The full-body flinch — the comprehensive, involuntary start of a woman who has been approached from a direction that did not exist and whose body has received three simultaneous inputs before her brain has caught up to any of them — Frau Muller’s spine arching, her head going back into his pull, her eyes wide and glassy with the specific, helpless shock of the suddenly claimed.

"Mnh~—"

His mouth at her ear.

Warm. Close. The proximity of someone who is not in a hurry and knows it.

"So my blind lady," he said, "who now has her eyesight back—"

She trembled.

"—is training."

His fingers pressed at the fabric between her thighs.

She tried to form a word.

Produced:

"Hn~—"

"Interesting." His thumb and forefinger finding her nipple through the sports bra, pinching — not hard, the specific, calibrated pinch that said ’I know where this is and what it does’ — and twisting, the fabric dragging against the sensitized skin. "And here I thought you might be trying to find someone."

"I—" Her voice. The Siren warmth of it doing what it did regardless of whether she was trying to use it, the involuntary beauty of her own distress. "I was trying to get ’revenge’ — MMNH~!!"

He twisted.

The chuckle arrived at her ear.

"Revenge," he repeated.

"AHH~— yes — I was — HNGH~!! — stop—"

Veronica moved.

Not walked.

The specific, instantaneous Phoenix-fire displacement — the crimson eyes tracking the situation in the living room and the body arriving ’behind’ him before the processing had finished — the teleport covering ten feet of apartment in the time it took his chuckle to finish.

She arrived.

Arms going around him from behind.

Her breasts pressing flat against his shoulder blades — the full, naked, sweat-warm weight of them, nipples hard from forty minutes of cold-air yoga, pressing against the planes of his back with the direct, uncomplicated pressure of a woman who had decided that subtlety was for situations where she had something to prove.

He was naked.

Of course he was naked.

She had known he would be naked.

She had been preparing for him being naked for over a week and her body was informing her at length that the preparation had been thorough.

"Finally," she said, into his shoulder blade.

Her hips pressing forward.

Sandwiching him between herself and Frau Muller — the specific, warm, compressed arrangement of a man between two women who had been doing very different things for the last ten days but had both, in their own ways, been waiting for this.

He chuckled.

"My hot queen," he said, warm, present, his hand still occupied with Frau Muller’s body, "was training this lady to tighten up."

Veronica’s chin on his shoulder.

Her crimson eyes finding Frau Muller’s — the other woman’s expression the expression of someone who is simultaneously being groped by a man and looking at the naked woman pressed against his back and is having difficulty selecting a primary response.

"A little bit," Veronica said.

"Mm." He exhaled. Not quite a sigh — the sound of a man taking stock. "You’re both doing my work for me."

"Always," Veronica said. And then she began to sink.

The descent.

Slow. Her hands trailing down his sides as she went — the ribs, the obliques, the hip flexors — her knees arriving on the hardwood with the practiced, familiar ease of someone who knew what this position meant and was occupying it with full intention.

Her hands found him.

Both of them. One gripping the base, the other cupping beneath — the comprehensive, devoted hold of a woman who had been thinking about doing this for ten days and was not going to rush now that she had arrived.

His cock at her lips.

She looked up at him.

His hand arrived in her hair.

And held.

Not pushing — just holding, the fingers tangled in crimson, the grip that said ’stay’ rather than ’move.’

"Not now."

She stared up at him.

"I have more women to collect," he said. "The time has come to leave this world."

The crimson eyes.

Something moved through them — the specific, layered movement of a woman who has been ambitious her entire life, who has measured every achievement against the ceiling of what was possible, who had spent decades surpassing human limits — finding a sentence that was not a ceiling.

’Leave this world.’

The ambition that had always been looking for a larger container found one.

Her smirk arrived.

Slow. The full, private, possessive smirk of a woman who has just been told that the game she has been playing was a smaller version of a larger game and she is being invited to the larger one.

She licked the tip of his cock.

One long, deliberate stroke of the flat of her tongue.

Her eyes still on his face.

"Bring those bitches," she said, her voice carrying the specific warmth of someone who has decided on a direction and is charmed by it, "as soon as possible."

Her eyes moved sideways.

Frau Muller — still in his grip, still pressed against his front, one hand braced on his chest while his hand maintained its position at her hip — was watching the proceedings with the expression of a woman who is embarrassed and cannot stop being present at the source of the embarrassment.

The cock.

Still in Veronica’s hand.

The foreign wetness on it — the seed and the pussy juice of women who had been on it before this moment, the palimpsest of the last week written in the residue of bodies that had been occupied and used and left — and Veronica’s tongue finding it, tasting it, the crimson eyes narrowing with the assessing attention of a woman who does not feel threatened by what she is tasting and wants the source to know that.

She licked it like an ice cream cone.

Slow.

From base to tip.

Her eyes finding Frau Muller’s over the length of it.

Frau Muller looked away.

Her face had found its reddest color.

"Priya, Avriana, and Mira are already at the mansion," he said, his hand still in Veronica’s hair, his other hand finding the back of Frau Muller’s head and pressing her face gently toward his chest. "For the others — Marga, Elena, Sophia, Clara — call them in. And dress all of them."

Veronica raised an eyebrow.

"For a different world," he said. "My desires."

The smirk deepened.

"All of them looking like your—"

"Sluts," he said.

"Mm." She ran her cheek along the side of his cock. "I’ll make the calls."

A pause.

"By the way."

She looked up.

The crimson eyes doing the thing they did when she had information and was assessing the best delivery.

"The girls from the island. I tracked them."

His attention shifted.

"One of them returned to India."

He looked at her.

"She’s getting married."

A beat.

"Her parents arranged it." Veronica’s hand moved, her fingers wrapping around him slowly, the massage of someone who is both delivering information and keeping something warm. "Don’t you think you should claim what belongs to you?"

He said: "Preet?"

The name arriving with the immediate, specific recognition of a man who has a very good memory for bodies he has been inside.

"Dark nippled? Heavy chest? The one who cried when—"

"Yes... that one."