Page 8 of Repluse

I take Frankie’s offered hand, and he pulls me up and out of the chair to stand on my still-wobbly legs. Thankfully, the silky lining of my skirt means it slides effortlessly down over my arse and hips without requiring any awkward readjustments.

“You doing okay?” Frankie asks as he slides his hands to my hips and holds me steady.

“I’m good,” I reply.

His green eyes trail a path over my face and again, I’m not sure exactly what it is he’s looking for. “Let’s show you to your room. You can shower there. Take a minute to yourself, get your thoughts straight.”

I frown in confusion as my stomach pitches, remaining still as I watch Frankie follow Sam to the hallway that leads to the stairs.

“Did I do something wrong?” I call out.

Both men stop and turn to look at me.

“Absolutely not,” Sam says with a shake of his head.

“No, Mila. You… You’re perfect, but that was a lot, and I just thought you might need a minute. If you don’t, that’s fine, too.”

My eyes slice between the pair of them, but I don’t move.

“Stop overthinking,” Sam says, holding his hand out. “Frankie can be a little intense sometimes. He didn’t mean anything. Come and get showered. That little something you had earlier is gonna hit hard in about half an hour, and I want you between us when that happens.”

My stomach dips again, but this time for very different reasons. I move, and with Frankie in front and Sam behind, we make our way up the stairs.

“Master,” Frankie says as he points to the room at the far end of the landing.

“Yeah?” Sam says with another of his winks.

“That’sourroom,” Frankie continues with a head shake at Sam’s joke.

The double doors leading into it are open, leaving a huge bed in view. “This room’s Sammie’s.” He points to the first door at the top of the stairs. “The next is yours, and I’m on the end.”

Sam moves from behind me, and it’s then I realise he has my case with him. He opens the door to my room, and I follow him in.

The room’s large, with a king-sized bed in the centre covered in neutral-coloured, linen bedding. To the left is an opening to a walk-in robe, and another to an ensuite bathroom. Facing the bed is a floor to ceiling wall of windows, with flax-coloured sheer curtains hanging either side.

“Unpack your things, get yourself showered, then come to our room,” Frankie orders before turning to leave.

“We’ll be waiting,” Sam says with a raise of his brows and a smirk as he sets my case down on the bed. I watch him leave, too.

I don’t know if I’m in shock or if it’s the drugs, but my skin feels like it’s vibrating, my brain is suddenly taking in everything around me with pinpoint accuracy, and I have an overwhelming desire to move.

I unpack my case, putting my clothes on a couple of the shelves in the wardrobe. Undressing, I walk naked to the bathroom, noting as I do that my bedroom door is wide open.

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is a mix of white and warm neutrals. There are no windows, but a large, oval bathtub sits in the centre, with a toilet off to the right, and a timber, double sink unit next to that. There’s also an open shower with two shower heads beside each other on the right. Large, white, fluffy towels are already hanging from the hooks beside the shower, alongside a dove-grey-coloured silk robe.

It takes me a moment to figure out the touchscreen controls for the shower, but once I have the water at the right temperature, and my hair pulled up in a messy bun with the scrunchie I’d taken from my toiletry bag, I step under the water.

Then I panic!

Should I wash off and reapply my makeup, or should I just wash from the neck down?

I love nothing more than to have a bare face. Because my husband insists I wear full makeup any time I leave the house, and that he should always come home from work to me ‘wearing something nice and looking my best,’ even in the confines of my own home, I rarely get the chance to go makeup free.

“Fuck it,” I say out loud to no one in particular before tilting my face up to meet the spray of water.

Whatever it is that’s singing through my veins right now has me filled with a sense of euphoria and extreme confidence.

I thought, left alone, I’d disappear inside my own head and become overwhelmed with my decision to do what it is I’m doing right now. Instead, I can’t wait for more. I can’t wait to be pushed, challenged. I can’t wait to feel worshiped—to just be acknowledged as having some value, even if it is defined by the pleasure these two men get from whatever it is they’re about to do to me. I just want to feel… something.

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