Chapter 9

The world had shrunk to the size of a throat. Magnus was a mountain of pulsing heat, his hips snapping forward with a primal, rhythmic violence that left Saga seeing stars. She was drowning in him, the thick veins of his cock were helping fill every available millimeter of her airway, stealing her breath and replacing it with the scent of salt and his raw dominance. Her vision blurred, the edges of the room fraying into a hazy grey as the lack of oxygen began to trigger a lightheaded, floating sensation. She felt herself hovering on the precipice of unconsciousness, her body a shivering, overstimulated nerve ending anchored only by the bruising grip of Julian’s fingers in her hair.

Magnus’s breathing had shifted into a ragged, guttural staccato. He was vibrating, his entire frame coiled like a spring of tension, the muscles in his thighs bulging as he prepared to unload his load deep into her gullet. Julian, his arms trembling and his face flushed with a mix of shame and arousal, watched the way Saga’s throat stretched to its absolute limit. He wondered, with a sudden curiosity, how raw and inflamed the delicate lining of her throat would be once he’d finished jacking off Magnus’s massive cock using her as a living cock sheath.

Then, the sharp, discordant chime of the doorbell sliced through the thick atmosphere of the room.

The sound was like a cold bucket of water. The spell didn’t break so much as it shifted. Magnus froze; his hips still pressed firmly against Saga’s face. A slow, knowing look of anticipation crossed his features. He didn’t look surprised; he looked like a man whose plans were arriving exactly on schedule. Without a word, he gripped Saga’s hair one last time, pulling her head back with a sudden, sharp snap to extract himself.

Saga collapsed backward onto the hardwood, gasping for air, her chest heaving as she drew in great, sobbing breath’s of oxygen. She lay there, exposed and trembling, her mouth still glistening with the evidence of her submission. Magnus didn’t offer a hand to help her up. Instead, he stepped back with a casual, predatory grace, the zipper of his trousers sliding shut with a metallic hiss that sounded like a closing trap. He didn’t even glance back at Julian, who remained on his knees, his hands still hovering in the air where his wife’s head had been.

“Quickly,” Julian whispered, his voice sounding foreign and thin to his own ears. He scrambled to gather the pooled silk of the robe, draping it over Saga’s shivering form with frantic, clumsy hands. Saga leaned into him, her movements lethargic and disjointed, her throat still pulsing from the invasion. By the time the heavy thud of boots sounded in the foyer, they had both retreated to the leather sectional, sitting side-by-side in a state of forced composure. Saga sat with her legs crossed, the silk robe clinging to her damp skin, her eyes wide and unfocused.

From the hallway, the low, booming resonance of male voices began to fill the house. It wasn’t just Magnus; there were others. Julian recognized the distinct, overlapping tones of Arthur and his twin brother Walt, along with the deeper, more measured rumble of Elias. They didn’t enter the living room immediately; instead, the conversation drifted back to the couple in a series of heavy, masculine echoes.

“Is the house ready?” Elias’s voice asked, sounding like shifting gravel.

Julian felt a cold prickle of apprehension as the voices drew closer. He had known Arthur for a few months now, and while their friendship was rooted in a shared appreciation for the finer things, he had always been vaguely terrified of the genetic lottery that had produced the twins. Arthur was already a man of imposing proportions, but Walt was his mirrored image. The same broad shoulders and heavy-lidded gaze was a variable, and Julian had spent the last few months trying to keep out of their orbit. He didn’t want Saga to meet Walt. He didn’t want her to see the redundancy of that specific, overwhelming masculinity. He could only imagine the logistical nightmare of two men built like Magnus. The thought of a second identical cock of Arthur’s magnitude in the room made Julian’s stomach do a slow, nauseating roll.

The group entered the room with a coordinated, heavy cadence. Magnus led the way, his presence still radiating the heat of the act he had just finished. Behind him followed Arthur and Elias, and then, stepping out of the shadows of the hallway, came Walt. He was truly a genetic echo of his brother, a towering wall of muscle and confidence, wearing a dark polo that strained against a chest that seemed to occupy too much space. The air in the living room, already thick with the scent of sex and cedar, suddenly felt claustrophobic.

Saga’s reaction was instantaneous. As her eyes locked onto Walt, her pupils dilated, swallowing the blue of her irises. She didn’t look at him with the polite curiosity of a guest; she looked at him with the hunger of a woman who had just discovered a new, identical feast. A slow, languid smile spread across her lips, one that didn’t reach Julian but was aimed squarely at the twin. She shifted on the leather sectional, the silk of her robe sliding open just a fraction more, an instinctive, unconscious invitation.

“Gentlemen,” Magnus announced, his voice returning to that low, commanding rumble as he stepped into the center of the room. He didn’t introduce Julian. He didn’t even acknowledge the man sitting beside Saga. Instead, he gestured toward the woman with a possessive sweep of his arm. “I believe you all know Arthur, but you haven’t yet met his mirror. Saga, this is Walt. Walt, this is Saga. She’s been ... very accommodating today.”

The phrase “accommodating” hung in the air like a challenge. Walt didn’t smile; he simply looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her throat, where the faint, red flush of Magnus’s invasion was still visible. He looked at her like a piece of property that had been properly broken in.

“Is that so?” Walt asked, his voice a deeper, more resonant version of Arthur’s. He stepped closer, his massive frame blotting out the light from the window. “Magnus always did have a penchant for quality. I was wondering if she lived up to the reports.” He didn’t wait for her to answer; he simply looked at Magnus and nodded. “She looks like she’s still catching her breath. Maybe we should help her find it.”

Magnus paused, his gaze flickering toward Julian with a sudden, predatory flash of faux-consideration. A slow, calculating smile spread across his face, one that suggested he had found a way to make Julian’s slow disintegration even more methodical.