Eighteen times.
Eighteen times they had convulsed, their bodies arching off the bed, their mouths open in silent screams as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through them.
Eighteen times they had squirted—thick, clear fluid that soaked the sheets, splattered their skin, pooled in the hollows of their collarbones and the dips of their waists.
Eighteen times they had begged, pleaded, whimpered, cried out until their voices gave out and all that remained were broken gasps and hoarse moans.
Only then did Cassius finally stop.
He pulled his hands away from their trembling bodies, wiping the slick moisture on his thighs before climbing off the bed.
The water pitcher was on the side table, and he poured himself a glass with the casual ease of a man who had just completed a light workout rather than utterly devastating two women.
Behind him, Joy and Carmela lay in ruins.
They were sprawled across the ruined sheets, limbs tangled together in a heap of exhausted flesh.
