CHAPTER 186: NEXT MORNING III

Amara lay curled tight against Devon’s chest, her skin still slick and shining with a mix of sweat and cum that clung to every curve like a second skin, warm and sticky, drying crusty in places, wet and fresh in others.

The air around them hung thick and heavy, saturated with the raw, filthy scent of sex—jasmine from her perfume twisted deep and dark with the heavier, animal musk of bodies pushed past exhaustion, past reason, past mercy.

Salt stung the air sharp from their sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingered where she’d bitten his lip hard enough to draw it, the taste still on her tongue.

The sheets beneath them were a total battlefield, soaked through in dark, spreading patches that smelled like squirt and semen, twisted into tight knots, stained with thick, creamy streaks that had dried flaky in the creases and stayed wet and glossy in the dips.

The mattress sagged deep under the weight of their sins, springs creaking faint even now, like the bed itself was exhausted, groaning softly with every shift.

The headboard hung crooked off one hinge, wood splintered in jagged, ugly lines, paint chipped away in long curls, one screw loose and rattling soft with every breath they took, every heartbeat.

The room smelled like a war zone after the victory—raw, animal, conquered, the kind of smell that stuck to your skin, your hair, your soul.

Sunlight slithered through the half-open curtains, golden and lazy, thick as warm honey, catching on the dust motes that drifted slow and heavy in the humid, sex-thick air, glinting off the shattered glass from the wedding photo on the floor—tiny shards sparkling like broken promises, like tiny knives catching the light, scattering it across the walls in sharp, fractured rainbows.

Her fingers traced slow, worshipful circles over Devon’s chest, nails scraping light over the hard ridges of muscle, leaving faint pink trails that faded quick but left a tingle behind.

She couldn’t stop touching him.

Couldn’t stop looking.

His skin was hot to the touch, slick with sweat, perfect under her palms, under her lips.

His breath came steady and deep, chest rising and falling like a god at rest, the faint scar on his ribs—a thin, pale lightning bolt—glowing gold in the slanting light, like it remembered the knife that made it, like it proud of the story.

She pressed her lips to his collarbone, tasted salt and sweat and him, moaned soft and low into his skin, the sound vibrating deep in her throat, in her chest, in her pussy.

"Fuck... you’re unreal," she whispered, voice hoarse and scraped raw from hours of screaming, from begging, from breaking, from pleading.

"Look at you. Just... look at you. Like a fucking god carved out of marble and sin. Every line. Every muscle. Every scar. Every inch. I could stare at you forever and never get enough. Never stop wanting. Never stop needing."

She shifted slow, propped herself up on one elbow, her dark hair spilling wild over her shoulder in damp, tangled ropes, sticking to her neck, her cheek, her lips, her tits.

Her eyes roamed over him slow and greedy, like she was memorizing every inch, every detail, every breath, every twitch.

The sharp cut of his jaw shadowed with rough stubble that scraped her skin when she kissed it. The thick column of his throat pulsing faint with his heartbeat.

The way his abs flexed soft when he inhaled, when he exhaled. The thick, heavy line of his cock, still half-hard, resting heavy against his thigh, glistening with her thick cream, his cum, them—shiny and wet, veins still pulsing faint, head flushed dark, a fresh bead of pre-cum pearling slow at the slit.

"I couldn’t take my eyes off you," she breathed, fingers sliding lower, tracing the deep V that pointed straight to what she worshiped, nails dragging light, making him twitch hard under her touch.

"Not once. Not on that debate floor. You were up there—calm, sharp, lethal—voice low and smooth, eyes cutting through the room like knives, like fire. And I was soaked. Drenched."

"My panties ruined before you even opened your mouth. Heart pounding so hard I thought it’d burst. I wanted to crawl under the table and suck you off right there. In front of the lights. In front of the cameras. In front of the whole fucking world. In front of him."

She laughed low and filthy, pressed her lips to his chest again, kissed slow and wet, tongue flicking out to taste him, to lick a bead of sweat from his skin, to trace the line of a muscle.

"I’ve wanted this—you—since the second you walked on stage. Since you destroyed him with words alone. Since you won. I’ve been wet for you every night since. Touching myself to the memory of your voice. Your eyes."

Devon smiled—slow, lazy, dangerous, the kind that made her pussy clench hard just from seeing it, made her breath catch.

His hand slid up her back, fingers tangling deep in her hair, tugging faint, just enough to make her scalp burn sweet, to make her gasp sharp and needy.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

His eyes said it all.

She leaned in, lips brushing his—soft at first, just a tease, a whisper of breath, a ghost of touch, then deeper, hungrier, desperate, starving.

Tongue sliding in slow, tasting cum and sweat and victory and blood, the sting of the bite still fresh.

He kissed back—hard—hand tightening in her hair, pulling her closer, teeth biting her lip again, drawing fresh blood, the sting making her moan loud into his mouth, making her pussy throb.

She pressed flush against him, tits crushed to his chest, nipples hard and scraping his skin raw, thigh sliding over his, pussy still swollen and dripping, brushing his cock, making it twitch and harden fast under her touch, under her heat.

The kiss turned nasty—wet, sloppy, desperate, filthy, obscene. Tongues fighting for control, teeth clashing hard, spit slicking their chins, dripping down her neck, down his chest.

She sucked his tongue hard, bit his lip again, ground her hips slow and deliberate against his thigh, smearing her juices on his skin, leaving a shiny, sticky trail that caught the light, that smelled like her, like them.

He growled low and rough, hand sliding down to grip her ass—hard—fingers digging deep into the red, marked flesh, pulling her tighter, bruising fresh, making her whimper.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

The sound cut through the haze—sharp, insistent, mechanical, vibrating hard on the nightstand, screen lighting up blue and cold, casting shadows on the wall.

Amara pulled back faint, lips shiny and swollen, breath ragged and hot, chest heaving.

Devon glanced over, brow furrowing faint, jaw tightening hard.

The door creaked open—slow, hesitant, wood groaning loud in the quiet.

Julian stood there again—pale as death, trembling hard, scar twitching violent under the light, skin pulled tight.

The phone buzzed in his hand, screen cracked from the fall, glowing bright and mocking, vibrating against his palm.

Coffee stains still streaked his shirt, dark and crusty now, flaking faint at the edges, mug gone, shards probably still downstairs cutting the floor.

His eyes—red-rimmed, glassy, wet with unshed tears—locked on Amara, curled naked against Devon, lips swollen and red, cum still drying in thick, creamy streaks on her tits, her thighs, her stomach, glistening in the light like trophies.

He gulped hard, throat bobbing, hands shaking so bad the phone rattled loud, like bones.

Amara didn’t flinch.

Didn’t cover up.

Didn’t even blink.

Just turned her head slow, eyes narrowing to slits, voice cold and sharp as glass, as ice, "What the fuck do you want now, Julian?"

Julian’s lips trembled hard, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

He held up the phone, voice cracking, barely above a whisper, breaking into pieces, "It... it was ringing. Downstairs. Over and over. Loud. I think... I think it’s his."

Amara stared at him—long, hard, cruel, like she was looking at trash, at dirt, at nothing.

Then turned back to Devon, smiled sweet and filthy, kissed him again—deeper, nastier, tongue sliding in wet and slow, moaning loud and deliberate just for Julian, just to twist the knife deeper, to make it hurt.

Her hand slid down slow, wrapped around Devon’s cock—thick, hot, pulsing hard now, stroked slow and firm, thumb circling the head, smearing the fresh bead of pre-cum that leaked out thick, making it glisten, making it shine.

"Give it to him," she murmured against Devon’s lips, not looking at Julian, not acknowledging him as human, as anything.

Julian’s face crumpled—eyes filling fast, jaw shaking, a tear slipping down his cheek, mixing with the sweat.

He stepped forward, slow, stumbling, feet dragging heavy on the hardwood, each step a struggle held out the phone like an offering, like a sacrifice, arm trembling hard, phone buzzing still.

Devon took it without a word, thumb swiping to answer, eyes never leaving Amara, never leaving her mouth, her hand, her heat.

She didn’t stop kissing him, didn’t stop stroking—moaning louder, wetter, filthier, her tongue fucking his mouth deep and slow, her pussy grinding hard against his thigh, leaving a slick, shiny trail that smelled like her, like victory.

A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker—sharp, urgent, cutting through the haze like a blade: "Devon? It’s Evelyn. Turn on the TV. Now. Apex Dynamics just filed for bankruptcy. It’s all over the news. Every channel. Every station. It’s done. They’re finished."

Devon stood slow, cock swinging heavy between his legs, still hard, glistening with her, with him, with everything.

Amara whined at the loss—soft, needy, desperate—reached for him, fingers brushing air, nails scraping faint, but he was already moving—naked, unashamed, muscles flexing hard in the golden light, cock bobbing heavy with each step, pre-cum dripping faint on the floor.

The living room was cold—hardwood biting sharp into his bare feet, coffee still pooled on the floor in a dark, sticky puddle that smelled sour and burnt, mug shards glittering like ice under the light, crunching faint under his heel.

The TV flickered on with a click—remote heavy and cool in his hand, buttons sticky from someone’s sweat.

Every channel.

Every fucking channel.

The sound blasted loud—anchors shouting, tickers screaming, footage looping.

BREAKING: APEX DYNAMICS FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY

CEO RESIGNS AMID FRAUD ALLEGATIONS—LIVE FROM HEADQUARTERS

STOCK PLUMMETS 98% IN PRE-MARKET TRADING

EMPLOYEES IN CHAOS—OFFICES EMPTY, DESKS ABANDONED

POLICE TAPE AT ENTRANCE—INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY

FORMER EXECUTIVES IN CUSTODY

Devon stared. The ticker crawled fast and red. The anchors screamed over each other, voices overlapping, frantic.

The footage looped—empty cubicles with papers scattered, coffee cups tipped, chairs spun, crying workers in the parking lot clutching boxes, police tape flapping in the wind, reporters shouting into mics, cameras flashing.

He ended the call with a low, calm, "Thank you, Evelyn." Voice like ice. Like finality. Like vengeance.

He was about to turn—head back upstairs, back to Amara, back to her warmth, her worship, her everything—when—

Footsteps.

Soft.

Bare.

Deliberate.

Slow on the stairs.

Each one a thud in his chest.

He froze—breath catching hard, cock twitching, heart slamming.

Amara descended the stairs—slow, graceful, naked, like a queen, like a goddess, like a predator.

Sunlight poured over her like liquid gold, thick and warm and worshipful, catching on every curve, every bruise, every bite mark, every drop of dried cum that streaked her skin like war paint, like medals.

Her tits swayed heavy with each step, nipples hard and dark and proud, thighs slick and shining with squirt and cum, pussy swollen and red, lips glistening wet, still dripping faintly down her legs.

Her hair wild and damp, tangled and sticky, eyes sharp as knives, smile wicked and slow and cruel.

But it wasn’t her nakedness that stopped his heart cold, that made his cock throb hard.

It was him.

Julian—crawling behind her on all fours, naked from the waist up, shirt gone, torn somewhere upstairs, pants unbuttoned and hanging loose off his hips, leash clipped tight around his neck.

The leather kind—black, thick, studded with silver, biting deep into his skin, leaving red marks.

Amara held the end loose in one hand, fingers lazy, nails painted red and perfect, like she was walking a dog she didn’t care about, didn’t respect, didn’t see as human.

Julian’s head hung low, scar pale and twitching hard, eyes down, fixed on the floor, tears dripping slow onto the wood.

Shoulders shaking hard, breath hitching wet and broken, whimpering faint with every tug of the leash—snap—snap.

Amara didn’t look back.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Just descended—each step deliberate, hips swaying slow and hypnotic, ass marked red and purple from slaps and bites and ownership, cum still dripping faint down her inner thigh, leaving a shiny, sticky trail on the stairs that caught the light.

The leash tugged faint with every crawl—snap—Julian whimpering louder, crawling faster to keep up, knees red and raw, hands trembling hard, fingers curling into the wood.

She reached the living room.

Stopped in front of Devon—close, heat radiating off her skin, scent of sex and power and victory thick in the air, wrapping around him.

Kissed him soft on the cheek—lips warm and wet, breath hot and sweet against his skin, voice a purr that vibrated deep in his chest, in his cock.

"Miss me, baby?"

Then turned slow, walked to the leather armchair—slow, regal, hips rolling like a dance, like a threat—sat down slow and deliberate, legs spread wide, pussy on full display, swollen, dripping, owned, glistening in the light, lips parted, clit hard and shining.

She tugged the leash once—sharp, leather cracking loud in the quiet.

"Hey, you dog," she said, voice cold, cruel, perfect, dripping with venom and honey and power. "Come here. Crawl. Worship your mistress. Now."