Room For More? Ch. 03

Chapter 3

The robe she wore was short. Not overtly sexual -- not lace or silk, not something sold to be removed -- but there was something quietly devastating about how it clung to her. Soft grey cotton, worn thin at the seams, brushing the tops of her thighs as she sat cross-legged on the bed. One leg tucked under the other, her bare knee slightly raised, the curve of her calf illuminated by the flicker of light through the glass. In her hand, the last inch of white wine swirled lazily in a stemless glass, her wrist rotating with an idle rhythm that said her mind was somewhere else entirely. The TV muttered in the background, its volume so low it felt more like a memory than a presence -- but no one in the room was listening. The real gravity lived beyond the sliding doors. Out on the balcony, where that same molten glow danced across the floorboards. The lights were on. Which meant they were out there.

Craig stood at the threshold, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in a pose that looked relaxed but felt anything but. There was a kind of charged silence between them -- not uncomfortable, not confrontational, but taut. Waiting. Like the room had paused itself to see who would break first. His eyes rested on her as she brought the glass to her lips, the slow flick of her tongue tracing the inside of the rim before she sipped. The movement was small, thoughtless. But it lodged deep. Something inside him tensed -- low, warm, pulsing.

"What do you want to do tonight?" he asked, the words spoken too casually, like a line rehearsed for a scene he wasn't sure he was brave enough to enter.

Shannon didn't answer immediately. Her eyes flicked to him, calm and unreadable, then back to her wine. "We're doing it," she murmured, raising the glass slightly in his direction. "Wine. You. Me. Quiet night in."

He nodded slowly and took a step further into the room. Closer now. The light hit her differently from this angle -- caught the rise of her thigh where the robe parted, the exposed skin luminous in that dusky amber spill from outside.

"You know that's not what I meant."

She set the glass down on the table beside the bed, uncrossing her legs. One knee slid forward, and the robe shifted with it -- climbing higher. Not an invitation. Not quite. But not an accident either.

"Then say what you mean," she said softly.

Craig exhaled through his nose. This wasn't the language he was fluent in. Give him pitch decks, analyst calls, earnings reports -- he could navigate all that blindfolded. But this? This tension laced with arousal, this ambiguity drawn tight between curiosity and fear? It scrambled him.

"They're out there again," he said. "Ron. And... Joy."

The name fell from his lips like something half-forbidden. Shannon didn't flinch.

"I know," she said, voice calm. "I heard the jets kick on ten minutes ago."

"You think they're expecting us?"

"I think we were invited."

He dropped down onto the edge of the bed beside her, his posture caught between retreat and advance. "We don't have to go. I mean... we could stay in. Order something. Watch a movie."

"Sure," she said lightly. "Skip the sausages."

That pulled a laugh from him -- but it faded quickly. "I'm not saying I want to avoid it," he said. "I just... don't know if I want to want it."

Shannon looked at him then, and the softness in her eyes wasn't pity. It was presence. She saw him. The conflict. The ache. The fascination he hadn't admitted out loud yet.

"You want to see what happens," she said.

He didn't respond. Not with words. His jaw flexed. His hands tightened against his thighs. And that was enough.

"I don't know what I want," he murmured finally.

She stood.

Unhurried. Graceful. Her robe skimmed her hips as she moved, catching against the shape of her curves like a whisper of fabric trying to remember where her skin ended. She stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder -- grounding. Real.

"We go out," she said. "We have drinks. We talk. We watch the skyline. We laugh. We can come back inside at any moment. Even if we get in the water... nothing has to happen. We're in control."

His gaze lifted, searching hers. "You think they'll behave?"

Shannon's smile was slow, knowing, but never cruel. "I think they'll wait and see what we want."

Craig's breath caught, and for a moment, the air between them was so still it felt sacred.

"And if we're the ones who push it too far?"

She leaned down then, not for drama, but with purpose. Her lips touched his forehead -- not rushed, not performative -- just warm and steady.

"Then we deal with that," she whispered, "together."

And in that quiet promise, something tilted.

Not toward safety.

But toward surrender.

The balcony glowed with that low, golden warmth that made everything feel a little more cinematic -- like the city itself had dimmed in reverence to whatever was about to unfold. Overhead, string lights swayed in the breeze, casting a honeyed shimmer across polished stone and the long silhouette of the grill. The air was thick with the scent of flame and flesh -- seared meat, curling woodsmoke, and something sweeter clinging just beneath it. Cinnamon, maybe. Or maybe just the residue of summer sweat and sin.

Ron stood at the grill, a dark figure haloed in flickering amber, one hand steady on the tongs as he turned the sausages with slow, practiced ease. He wasn't talking much, but when he did, everyone laughed -- not out of politeness, but because the cadence of his voice made laughter feel inevitable. He didn't demand attention. He just made space bend toward him. Shirtless, barefoot, drink in hand, Ron looked every inch the man built to dominate a room without needing to conquer it. He didn't take up space. He defined it.

Joy lounged nearby on one of the sleek barstools, barefoot, knees tucked up, her whole body coiled in that lazy, charged kind of comfort that came after you stopped pretending to behave. She wore a slouchy graphic tee, oversized and hanging just long enough to feign modesty -- the curve of her ass more suggestion than secret, the bikini bottom beneath it barely pretending to help. Her legs were long and sun-kissed, hair pulled into a messy topknot that made her neck look obscene. She sipped something pink and frosted, her toes tapping the metal stool rail with a rhythm that felt like foreplay.

The sliding door whispered open behind her.

Craig and Shannon stepped out together, and the shift in the air was immediate -- warmer, thicker, denser with heat that wasn't just from the grill. Shannon had changed. Black shorts now, high on her thighs, frayed at the hem. A white tank top knotted high on her waist, no bra beneath -- just the ghost of shape beneath thin fabric, nipples faintly visible in the light. She looked casual, effortless. Dangerous. The kind of woman who didn't need to show skin to make men forget how to speak. Craig followed, linen shirt unbuttoned halfway, chest catching the light, beer in hand. They looked good. Like a matched set. Or a couple walking into a scene they already knew would change them.

Joy lit up when she saw them. "You finally joined the party," she sang out, raising her glass like a salute.

Ron turned slightly, lifting his own. "About time."

Craig offered a quiet smile, lifting his drink. Shannon said nothing -- just smiled, slow and knowing, like she already saw where the night might go.

They drifted toward the makeshift bar tucked into the corner -- bottles, mixers, fresh-cut citrus glinting in the light. The air hummed. Not loud. Not overt. But aware.

"Help yourselves," Ron said, flipping something on the grill with a flick of his wrist. "I've got more than enough."

Shannon poured herself something clean -- clear liquor over ice, a wedge of lime, the glass sweating in her hand. Craig cracked a beer with a flick of the wrist, the opener mounted discreetly to the wall. The hiss of carbonation cut the air like punctuation.

Joy leaned over, eyes sliding over both of them with open curiosity. No embarrassment. No apology. Just appreciation, unfiltered. She smiled around her straw.

"You guys look really good tonight."

Shannon laughed, low and lazy, tipping her glass. "Speak for yourself."

Joy winked. "I try." Then she turned her gaze back to Craig, head tilted slightly. "But I meant what I said. That linen shirt? It's doing things."

Craig flushed -- a soft wash of pink at his throat, his smile uncertain but not displeased. Shannon moved behind him, fingers brushing lightly over his back, possessive but not possessive. Like she was reminding them both she'd already mapped that terrain. Or maybe giving Joy permission to start her own exploration.

Joy leaned in, chin resting on her palm, legs swaying slowly beneath her. "You don't talk much, huh?" she teased, voice lilting. "Strong, silent type? Or just trying to behave?"

Craig laughed, sheepish. "Just... listening."

"Adorable," Joy murmured. "That deer-in-the-headlights thing? Such a heartbreaker vibe."

Then -- without warning -- she turned to Shannon, her smile still sweet, but her eyes sharper now. Not disrespectful. Not challenging. Just real. "You don't mind if I flirt with him, do you?"

Shannon didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. She sipped slowly, eyes glinting above the rim. "Joy, honey," she said, voice smooth as silk, "don't let that shy smile fool you. He plays innocent. But once he's got his hands on you..." Her smile widened, teeth flashing faintly. "You'll be the one gasping."

Joy gave a delighted gasp of her own. "Oh my god -- I knew it."

Ron chuckled without looking up. Just the sound of someone who'd seen this scene before and knew exactly how it would unfold. The food hissed behind him, the smell turning richer, deeper -- heat and salt and dark, smoked promise.

Joy turned back to Craig, her voice a touch lower now. "Alright, mystery man. I'm officially intrigued."

Craig looked at Shannon -- and the way she watched him back, calm and indulgent, told him everything he needed to know. So he smiled. Not shy. Not cocky. Just present.

Ron turned from the grill, tongs still in hand. "Just make sure you leave room for the main event."

Joy snorted. "If you mean the food, we all know that's not the biggest thing getting grilled tonight."

Shannon laughed. Craig blinked. Ron just raised an eyebrow, not taking the bait -- but the smirk tugging at his mouth made the implication feel twice as real.

Conversation spun again -- travel, music, sex, stories dipped in just enough heat to leave the edges curling. Everyone was laughing too easily, sipping too fast, leaning just a little closer. The jokes weren't inappropriate. But they were loaded. The kind that carried weight in the silences that followed.

And behind it all, the city blinked quietly in the distance -- glittering, oblivious.

Craig's pulse was a drum again. Slow. Relentless.

Something was coming.

He didn't know what shape it would take.

But he knew -- they weren't just guests anymore.

They were participants.

The plates had been cleared. Glasses refilled. The city was quieter now -- settled into that post-dinner hush where everything softened, where conversation gave way to glances, where the buzz in the air wasn't from alcohol anymore, but proximity. Something unnamed floated between the four of them -- thick and unspoken, the kind of energy that hums beneath skin when everyone knows the rules are changing, even if no one's said it aloud.

Then came the low rumble -- the jets kicking on behind them. The hot tub stirred like something breathing. Blue light shimmered from beneath the surface, casting soft waves across the balcony walls. Steam curled upward, slow and constant, catching the night air and folding into it like smoke from a quiet fire.

Ron stood, stretching with the easy grace of someone who didn't move to be seen, but was watched anyway. His body long, loose, unapologetic -- the kind of male confidence that didn't need to flex.

"Hot tub's ready," he said, glancing toward the group. "Perfect night for it."

Joy didn't hesitate. She was already rising, drink still in hand, eyes alight. "Finally," she exhaled, and in a single motion, she pulled her tee overhead and let it fall. No drama. No seduction. Just bare skin catching firelight -- golden, smooth, utterly unselfconscious. Her bikini bottoms slipped off next, dropped with the casualness of a woman shedding a second skin. Then she was stepping into the water, hips swaying, the blue light catching the curve of her back as she sank in with a low, satisfied sigh.

Ron didn't follow her right away. He just stood, drink in hand, looking at Craig and Shannon. Not urging. Not waiting. Just offering.

Craig's heart thumped once, hard. He didn't move. Not yet. This was the moment -- the border between suggestion and decision. Shannon stood beside him, still, unreadable.

Joy tilted her head back, eyes glittering. "What, you two need suits?" she teased. "We're not wearing any."

Craig blinked. Shannon raised an eyebrow.

"We noticed," she murmured.

"You can borrow mine," Joy added with a wink. "Oh wait."

Ron chuckled, that low, velvet laugh that always seemed to settle into the spine. "Join us. However you're comfortable."

Craig looked at Shannon -- and she looked right back. There was no hesitation in her eyes. No fear. Just something clear. Something steady.

"Let's go get changed," she said.

--

The bedroom felt cooler. Closer. As if the walls themselves had drawn in, waiting to see who they'd be when they came back out. Craig shut the door behind them and stood still for a beat, the echo of Joy's laugh still buzzing in his ears.

Shannon moved easily through the space, already in motion. She pulled two towels from the wardrobe, tossed one onto the bed, then slid open the drawer where their robes waited -- folded, untouched, like they'd always been meant for this night.

"If we're going," she said, not glancing at him, "we might as well do it properly."

Craig hesitated, watching her. "No suits?"

"They're naked," she said simply, peeling her tank top off in one smooth movement. "Why pretend otherwise?"

Her bra followed -- dropped without ceremony -- and then her shorts, kicked aside with quiet finality. She crossed the room to the robe, nude, casual, unaffected. Her body glowed in the low light -- not posed, not framed for attention. Just real. Just hers.

Craig tried to swallow, but his throat felt tight. "So this is happening."

Shannon didn't pause. "We'll go out. Have a drink. Sit in the water. Talk. If it gets weird, we leave." She slipped her arms into the robe. "If anything doesn't feel right, we call it. Easy."

He nodded, slower than her, trying to match her steadiness. "And Joy?"

She looked at him then -- not defensively, not possessively. Just seeing him.

"She's into you," Shannon said. "You didn't notice?"

"I wasn't sure."

"Oh, she was ready to crawl into your lap."

That made him laugh, soft and uneasy. "Are you... okay with that?"

Shannon considered him for a moment, then nodded once. "She's cute. A little wild. Definitely your type. Not forever. But for tonight?" Her smile curled. "I could see it."

Craig's chest tightened, but not from fear. From something deeper. Need. Wonder. Arousal wrapped in awe.

"And you?" he asked. "How far do you want to go with this?"

Shannon stepped toward him, robe loose in her hand. She didn't answer with a speech. Just placed the terry cloth against his chest and held his gaze.

"As far as it feels good," she said. "And not a step further."

She kissed him then -- not hungry, but firm. Anchoring. A reminder that no matter what they were walking toward, they were still walking it together.

"You ready?" she murmured.

He breathed in, then out. "As I'll ever be."

They slipped the robes on. Bare beneath. No armour. Just skin.

And as they stepped out into the hallway again -- toward the heat, the light, the blur of steam and limbs and possibility -- Craig felt something real and irreversible shift beneath his skin.

The kind of shift you don't feel until it's already changed you.

They stepped from the hallway into the night without a word, robes tied but useless -- thin layers of cloth that did nothing to quiet the heat beneath. Their bare feet met warm stone as the sliding door whispered open, and the balcony welcomed them back like a scene held on pause, now resumed. The music played low, all velvet rhythm and bass that made everything feel slower, heavier. Steam curled upward from the bubbling water, cloaking the air in heat and hush, thick with the scent of chlorine, sweet alcohol, and something darker just beneath -- like the breath of sex before it starts.

Ron was already in the water, leaned back into the jets like a man born for it, arms spread along the rim, the powerful line of his chest catching light where the steam broke. Joy was half-submerged, stretched across one side of the tub like a sun-drunk siren, her arms lazily hooked behind her on the ledge, legs extended along the bench seat, body gleaming with moisture. The tops of her breasts broke the surface, kissed by the glow of the submerged lights, offered up like an invitation no one dared name.

They saw Craig and Shannon immediately -- four sets of eyes locking across the haze. And just like that, the air changed. Not with shock or surprise. But with knowing. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn't need to be said.

Shannon didn't hesitate. Her hands moved to her waist, loosening the tie of her robe with deliberate slowness. The fabric parted down her front, soft grey spilling away like a curtain. She let it fall from her shoulders, bare beneath, and stood there in the half-light like something painted -- her body full and luminous, breasts high and proud, nipples drawn tight in the air. She wasn't performing. She wasn't asking. She was simply there -- unafraid, unapologetic, owned entirely by herself. Craig followed suit, less graceful, but no less present. His robe slipped down his arms and fell to the ground, leaving him exposed under the city's quiet gaze. The muscles across his chest caught in the light. The thick weight of his cock hung heavy between his thighs, already half-swollen -- not from exhibition, but from the slow, electric pull of everything that had been building. He was not Ron, but he was clearly bigger than average.

For a moment, Ron said nothing. He didn't smirk. Didn't gloat. He just looked. Quiet. Present. His eyes moved over both of them with that same stillness he always carried -- not consuming, not coy. Just seeing.

And then Joy grinned, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade dipped in honey. "I knew you'd have a nice cock, Craig."

He blinked, thrown. "What?"

She leaned forward, water spilling down her chest, her smile wicked. "Oh come on. That mess you made on the balcony door last night? Kinda hard to miss. Honestly, I was impressed."

Laughter broke the silence -- sharp and sudden, cracking the moment open. Even Shannon laughed, biting her lip, head tilted down as if to hide the flush blooming on her cheeks. Craig laughed too, a little too late, a little too breathless.

Ron shook his head, eyes gleaming. "And here I thought I kept things discreet."

Joy winked without shame. "Please. You were two thrusts away from offering me a squeegee."

Shannon stepped closer to the tub, her voice light but edged with something real. "We didn't think we'd come back."

Craig nodded. "We told ourselves -- just one more drink."

Joy's smile curled. "And maybe a taste...?"

Ron raised his glass, the motion smooth and quiet. "Well then," he said. "Let's make it a good one."

His eyes moved around the space -- three bare bodies and a fourth about to be folded in -- all of them caught in the hush of steam and suggestion. "To Joy," he said, "and fresh beginnings."

They raised glasses -- the toast soft against the night, against the water -- and Craig caught Shannon's eyes over the rim of his drink. There was something in her expression now, not playfulness, not nerves. Something steadier. Something resigned and curious and lit with a kind of hunger she hadn't named yet.

"What does that mean?" he asked. "Fresh beginnings?"

Joy answered first, tipping her head back toward the stars, her wet skin glowing. "Barcelona," she said. "Tomorrow. One year. Art. Wine. Life. Everything I haven't let myself feel yet."

"Studying abroad?" Shannon asked, voice curious but quiet.

Joy's smile turned wistful. "Studying life."

Ron's voice came from beneath the steam -- deep and smooth. "It's her last night here."

Shannon's smile faltered, just slightly. "Oh."

Joy turned to Ron, her tone bright again, her attention deliberately pointed. "I'm just worried about him, honestly."

He raised a brow.

"You've got needs," she said -- and now every syllable was dipped in sugar and heat. "And I won't be here to handle them."

Then her gaze moved.

To Shannon.

Not a glance. Not a flick.

But a look.

Open. Direct. Unapologetic.

Craig felt something shift in his chest -- a drop, like the first plunge on a roller coaster.

Shannon didn't blink. "I'm sure he won't have trouble finding someone."

No one laughed. The air buzzed too thick for that now. The jets whispered behind them. The city lights blinked like silent witnesses. Four bodies, suspended in water and implication, balanced on the edge of something vast.

Joy rose.

She didn't rush. She didn't pose.

She simply stood, naked and glistening, every inch of her body offered without shame. Water slid down her skin in long, silver trails, highlighting every smooth curve, every muscle flex, every glint of intention in her eyes. Joy moved like she was part of the water and crossed the space with the kind of naked confidence that turned every inch of her body into suggestion. Her hips swayed through the steam, and then she stood in front of Craig, droplets clinging to the lines of her stomach. She didn't wait.

"Can I sit with your man for a bit?" she asked Shannon -- but even as the question landed, her body was already folding into Craig's lap.

Shannon didn't flinch. Didn't move. But she felt it -- that seismic shift beneath the surface, the silent ripple that started where Joy's hips met Craig's lap and echoed low and deep inside her. There was no sound but water and breath, yet something had changed. Something had tipped. Joy straddled Craig with the ease of someone who had always known how to take what she wanted, her arms sliding around his neck, breasts pressing wet and soft to his chest. She moved with slow, almost innocent grace -- but Craig's sharp inhale betrayed the impact. He hadn't expected it. But he didn't stop her. Couldn't.

The silence between the four of them stretched. Not awkward -- but heavy. Charged. Until Shannon broke it.

"Well," she murmured, eyes dropping to the swirling water like she'd just remembered she was standing, "I guess I need to find a new seat."

There was no bitterness in her voice. No jealousy. Just acknowledgment. A quiet line drawn, not from resistance, but inevitability.

Ron looked up at her, his voice low, rich with heat. "You can sit beside me," he offered, then added -- slower, darker -- "but why should they have all the fun?"

His arm lifted, draping across the edge of the tub behind him. An invitation dressed as suggestion. "Come here," he said, "sit on my lap."

Their eyes met. Shannon didn't speak. Didn't smile. Just moved. She crossed the tub slowly, water curling around her thighs, her body lit by soft steam and city-light. She turned before lowering herself -- not to face Ron, but to face Craig. She sat down carefully, deliberately, her bare back meeting Ron's chest, her body settling against his, her hips just grazing the hardness rising beneath her. His arms stayed where they were -- not gripping, not guiding. Just bracketing her like parentheses around a sentence still being written.

Craig's eyes were locked on hers the moment her skin touched Ron's. He didn't blink. Couldn't. Joy was still curled in his lap, her breasts brushing his chest, but all his focus was across the tub -- on Shannon. On the quiet power in her stillness. On the tension wrapped around her shoulders. On what her silence was saying louder than words.

And Joy knew it.

She leaned in again, mouth near Craig's ear, her voice all velvet and razor. "You're so hard right now," she whispered, wriggling just slightly. "Is it from her? Watching her sit on him like that? Feeling her body press into someone else's cock?" Her lips brushed his jaw as her hips rolled. "Or is it from imagining what she's feeling... the way he's filling that space... thick and hot beneath her... and she hasn't even moved yet."

Craig didn't answer. Couldn't. Shannon hadn't broken eye contact -- not for a second. And in that look, there was no permission. No shame. Only presence. Only truth.

Because even though her body was in Ron's lap, her soul was still with Craig.

Ron shifted slightly beneath her, and she felt it -- the adjustment, the accommodation. The subtle change in pressure that told her just how much was beneath her. His cock pressed firm and thick against the heat between her thighs, a slow, steady pulse that spoke of patience and promise. She didn't grind. She didn't rock. She simply... settled. A stillness so exacting it became its own kind of control.

And then she leaned back. Not far -- just enough for her bare shoulders to brush his chest, for her head to tip against the side of his neck. Her lips hovered there, not touching, not kissing -- just breathing. Just trembling.

His cock throbbed beneath her, bold and undeniable, and she knew -- if she shifted just slightly, if she arched just once, the tip would slide between her folds. But she didn't. The possibility was enough. The pressure was exquisite.

Craig could see everything. Not in detail. But in suggestion. The angles. The breath. The way her mouth stayed slightly parted. And he felt the knowledge lodge itself deep in his chest, tight and hot and terrifyingly good.

And then -- Ron's hand moved.

Not roughly. Not commandingly. Just with intention. His fingers slid beneath the surface, water parting silently around them, until they found her thigh. He rested there a moment. Anchoring. And then he shifted forward, his breath warm against her ear.

She inhaled sharply -- not startled, but undone. Her head tilted. Her lips parted wider. She nodded.

Ron's hand found hers under the water, and with a slow, deliberate pull, he guided it downward. Across her belly. Over her thigh. Beneath the surface -- where heat met weight and impossible size. Her fingers closed around it -- tentative, testing -- and then her body jolted.

"Oh my God..." she whispered. It wasn't performative. It was real. Pure. Awed.

"It's so fucking huge."

Craig felt the words hit his chest like impact. His cock throbbed beneath Joy -- a sharp, involuntary response that sent a flicker of pleasure and shame through his gut. He watched as Shannon's hand, barely visible beneath the water's shimmer, began to move.

"I can't even get my hand halfway around it..."

Her voice was breathless. Not for effect. Because it took her breath. Her grip moved slowly, reverently, stroking the thickness in her palm like something sacred and obscene. Her eyes -- wide, stunned, hungry -- never left Craig's.

And across the tub, Joy smiled.

She leaned in, her lips brushing Craig's ear now, her voice a soft, slow blade. "She's touching it," she whispered. "She knows how big he is. How hard. How deep he could go."

Her hand slid down his stomach, fingers slipping beneath the water until they found him -- rigid, hot, pulsing with denial. She began to stroke him in long, slow motions, her thumb circling the head with every pass, her hips still working in lazy, grinding rhythm.

"She's felt it now," Joy breathed. "The size. The weight. It's in her hand. It's in her mind. It's part of her now."

Craig's head tipped back slightly, hips twitching forward into her touch, but his eyes stayed locked on Shannon. Watching her. Imagining the heat of her palm wrapped around something so much more. He felt dizzy. Feral. Completely cracked open.

"You hate it," Joy whispered. "But you love it."

Her breath scalded his neck. Her voice was cruel and kind and devastating.

"You want it to happen. You want to see it."

Her hand tightened slightly, her pace increasing just enough to make him shake.

"And so does she."

He couldn't answer. He didn't need to.

Because his head was already nodding.

The water felt hotter now -- not from the jets, but from the bodies within it, limbs sliding closer, breath turning ragged, hands abandoning all pretence. Joy's strokes on Craig had grown more assured, more deliberate, her thumb circling the swollen crown of his cock with the kind of practiced reverence that said she knew exactly what she was doing... and exactly how much he was holding back. Her mouth hovered near his ear, feeding him twisted little truths like silk-wrapped poison.

"You're leaking for me," she murmured, a voice made of smoke and sin. "Feel it? That slick little pulse every time she moves her hand on his cock?" Her breath caught his skin. "Every stroke she gives him makes your tip weep harder."

Across the tub, Shannon had lost the shape of hesitation. Her hand moved with steady intent now, her wrist rolling beneath the surface, water shimmering as she worked the impossible girth of Ron's cock. Her body leaned into his like it belonged there, her chest rising in shallow, rapid breaths, lips parted in disbelief at how turned on she was -- not by fantasy anymore, but by fact. Her eyes weren't on Craig now. They were closed. Her lip caught between her teeth. Her head tilted back, her neck arched in offering.

Ron kissed her there -- slow, deliberate, just beneath her ear.

"Good girl," he murmured, and that was all it took.

Craig nearly came.

Joy's hand tightened, her rhythm slow and merciless, pulling sensation from him in long, dragging confessions. "She loves it," she whispered. "You see it. You feel it. And you're not stopping her."

"I..." Craig's voice was barely air. "I know."

"You've opened that door a little," Joy breathed, her mouth brushing his lips. "So now, let's open it all the way."

Before he could speak, before his mind could protest what his body had already accepted, she leaned in closer, her words a dare painted in velvet. "Sit up there. Let her see you leak for her... while she strokes someone else. Someone bigger. Someone better."

His breath stopped. Then surged.

The water rocked around them as he moved, heart thudding with the force of revelation. He gripped the edge of the tub, muscles tensing, and rose -- not with certainty, but with need. With surrender. The night air hit him like a kiss to his chest, his thighs gleaming, his cock flushed and glistening -- thick and erect, an offering presented to the dark. He perched on the edge, wide-eyed, trembling, exposed under stars and steam and the gaze of the woman he loved.

Joy followed him, fingers still wrapped around his shaft like it was hers to tend, her lips grazing his hip like a whispered promise.

"There we go," she purred, stroking him with slow grace. "Now she can see exactly what she does to you."

And Shannon did.

Her eyes opened -- hazy, hungry -- and what she saw stopped her breath cold. Craig, sitting on the edge of the tub, cock stiff and twitching, skin flushed, chest heaving like he'd run through fire. Vulnerable. Desperate. Watching.

But her hand didn't stop.

Ron shifted beneath her, and Shannon instinctively adjusted, her grip tightening around the base of his shaft, the weight of it too heavy to forget for even a second. It pulsed against her palm -- thick and hot and demanding. He said something low in her ear, a growl more than words, and then -- he moved.

He stood.

And in that moment, the world recalibrated.

He rose from the water with calm, undeniable intent -- not rushed, not cautious. As he stood, Shannon's hand came with him, still wrapped around the base of his cock, unable to let go. And what emerged from the water didn't belong to this world.

It didn't just rise.

It claimed.

His cock lifted like a living thing, a declaration of purpose, water cascading off its length in shimmering rivulets. It didn't hang low between his thighs like something to be carried -- it jutted forward, full and proud and unignorable. Thick like a forearm. Veins raised and twisting like roots under skin. The head was flared and swollen, a deep, angry plum that looked almost too wide to enter anything without first demanding a kind of surrender Shannon had never even contemplated. Not clinical. Not cartoonish. Just real. And devastating. A weapon of biology. A piece of anatomy that made every other cock -- even Craig's -- look like something from another species.

And she was still holding it.

Still stroking it.

Her fingers couldn't meet. Not even close. She could barely wrap halfway around the shaft -- her thumb floating helpless above the curve as she worked him in slow, reverent motions, mouth open in silent disbelief. Her breath shook. Her thighs clenched.

And then she looked up.

At Craig.

He was trembling now, hands braced on the edge behind him, lips parted. He didn't blink. Couldn't. His eyes were wide with something raw and brutal and beautiful -- not jealousy. Not ownership.

Just truth.

And then Shannon looked down again.

Her hand moved slower, tighter.

Shannon's lips hovered, parted and trembling, just above the glistening crown of Ron's cock. She didn't rush. She didn't flinch. Her breath ghosted over the head, hot and uneven, her eyes flicking upward -- past the thick shaft pulsing in her hand -- to Craig. Perched and exposed. Chest rising in short, hungry bursts. His cock jerking helplessly under Joy's possessive grip. Their eyes locked, and for a single, charged moment, Shannon held him there -- bound by the unthinkable -- before she looked back down at the impossible thing in her grasp.

She hovered there, her breath catching in her throat, the steam curling around her cheeks as if trying to veil the moment -- but nothing could hide what she was feeling now. She was still. Silent. Not from fear, but from magnitude. Her hand gripped him, and yet she hadn't moved. Not yet. Because something was happening inside her. A quiet shift. A knowing. Her eyes didn't lift to Craig this time. They stayed where they were -- fixed on the obscene, perfect thing in her palm. And she asked herself, not with words but with ache: How does it taste? Will it fit? Will I cry? Moan? Break? Who will I be after this? Will I belong to him? She swallowed hard. Her thighs pressed together. And then the truth rose unspoken: I want this. I need this. I need to know. Her lips parted -- not to ask. But to answer. Her thumb moved without thinking, circling the head slowly, smearing that slickness into shine. Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together. And then she leaned in -- not with hesitation, but worship.

Her tongue slipped out, tentative but hungry, and traced the underside of the head in one slow, trembling lick. From ridge to slit. She moaned at the taste -- soft and guttural, as if the flavour itself had unlocked something deeper than arousal. Her lips pressed against the shaft next -- gentle kisses at first, wet and reverent, each one a confession. She kissed down the side, then licked again, slower, flatter, her spit slicking the surface in trembling ribbons of shine.

Ron didn't speak. He didn't move. He just stood -- still and composed, muscles tight with restraint, his abs twitching every time her mouth made contact. A monument to control. But Craig? Craig couldn't breathe.

Joy leaned in again, her lips a breath from his ear. "There it is," she whispered, her voice molten. "Her first taste. Look at her, Craig. Look how careful she is. How much she needs it."

And then Shannon's lips parted wider.

Wider.

Her jaw strained as she opened to fit him -- but it was never going to fit. Not all of it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The head alone filled her mouth to its limits, stretching her lips taut, her cheeks hollowing as she tried to breathe through her nose. Inch by trembling inch, she pushed forward, her hand working the base, spit collecting fast and hot around the seal of her lips.

Craig made a strangled noise -- half moan, half sob -- his fists clenching on his thighs, the tendons in his arms taut with tension. He couldn't look away.

"She's never had anything like that," Joy breathed, stroking him slow, cruel, expertly. "Not even close. Not even you. And look at her -- look how hard she's trying. Just to take it. Just to feel it."

Shannon gagged softly -- not dramatic, not staged. Just the real, involuntary response of a throat pushed too far. She pulled back, gasping around him, spit stringing between her mouth and the base of the shaft, then swallowed and pushed forward again. Her hands stroked in rhythm, her knuckles bumping her lips, her body beginning to rock with the effort.

Ron hadn't said a word.

Until now.

"That's it," he said, low and smooth, voice steady as stone. "Take your time, baby. You're doing so fucking good."

And Shannon bloomed under it.

Her eyes fluttered closed. Her fingers dug deeper into his flesh. She pushed forward again, slower, deeper, fighting the urge to pull away, choosing instead to conquer. Her throat tightened. Her chest trembled. But she wanted it. Not for him. Not for Craig. For her. To prove she could take something that no one else had. To feel it reshape her from the inside out.

Craig was shaking now.

Joy's grip on his cock had turned relentless, her strokes slow and savage. "You've never seen her like this, have you?" she purred. "Look at her jaw. That stretch. That sound. Look at her tears. She's crying... from the size of it."

Shannon pulled off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to Ron's cock like silk. Her mouth stayed open, wet and red and trembling. She looked up at him -- dazed, glassy, flushed.

"Fuck," she whispered, voice raw. "It's so big. It's... god... it's so much."

Ron just looked down at her -- not gloating, not smug. Just calm. Proud.

"You're perfect," he said again. "Just like that."

Her breath caught. She smiled -- barely. A flicker. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, gripped him tighter...

And dove back in.

Shannon didn't ease back in this time.

She descended.

The head of Ron's cock vanished past her lips in one hungry, desperate surge, then more -- so much more -- her jaw stretching obscenely wide, her throat already flexing around the impossible girth before she'd taken even half of him. Her body convulsed as the tip slid past the back of her tongue and pressed deeper, triggering a gag that echoed in the steam-thick air, wet and ragged and real. Spit poured down her chin in glistening ropes as she pushed harder, her palm slapping against his thigh for balance, the other hand wrapped around the base -- stroking, twisting, offering -- in perfect, messy rhythm with the wet suck of her mouth.

Ron groaned above her -- a raw, broken sound, the first crack in his composure -- and it hit like thunder. His abs clenched. His hands clenched. His voice wasn't performance. It was possession.

Across the tub, Craig flinched -- visibly. Like the sound had struck his chest.

Because Shannon was unrecognisable now.

This wasn't the sweet, sensual lover he'd undressed a hundred times before. This was something new. Something undone. Her hair clung to her cheeks in wet tangles. Her eyes streamed. Her jaw was stretched to its limit and still she pushed deeper, further, fucking her mouth down onto him like it was the only thing she'd ever needed. She was moaning around it now, the low vibration of her throat rolling up Ron's shaft, making his body jerk. Every time she pulled back, she came back with more violence, more mess -- slurping, choking, slamming him into the wet heat of her throat again and again, each sound louder, more carnal, more helpless.

"Oh my God..." Craig breathed. "She's--"

"She's made for him," Joy whispered, stroking Craig's cock in perfect, devastating counterpoint to every bob of Shannon's head. "That's not your mouth anymore, baby. That's his. Look at her. Look at that throat stretch. That spit. That worship. You gave her permission -- and she found a new God."

Craig whimpered -- a sound he didn't know he could make. His whole body trembled. His cock jerked violently in Joy's hand, dripping, desperate, ready to break.

Shannon was gagging now -- not from panic, but devotion. Her eyes were wild, unfocused, glassy with lust and tears. Her nails dug hard into Ron's thigh as she forced herself further, swallowing with reckless determination, taking as much as her body could handle and then pushing past it. Her mouth made those feral, wet sounds that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with need.

Ron looked down at her then -- his control shattered, his breath uneven -- and for the first time, he touched her. One broad hand slid to the back of her head, not to force, but to anchor. To claim. To let her know: I feel this. All of it.

"Fuck... Shannon..." His voice was low, reverent, dangerous. "You're fucking incredible."

The words hit her like a lightning strike.

She moaned louder. Her pace doubled. Her mouth became a blur of motion -- the sounds wetter, nastier, endless. Her jaw ached. Her throat burned. But she didn't stop. She wouldn't. This wasn't just about Ron anymore. This was about her. What she could take. What she could own. What no one -- not even Craig -- had ever touched in her.

Craig was unraveling.

Joy's voice curled like silk through the heat. "You've never seen her like this, have you?" she whispered. "Look at her fucking face, baby. The tears. The lips. The stretch. That's not acting. That's her becoming someone new. And you can't stop it."

Shannon pulled off with a wet gasp, a thick strand of spit stretching from her lips to the fat, shining head of Ron's cock. Her chin dripped. Her mouth was red and raw, her eyes blown wide, lips trembling.

She looked up at him, panting, flushed, completely wrecked -- and smiling.

"Give it to me," she begged, voice shredded, soaked in lust. "I want to taste you. Please, Ron. I want to swallow every drop."

Joy gasped behind Craig. "Oh, she wants it," she moaned. "She's ready. He's going to mark her, baby. Right in front of you. Watch her choose him."

Ron growled -- low, primal -- and his hands gripped the edge of the tub behind him, knuckles white, body drawn tight. His face tipped toward the stars as his cock throbbed in Shannon's throat, her mouth sealed around him like it was made for this. She dove again, faster, hungrier, her cheeks hollowing, her throat stretching wide and deeper. Her hands gripped his thighs, anchoring herself as she devoured him, spit bubbling from the corners of her mouth as she worked him toward the edge.

And then he snapped.

His hips jerked once, uncontrollable. His cock pulsed violently between her lips.

"*FUCK--Shannon--*fucking hell!"

He roared as he came, the sound wild and unrestrained, his release firing in thick, savage bursts down her throat. She moaned around it, swallowing frantically, gulping to keep up, messy and devoted and desperate. It spilled from her lips, slicking her chin, her fingers, but she didn't let go. She held him inside her, milking him, owning every twitch.

And behind Craig -- Joy pounced.

Her voice was suddenly sharp, hot, right at his ear -- no longer sweet. Commanding.

"That's it, baby. Stop holding on."

Her hand moved faster -- harder. Wet and merciless.

"Look at them," she hissed. "Look at the love of your life milking that huge cock."

Craig choked -- a breath, a moan -- his hips twitching violently.

Joy's mouth pressed to his temple, her words venomous and perfect. "Watch her drain those big fucking balls like it's the only thing that matters to her."

Craig's whole body tensed -- every muscle drawn tight, cock pulsing, his moan torn straight from his chest. He couldn't stop it.

"Yes," Joy breathed, voice gleaming with satisfaction. "That's it. Cum for them."

Her grip tightened. Relentless.

"As she submits to him..." she growled, "you're submitting to them."

And that broke him.

Craig came with a violent, shuddering groan, thick jets of cum exploding across his stomach, his cock jerking uncontrollably in her hand. His thighs locked. His spine bowed. His whole body trembled as the orgasm tore through him like lightning -- hot, hard, devastating -- leaving him breathless and undone.

And across the water -- Shannon finally pulled back.

Her lips ruined. Her chin slick. Her eyes dazed and radiant. A strand of cum hung from her mouth to the tip of Ron's cock, trembling in the air.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Then turned her head -- and smiled.

Not at Ron.

At Craig.

And everything inside him shattered... and yet he couldn't tell if it felt wrong -- or if it had never felt more right.

Silence hung in the steam like the aftermath of something sacred and savage.

Craig's cum streaked his chest in thick, cooling lines. Shannon's lips still shimmered with Ron's release, the taste of him drying on her tongue. Her chest rose in ragged waves. Her jaw trembled, open as if the air itself had weight. Ron stood above her, breath slowing, eyes unreadable -- the calm eye of a storm that had just finished claiming a coastline. Joy's hand lingered on Craig's thigh, still casual, still warm, her grin blooming wider as the silence stretched longer than it should have.

Then -- with a wicked little giggle, sharp as a spark -- Joy broke it.

"Holy shit," she breathed, exhaling like she'd just come out of a trance. "That was so fucking hot."

No one replied. Craig was frozen. Eyes glazed, cock softening, but his chest still heaving. Shannon blinked slowly, like she was surfacing from deep water. Joy just laughed again -- not cruelly, but with genuine awe -- and reclined against the edge of the tub like a woman who'd just watched history happen.

"You guys," she murmured, smiling from Shannon to Craig and back again. "You're fucking incredible. That was... next-level."

Still, no one spoke. The air was too thick. The lines had been redrawn. Their bodies weren't their own anymore -- not fully. Not after that.

Joy stood, water cascading off her in silver ribbons, her body glistening under the balcony lights. She stretched like a cat, shameless and aching.

"Well," she sighed, "I don't know about you three, but I really, really need to get fucked. Craig, Ron -- I don't even care who at this point..."

The invitation hung in the air like a blade -- glinting, sharp, dangerous. A single word could've tipped the night into another spiral. But it didn't come.

Instead, Ron stepped forward. Calm. Certain.

He placed a firm, warm hand on Joy's hip.

"I think," he said, voice low, almost gentle, "we should give them some space."

Joy looked at him, then at Shannon. For a moment her mouth opened like she might argue -- and then she smiled. Wide. Understanding. She leaned in between them, reached down, and wrapped her fingers around the base of Ron's still-thick cock.

"Fine by me," she purred, stroking once, possessively. "As long as I get another round with this."

They turned. Walked inside. The sliding door whispered shut behind them. The steam reclaimed the silence.

Shannon stared after them -- her face unreadable. Then she turned to Craig.

Her voice came low, hoarse, undeniable.

"I need to be fucked. Right now."

Craig didn't even speak. There was no room for words. She grabbed his wrist, pulled him off the edge with force, her fingers trembling. Her body led, hips swaying with an urgency that was half-dazed, half-feral, already slick with need. They didn't pause at the door. They didn't glance back. She dragged him across the deck and through the threshold like her orgasm was somewhere in the walls and she was hunting it down.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

And then -- she was on him.

Her mouth crashed into his with fire and teeth, her tongue demanding, relentless. He tasted salt and spit and Ron. Her breath burned. Her body shook. She climbed him like he was a structure to conquer, clawing at his chest, his arms, his back, her nails biting in.

When their lips broke, Craig gasped -- and didn't care that the taste still on her tongue wasn't his.

"Fuck me," she panted. "Please, Craig. Don't hold back. I'm so wet I can't even think. Just fuck me."

She spun, dropped onto the mattress with a thud, legs spread, hips up, cunt glistening. Her fingers pulled herself open. Her thighs trembled. Her body begged.

Craig crawled over her, cock thick and twitching again before he even touched her, the image of her choking on Ron's cock still seared behind his eyes.

"Take me," she gasped. "Hard. Now."

He did.

He drove into her in one long, brutal thrust that made them both cry out -- her back arching, his breath catching. Her walls clenched around him like they were trying to forget the stretch that had just ruined her. His hips snapped, fast and erratic, pounding into her like the bed owed them something. No rhythm. No romance. Just the wild sound of wet skin and feral need.

And then -- from the room next door:

Ron's grunt. Deep. Commanding. Claiming.

And Joy's scream -- high and raw, wrecked with pleasure.

Craig faltered for a heartbeat. Then his thrusts surged.

Shannon's head flew back, eyes wide. "Don't stop," she gasped. "Fuck me to it. Match him. Fuck me to their rhythm."

And he did.

They fucked to the soundtrack of someone else's power. To the weight of another man's cock echoing through the walls. To the sound of Joy being split apart -- and loving it. To the sound of everything that had changed.

Craig's thrusts matched Ron's. Matched the rhythm of moans and flesh. Matched the memory of Shannon on her knees, tears running down her cheeks, lips stretched around something bigger than him.

They came like animals.

Loud. Messy. Unforgivable.

Shannon's cry was strangled, torn from her lungs as she came around him, back arched, thighs shaking. Craig followed instantly -- his orgasm erupting inside her, thick and relentless, his groan broken and raw as his body collapsed over hers.

They lay there, tangled in sweat and cum and silence.

And through the wall -- one last cry from Joy.

It faded slowly.

Shannon's breath slowed. Craig's chest heaved. The sheets cooled around them.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

They both lay there, hearts still racing, sweat cooling on their skin.

They both knew it would be the last night of hearing Joy screaming.

The only question was... whose screams would replace them.

And deep down... they both already knew the answer.