Page 25 of Sacrifice

I don’t answer; I don’t need to. Nero reads silence as well as he reads bodies, and mine is an open book under his fingertips. His touch grows bolder, igniting a trail of heat up my leg.

“Enjoying your meal, Aisling?” Gunnar’s voice grounds me once again, though his hold on my hand tightens, possessive.

“Every last bite,” I manage, my voice laced with double entendre. Nero’s hand pauses, then presses insistently against my skin, a promise of what’s to come. “Are you okay with this?”

“More than okay,” Gunnar rasps back, his voice like gravel over silk in the pressing darkness. “I enjoy giving orders that others are desperate to follow.”

The affirmation from Gunnar ignites a spark within me, fueling the fire that Nero’s wandering fingers have kindled. Nero seems to sense the shift in me, his hesitation evaporating as his hand ventures further under the fabric of my dress. The brush of his fingers is bold and unapologetic as they graze over my pussy, only the thin barrier of my lace panties between us.

A gasp hitches in my throat, betraying my composed facade. This is forbidden—a violation of the restaurant’s rules—and yet, the thrill of it dances along my nerves, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. But as Nero’s long fingers stroke me, coaxing arousal to bloom deep in my belly, I find the will to care slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Good girl,” Gunnar murmurs, his grip on my hand a lifeline as much as it is a shackle. His approval washes over me with the weight of a benediction, and I can’t help but revel in the sensation. It’s power—the kind that comes from being the center of attention for two alphas who can bend the wills of most in this dystopian sprawl.

“Very good,” he adds, voice laced with satisfaction. I’m breathing heavier now, feeling that heady mix of control and surrender. The thought of being so desired by these two men, both notorious in their own rights, sends a shiver through me—though not of fear.

Gunnar’s other hand leaves mine and travels upward, emboldened. His fingers find the curve of my breast, and he grasps it through the fabric of my dress. His thumb circles my nipple, already taut, applying pressure until pleasure twines with the sweet ache.

“Remember who you belong to,” he whispers against my ear before his lips trace a path down my neck. His breath is hot on my skin. When he reaches the bite scar, the physical reminder of his claim, his tongue darts out, grazing the sensitive flesh.

A jolt courses through me, a lightning strike straight to my core, and I bite back a moan. The sensation is too much and yet not enough. Nero’s presence to my other side is a silent promise of more to come, a tempest brewing in the dark. And in this moment, cloaked by the blackness of the restaurant, I am theirs—completely and utterly.

Nero’s fingers move more insistently against me, a silent command that demands both my attention and submission. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet of the darkened restaurant. The air is thick with the scent of expensive wine and the musk of alpha pheromones, a heady mix that threatens to undo me.

“Let it out,” Nero murmurs so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. “No one will disturb this…dessert.”

His words are like a key unlocking something primal within me. I exhale shakily, allowing the sound of my pleasure to fill the space between us. It feels decadent, unhinged—a stark deviation from the poise I usually present to the world.

I slide down in my seat, granting him better access, as though moving on instinct. His hand trails higher up my thigh, and with a deft movement, he pushes aside the delicate lace of my panties. My breath catches in my throat when I feel his fingers—confident and unyielding—press against me.

“Trust me,” he whispers, and I do. I trust him to take me to the edge and beyond. One finger slips inside, testing, stretching, followed by another. Pleasure arcs through me, raw and fierce. I gasp, a helpless sound that echoes faintly in the darkness.

Gunnar’s grip on my breast tightens, his kiss on my throat deepening as if to brand me with his touch. Between them, I am a vessel of sensation, lost in the dual assault as they coax my body into a state of blissful surrender. In this moment, I am no longer Aisling Faye, the Stargazer with a reputation to uphold—I am simply theirs, caught in the gravity of their desire.

The relentless rhythm of Nero’s fingers drives me closer to the precipice, each deliberate stroke igniting sparks that skitter across my skin. My body trembles, a quiver starting deep within as I grip the edge of the table with white-knuckled intensity.

It’s then, amid the crescendo of my impending release, that Rook’s image sears into my mind—phantom touches ghosting over my flesh, his presence as tangible as if he were right here, part of this intimate tableau. The thought is both shocking and enthralling, and I find myself not wanting to wait any longer.

I crave him, need him, just as much as I do the two alphas who currently worship my body.

And that realization is what does me in.

I come undone, shattering into countless radiant shards. My cry is a melody of ecstasy, muffled against Gunnar’s lips as he kisses me fiercely, swallowing the sounds of my climax. Nero leans in, his breath hot against my throat, his fingers continuing their dance inside me, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure.

“Good girl,” Gunnar murmurs into my ear, his voice rough with satisfaction. “So very good for us.”

The world tilts back into focus as the door creaks open, the red glow of the waiter’s goggles slicing through the darkness. My breath hitches, a thread of panic weaving through the haze of satisfaction. Nero’s hand retreats from beneath my dress with a leisurely stroke, like he doesn’t give a damn if we’re caught.

“Everything all right here?” The voice is neutral, disembodied in the dark.

“Fantastic,” Nero replies, the timbre of his voice laced with an unmistakable smugness, smooth as aged whiskey.

I fumble under the table, straightening my dress with trembling fingers. The lace of my panties scratches against sensitized skin as I tug them back into place, my cheeks aflame with the afterglow and the thrill of our transgression.

“Excellent,” the waiter responds, oblivious or indifferent to the undercurrents in his presence. “May I clear the table?”

In the dark, I imagine Nero’s smirk, the curve of his lips that speaks of secrets shared and boundaries crossed. I nod, though I know it goes unseen, and force my voice into steadiness.

“Yes, thank you.” My words are light, but they carry the weight of the night’s revelations. The waiter moves with silent efficiency, collecting dishes and cutlery, unaware of the seismic shift he’s walked in on.

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