Without breaking rhythm, my left hand slid to Ortega's thigh, the heel of my palm grinding into the thick, tense muscle. She twitched—barely—but her breath hitched hard, telling me the pressure landed exactly where she fucking needed it.
On my right, Victoria waited. I reached across, thumb and forefinding the inside of her forearm, tracing down to the web between her thumb and index finger—a place most people never touch, wired straight to the cunt. Her fingers curled involuntarily, nails scraping the table's edge. A tiny, wet sound escaped her lips.
"Even rhythm," Anya murmured, still trying to test me.
I smiled without looking up. "Then match."
I shifted my stance, weight balanced, moving between them in a tight triangle—thumbs digging into Victoria's shoulder, knuckles raking down Anya's spine, palm circling Ortega's hip and dipping dangerously close to her ass. The oil turned every stroke into a slick glide, heat coiling under skin.
