property. His. Serena felt the room narrow. Talia’s hand rested on the edge of the memorial table near Abel’s photograph. Her eyes were red, but her mouth was steady. She looked like grief had dressed her and vanity had made the final adjustments. Knox leaned toward her slightly as one of the older brothers spoke about Abel’s last ride. Slightly. That was the thing about betrayal. It never needed to shout when it had already been living in the room. Serena watched Knox’s shoulder angle toward Talia. Watched Talia tilt her face toward him like she knew he would hear even the breath she did not release. Watched two old ladies glance at Serena, then away. Something cold moved down Serena’s spine. She had seen Talia beside Knox before. At first, she had explained it to herself. Abel’s sister. Broken girl. Club debt. A woman with no family but the men who had failed to save her brother. Then Talia started answering Knox’s phone when he left it on the bar. Then she started bringing him coffee the way Serena used to, black with one sugar when he was angry enough to pretend he didn’t need softness. Then she started sitting in Serena’s chair near the officers’ table. Then Serena had asked Knox why Talia knew about a route change before some patched brothers did. And Knox had looked at her like she had brought a knife to a funeral. “She’s Abel’s sister,” he’d said. As if grief was a passport into another woman’s marriage. Tonight, Talia wore his jacket. Serena waited for rage. It did not come. Not yet. Rage was too honest. What filled her first was something quieter, a sick rearranging of memory. Knox coming home late with gasoline in his hair and vanilla on his shirt. Knox stepping outside to take calls. Knox saying, “You’re tired, baby. Don’t make this into something dirty.” Knox correcting Serena in front of Talia when Serena questioned why the girl was sleeping upstairs at the clubhouse instead of in one of the rental rooms near the garage. “She’s safer here.” Safer. Serena had been unsafe in this world for seven years and never once used that word to steal another woman’s place. The older brother finished his speech. Glasses lifted. “To Abel,” someone said. “To Abel,” the room answered. Serena did not lift her glass because she had not taken one. ....... Knox saw her then. Really saw her. His face changed. Not enough for anyone who did not know him. But Serena knew every language his face spoke. The tightening beside his mouth. The flicker in his eyes. The half breath he trapped before it could become a curse. Guilt looked ugly on him. Good. Talia followed Knox’s stare and turned. For one second, something like satisfaction moved across her face. Then she covered it with grief. Too late. Serena started walking again. The room sensed it before it understood it. Conversation thinned. Someone’s chair scraped backward. A prospect near the door muttered, “Screw,” under his breath. Knox moved first. “Serena.” His voice carried command by habit. It used to work on men. It had once worked on her. She did not stop until she stood in front of him and Talia, close enough to see the pulse beating at the base of Talia’s throat. That was when the dead came back polished. Serena saw the chain. Silver. Thin but strong. A small oval pendant rested just below Talia’s collarbone, half-hidden against her skin. It was scratched on one side from where it had scraped asphalt years ago when Serena crawled behind an overturned truck with bullets chewing bark from the trees above her head. Her chain. No. Not simply hers. The chain. The one Knox had fastened around Serena’s neck with hands that still shook from killing two men to get back to her. The one he had pressed his mouth against afterward, not pecking her skin first, but the silver, like the metal had carried her back to him. Only the woman who rides through hells with me wears this. The memory arrived whole. Blood in Serena’s mouth. Rain on the road. Knox’s voice cracking against her ear for the only time she had ever heard it break. “Stay with me, Vale. You hear me? Stay with me.” Then later, his fingers at the clasp. Silver cold against her throat. His forehead against hers. “Only the woman who rides through hells with me wears this.” Serena looked at the chain around Talia’s neck. The room fell away. Now she understood the thought that had met her at the door. The dead had come back polished. Because something sacred had been killed, cleaned, and hung on another woman like decoration. Serena lifted her eyes to Knox. “Why,” she asked, her voice calm enough to make the nearest brothers go still, “is she wearing my chain?” No one breathed. Talia’s fingers rose to the pendant. That tiny movement was worse than a confession. Possessive. Defensive. Familiar. Knox’s jaw locked. “Serena.” “Answer me.” His eyes cut around the room. Not to her. Around. Measuring witnesses. Calculating damage. Seeing the men, the old ladies, the candles, Abel’s photograph, the rival hang-around near the back wall pretending not to listen. Serena watched him choose. Not between two women. That choice had already been made somewhere in the dark, in a room that smelled like vanilla and cowardice. No, Knox was choosing between truth and control. He chose control. “Not here,” he said. There were sentences that ended marriages softly. Papers signed. Doors closed. Names no longer spoken in bed. And then there were sentences that took a marriage by the throat in public and snapped its neck. Serena stared at him. Not here. Not, I’m sorry. Not, I can explain. Not, I hurt you. Not even a lie. Not here. As if her humiliation had been acceptable while it stayed quiet. As if the wound was not the chain around Talia’s neck, but Serena daring to point at the blood. Something inside Serena went silent. Talia whispered, “This is Abel’s memorial.” Serena turned her head slowly. Talia should have been smarter than that. “So take off what belongs to the living,” Serena said. Talia’s face flushed. Her hand closed around the pendant. Knox stepped between them by half an inch. Half an inch was enough. Serena laughed once. It was not loud. It was not hysterical. It had no humor in it at all. Several men flinched anyway. “There it is,” she said. Knox’s eyes darkened. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” Serena asked. “Don’t embarrass you? Don’t ruin the memorial? Don’t make the club uncomfortable?” She looked past him, at the men suddenly fascinated by their boots and bottles. “You all looked comfortable enough while she wore it.” No one answered. Rook Calder stood near the bar, his VP patch catching candlelight. His face was pale under his beard. Serena met his eyes. He looked away. There. Another grave opened. ...... Knox lowered his voice. “Baby, we’re going outside.” Baby. The word landed like a dirty hand. Serena looked at his fingers when he reached for her elbow. He stopped before touching her. At least some animal part of him still wanted to live. “No,” she said. “You are going to stand exactly where you chose to stand.” Knox’s nostrils flared. Talia’s mouth trembled, but her eyes did not. “He gave it to me because I needed something real.” The room died. Even Knox went still. Serena looked at him. There it was. Not the whole story, maybe. But enough. He had not just touched another woman. He had given her a relic from the night Serena almost died for this club. He had taken proof of survival and used it to comfort the woman who had helped make Serena doubt her own mind. Serena reached for her left hand. Knox saw the movement. “Serena,” he said, and this time his voice cracked at the edge. Too late. She twisted the old lady ring from her finger. It resisted for one cruel second. Seven years of heat and work and blood had shaped her hand around it. Then it slid free. The silver band sat in her palm, heavier than it had any right to be. Knox stared at it like she had drawn a gun. Maybe she had. Serena stepped closer to him. Close enough to smell leather, smoke, and under it— Vanilla. Her mouth tightened. She picked up his whiskey glass from the memorial table. The amber liquid trembled once, catching candlelight. Then she dropped the ring into it. The sound was small. A soft clink. But every person in the clubhouse heard it. Serena looked at Knox for the last time as his wife. “You wanted private,” she said. “Keep the ring quiet too.” Then she turned and walked away. No one stopped her. Not Knox. Not Rook. Not the men who had once sworn they would take a bullet before letting disrespect touch her. Her boots crossed the clubhouse floor. The same floor she had scrubbed blood from. The same floor where Knox had once danced her barefoot at three in the morning after a war ended and before the next one began. The same floor where another woman had apparently learned how easy it was to stand in Serena’s shadow and call it home.

Screw by two daddies? In public? While the show? “Little girls need to be taught lessons sometimes. Be a good girl and be quiet. We don’t want to attract attention, baby.” It doesn’t take much for Daddy to line my undressed, wet kitty up with his hard shaft. "Oh-"I moan. When I quickly scan the crowd around us, everyone’s eyes are glued to the stage except Aiden. His eyes wander my papilla, still pinched tight, and my kitty that is nestled right on top of Daddy’s shaft. “Screw,” he murmurs as he watches us. "That’s right, baby. Tonight you’re our pain hooker.” Daddy stays inside my kitty and Aiden finds some hidden space to push his shaft in. I’m being torn in half. “Yes, baby, take his shaft. You’re such a hooker, aren’t you?” I feel Aiden move his manhood almost out of my butt, then back again. Underneath me, Daddy grips my hips as he pistons in and out of me, too. The pain recedes. Pleasure replaces it, so that I’m moaning and whimpering, too overstimulated to say anything intelligent. “That’s right, baby. Take both our cocks. You’re such a good hooker. So perfect for Daddy.” ———————— “Hi, Daddy, how are you?” I ask as I pick up my phone. “Good, sweetheart. Ready for graduation?” “Yes! I can’t wait.” “Perfect. I sent you something. Do you have it there?” I reach over to grab the envelope he had mailed me earlier that week, along with a note telling me I had to wait to open it until we were talking. “Got it.” “Good. Go ahead and open it.” Even on the other end of the phone, I can hear his smile. I rip open the paper and pause for a moment as I make sense of the words. “A week at a Mexican resort?” I squeal. “Really?” “Absolutely, sweetheart. You deserve it. Now, I’ve already cleared it with your mom. I’ll send over all your flight information. We land in Cancun about the same time, so just wait for me at the baggage claim, and I’ll be there.” “Do we really get to spend a whole week together?” I bite my lip to stop the tears from forming. Luke is my stepdad, or was my stepdad, to be more accurate. When I was eight, my mom brought home a date for the first time. Luke made the most delicious spaghetti and meatballs, and even brought a strawberry cheesecake for dessert. I was hooked. The day after their wedding, I awkwardly asked Luke if I could call him Daddy. In response, he engulfed me in the biggest hug ever. Even as I got older, he was never Dad. Always Daddy. When I was thirteen, what I thought was their perfect marriage ended. To say I was devastated was an understatement. Luke was the only father I knew, as my biodad was out of the picture before I could even walk. Luke remained Daddy, even as I grew older. It worked for us, and neither of us questioned it. After the divorce, Mom moved us to Boston for a job, and Luke stayed in San Francisco for his work. We talk every week, but we usually only see each other twice a year. “Yes, baby. A whole week. Just you and me.” “I can’t wait!” “Just three more weeks and then we’ll see each other. Now, enjoy your high school graduation. Be a good girl.” “Yes, Daddy.” I roll my eyes. I’m the epitome of a good girl. My stepdad hangs up, and then, even though the trip isn’t for another three weeks, I immediately start to pack. Soon, my suitcase is full of all my favorite summer dresses and bathing suits. Three weeks later, my plane touches down in Mexico. After the five-hour flight, I stop in a washroom to make myself slightly more presentable. My long brown hair is a little frazzled, so I quickly brush it out. It already feels hotter, even though we’re in an air-conditioned airport, so I take off my sweater, leaving me in just a pink summer dress. The spaghetti straps highlight how pale I am. I hope I can get more of a tan before having to head back to Boston. Not for the first time do I wish I were going to San Francisco to live with Luke. Wanting to only focus on the present, I apply a glossy pink Chapstick to my lips, then head out towards the baggage claim. When I get there, I scan the crowd for Luke and spot him almost instantly. He’s always been taller than most people. And, even though he’s forty, he’s still incredibly fit. There’s the barest hint of grey in his dark brown hair, and even though I like to tease him about becoming older, he’s ridiculously handsome. “Daddy!” I squeal from too far away. He turns automatically, a delighted smile on his face. I practically run toward him and, even though my dress is far too short, I hop into his arms and wrap my legs around him. “Gracie!” His hands hold me tight around the back, but when I start to slip off him, he moves so he’s supporting my bum. I like this – I can burrow even more into him when he holds me like this. “How was your flight, sweetheart?” “Good. ” Daddy lowers me down to the floor, but when I frown, he chuckles and grabs my hand as we walk over to our baggage carousel. “How was your flight?” “Good. Not as fun as yours. I had a bunch of work I needed to finish.” I wrinkle my nose. Daddy pecks it. “I know, my thoughts exactly. But the good news is that I don’t have to worry about any work for the rest of the week. It’s just going to be me, you, and the beach.” “Sounds perfect,” I positively purr. Daddy slings his laptop bag over his shoulder and grabs our luggage as it pops up. Then, we head out front to grab a taxi to our hotel. Outside, the heat immediately hits us. June in Mexico is way hotter than I thought it would be. Thankfully, my dress is light and breezy. Daddy’s dressed for the weather, too, in khaki pants and a white button-up shirt. The cab ride takes a while, but I don’t mind. I catch Daddy up on graduation, and he tells me about some project he’s working on. Before I know it, we pull up to our resort. I didn’t have time to do much research on it, as I still had finals and all the graduation events. It’s even more spectacular than the picture on the printout Daddy sent me. Palm trees cover the entire front entrance, and the lobby is expansive and open. There are tropical flowers everywhere. We head up to the front desk, Daddy back to holding my hand, so we can check in. I zone out a little as the receptionist goes over our details. Wi-Fi passwords and themed restaurants. But then she keeps talking, and I actually pay attention. “So it’s closing optional on the beach and the pool. The lounges, too, after eight pm.” “What?” I squeak out. I look at my stepdad, but he doesn’t think this is weird. “Yes, it’s an adults-only resort. Of course, everything is optional,” she smiles warmly at me, and I swallow down my panic. I’m an adult now. I try not to embarrass myself. “Of course, not a problem,” I finally manage. She goes on about credit card charges and other boring stuff as I try to process the information. Clothing optional? It’s not like it’s going to be an all-out orgy, I tell myself. And actually, wouldn’t it be nice to have an all-body tan? Except I’m with my stepdad. That would be weird, right? To be undressed around him. My eyes fly open. And then he might be undressed around me. That would be really weird. Except my body tingles just a little at the thought of us being undressed around each other. But no, that’s not what grown-ups would think about, I chide myself. “Ready, sweetheart?” Daddy asks me. He holds his hand out, so I take it, my suitcase dragging along behind me. “Did you, um, know about the clothing optional part?” I ask him as we head to the elevator. Daddy presses the Up button, and the doors open almost right away. “Yeah, I sort of remember seeing it on their website. A lot of adult-only places are like that down here. I just figured it would be easier to relax if there weren’t a gaggle of kids screaming in the pool.” I laugh, easily relaxed. “You always think of everything, Daddy.” I rest my head on his shoulder, and then the elevator dings at our floor. When Daddy swipes the key card and opens the door for us, I’m amazed at the opulence of the room. There’s a separate sitting area and a little kitchenette. The balcony has sweeping views of the ocean, and I can’t wait to wake up in the morning and have it be the first thing I see. “Oh,” I say as I look around the rest of the room. Inside the bedroom, there’s only one bed. “You don’t mind bunking with your stepdad, do you, sweetheart?” Daddy asks. He puts my suitcase on the bed for me. “By the time I booked our room, this was the only option left. The bed is big, easily king-sized. “No, of course not.” I sit on it, and it bounces just a little. “Feels comfy.” Daddy rifles through his suitcase and pulls out a black pair of swim trunks. “I don’t know about you, but that water is calling my name. Why don’t we go for a quick swim, and then we can come back here to get ready for dinner?” “Perfect!” I brought a few bathing suits with me. I grab a purple halter top bikini combination. I’m just about to go into the bathroom to change when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke whip his khakis off. He already has his shirt off, leaving him just in his boxer briefs. He’s turned around from me, so all I can see is his bum. His back muscles are well-defined, and as he bends over, I can see his glutes are, too. Hastily, I grab my stuff and head to the bathroom. I’m sure my stepdad wants privacy. After I change into my bikini, I slip on a gauzy cover and my flip-flops. Luke grabs us towels but doesn’t put on a shirt. I grab my book, sunscreen, and a few bottles of water from the mini fridge, and then we’re off. The beach is even more spectacular. Shades of every color of blue float by. The sun is lower on the horizon as it’s late afternoon, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky. “Wow,” I say as I take it all in. “Something else, isn’t it, baby?” “Thanks, Daddy. This is already the best present ever.” “Well, the week is just getting started. Come on, let’s find somewhere to set up.” There are lounge chairs and umbrellas set up along our beach, and we make our way through them to find an empty pair. Along the way, I try not to stare. I’m immensely glad I’m wearing sunglasses, so that it makes it less obvious. There are undressed people everywhere. Sure, there are some people wearing bathing suits, but the majority of people aren’t. Men and women lie on their loungers, some on their stomachs, others on their backs. Nothing is sexual. Not really. But only in the sense that people aren’t making out or having intercourse. But seeing so much nakedness all at once brings back those tingles from earlier. Especially because up until now, I’d never seen an undressed man before. “How about these ones?” Daddy asks. I almost stumble as I clue into what he’s saying. The lounge chairs are under an umbrella, angled to protect us from the bulk of the sun’s rays. It’s fairly close to the water. “Perfect,” I agree. I put all our stuff down. “So, see anything interesting?” Daddy asks with a chuckle as he sits down. “Oh, um.” “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s perfectly natural to be curious. Unless…” he trails off and brings his sunglasses down his nose. “Unless you’ve seen undressed men before.” His voice is stern. “No, Daddy,” I saw quickly. “I mean not before today.” “Good, sweetheart. I know you’re an adult, but giving yourself to a man is a special gift. Not one to take lightly.” “Yes, Daddy.” “Good.” His tone instantly lightens. “Now, pass me my book, will you? I’m on vacation, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.” I pass him his book and take out mine. I scroll through the options I’ve downloaded. One title catches my eye. As soon as I start reading, my cheeks warm, and not from the Mexican heat. The book is spicy. Very spicy. I’ve read a few romance books, but I think this would be better classified as smut. “How’s your book, Gracie?” Daddy asks. I almost drop my book. “Oh, um, it’s good. Thanks.” “Good.” Luke goes back to his book, and so do I. It’s about a secretary and a billionaire. Kind of a simple plot, but then the boss starts to be more dominating. When he spanks her, I squirm a little in my chair. “Comfy, Gracie?” Daddy asks. “If you want to find a different chair, we can look around.” “Oh, no, Daddy, it’s fine.” I try to keep still after that, but it gets harder as the book progresses. They have intercourse just about everywhere. At home, in his office. Even against a back alley. There’s more spanking and even handcuffs. “Phew, it sure is hot out!” says Daddy, bringing me out of my reverie once again. “I’m gonna head into the water. Want to join me, sweetheart?” I nod in agreement. Yes, cool water is exactly what I need. When I get up, Daddy looks at me. He’s taken his sunglasses off as we’re in the shade, so I can see as his gaze moves down my body. He frowns just a little. “What exactly are you reading, sweetheart?” “Oh, um, just a romance book. Something silly.” “Hm,” is all he offers. He takes his sunglasses off and starts to head to the water. When I look down at my body, I’m instantly mortified. My papilla are hard and practically poke through the material of my bikini. And there’s a very noticeable wet spot on the front of my bottoms. Did my stepdad realize I was turned on by my book? Or maybe he thought it was from all the undressed people on the beach? Whatever the reasons, I need to get in the water immediately.