Sam's Night (IV)

The elevator doors whooshed open with a soft sigh, and Sam burst into the Suite a half-step ahead of her own shadow. She wore her jeans, a threadbare tank with a faded Marvel logo, and the kind of grin that said she’d already won whatever game they were about to play. A pair of socks, mismatched as always, clung to her feet like they’d never known another owner. In her right hand, she balanced a six-pack of cherry seltzer.

She stopped just inside the threshold, struck a pose with her hip cocked and her free hand on her hip, and gave Andi the kind of look that usually prefaced a world-class roast.

“Holy shit, you make a pretty cute girl,” Sam said, and it was not a compliment so much as a scientific pronouncement.

Andi, who was still cross-legged on the couch, hair loose, after she had recovered from the sorrow that had engulfed her during her prior conversation with Katherine, grinned back and flipped her off. “You’re just mad I pull it off better than you do.”

Sam made a big show of looking Andi up and down, slow as a scanner. “Debatable. But I’ll give you points for the cheekbones. And the hair.” She tossed the six-pack onto the sectional with a bounce. “You want one?”

“Obviously.” Andi snagged a can, popped it, and took a big swallow, the fizz going straight to her nose. “Where’d you get this? I thought the Annex only had the fancy Euro stuff.”

Sam shrugged. “Secret stash. I paid Mildred in anime recommendations. Would you believe her favorite one is Kimi ni Todoke?” She yanked the tank over her head, revealing a white sports bra and a tan so aggressive it bordered on combative. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

Andi tossed her a towel from the foot of the bed. “You’re dripping sweat, man.”

Sam wiped her face and armpits with the efficiency of someone who’d spent years sharing locker rooms, then flopped onto the bed next to Andi, sprawling with zero regard for personal space. “You always this high-maintenance?” she said, nudging Andi’s thigh with her foot.

“Only when I have an audience,” Andi shot back, but the words came out easy, like exhaling after a run.

“Fine, I’ll borrow a t-shirt from your stash.” Sam sauntered in the bedroom, Andi following her, glancing at Katherine’s painting. Katherine regarded the blue-haired girl with her usual blank regality, but Sam gave the portrait a salute, still blissfully unaware of Katherine’s true nature.

“Evening, porn girl,” Sam said. “Looking good as always.”

The painting did not respond, but Andi swore the shoulders went a fraction squarer.

“So,” Sam said, turning to Andi with a wicked gleam, “are you—like—always a little turned on, or what? Because if I had that ass, I’d never get anything done.”

Andi snorted so hard she nearly sprayed seltzer. “Jesus, Sam. You’re relentless.”

“Admit it,” Sam said, poking Andi’s thigh. “You’re tempted to check yourself out in every mirror.”

“I am not.”

Sam arched an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe once or twice,” Andi allowed. “But mostly I’m just trying not to break an ankle in these hips.” She shifted her weight for emphasis. “You wanna go for the gold, though? Try these.” She gestured to her chest, which—on this iteration—was notably fuller than anything Sam had ever packed.

Sam did not hesitate. ”Don’t mind me if I do.” She reached out and gave Andi’s right boob a gentle, experimental squeeze. “Damn,” Sam said, “that’s… honestly? It’s kind of amazing.”

Andi let out a scandalized, amused yelp, then smacked Sam’s hand away. “Boundaries!”

But Sam was already laughing so hard she fell backward onto the bed, arms splayed. “Sorry,” she gasped. “But, like—you had it coming.”

They dissolved into giggles, the kind that shook Andi’s ribs and left her half-curled in pain. After a while, the laughter faded into a soft, comfortable silence.

Sam propped herself up on an elbow, looking suddenly serious. “You okay, though? After earlier?”

Andi nodded. “I think so. It helps when you’re around. Are you?”

Sam nodded, then rolled off the couch, grabbing the seltzer and brandishing it like a trophy. “You always make things better, you know. And I hope you like Italian.”

Andi eyed the bag. “I’m not sure you can call it Italian if it’s from Mildred’s kitchen.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sam said. “But tonight, we cook. It’s tradition.”

She marched into the kitchen, Andi trailing behind. The fridge hummed, overstocked as always, and Sam went to work with the confidence of someone who thought ‘al dente’ was an insult and not a cooking term. She dumped a full box of dry pasta into a pot, dumped in twice as much water as necessary, and then poured a bottle of red sauce into a saucepan and cranked the burner to maximum.

Andi watched, arms folded, biting her tongue until she couldn’t any longer. “You’re supposed to salt the water and bring it to a boil before the pasta goes in,” she offered, not unkindly.

Sam shrugged. “That’s for people with taste buds. I have a cast iron stomach.”

“You have a **** wish,” Andi said, then opened the fridge and dug out a block of parmesan, a lemon, and—by miracle—actual fresh basil.

Sam watched with growing horror as Andi zested the lemon, chiffonaded the basil, and grated cheese like she was auditioning for a cooking show. “Oh my God,” Sam said, voice reverent. “Are you, like, a closet Martha Stewart?”

Andi grinned. “No, I just spent six years living alone and refusing to eat ramen every night.”

“Hey! I feel personally attacked by that!” Sam grinned.

The next twenty minutes were a performance art piece in contrasts: Sam banged pots and banged spoons, humming off-key to whatever music played in her head, while Andi assembled a salad with meticulous care, checking and re-checking the oven temperature for the breadsticks. The two of them traded insults the whole time, but the rhythm of their work was easy—almost choreographed.

By the time the timer dinged, the kitchen was a disaster zone. Sam’s pasta was boiling over, sauce had spattered every reachable surface. The salad, by contrast, looked straight out of a cooking magazine, and the breadsticks which Sam had taken over were… on the edge of charcoal.

Sam took one look and shrugged. “Guess we like it rustic.”

They plated up, carried everything to the table, and dug in. The breadsticks shattered into flakes at the slightest touch; the pasta was not so much overcooked as fused into a single gelatinous slab; but Andi’s salad was crisp and bright and, if eaten between mouthfuls of the other stuff, almost made the meal seem intentional.

Sam dunked a blackened breadstick into her pasta jelly, took a huge bite, and chewed with her eyes closed. “Five stars,” she announced.

Andi shook her head. “You are a monster.”

“I’m a visionary,” Sam countered, and took another bite.

They ate, reminiscing about war stories from college—Sam’s tales of late-night campus hacks and failed art projects, Andy’s of disastrous parties and failed startups. The conversation spun out, covering every possible tangent: worst Halloween costumes, best excuses for missing class, the time Sam got locked inside a gas station bathroom for three hours and emerged a local legend.

Halfway through the meal, Sam paused and leaned back. “You ever think about what you’d be doing right now, if all this—” she gestured around the room, encompassing the entire twisted, perfect insanity of the HH—“never happened?”

Andi considered it. “Probably the same thing I was doing before. Work, more work, and… I don’t know. Trying not to screw up my life any more than I already had.”

Sam nodded. “But you’d still have me, right?” Her tone was lighter than her eyes.

“In every universe, Sam.”

Sam beamed, then looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “You’re sappy when you’re a girl. You know that?”

Andi shrugged. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

They finished the food, or most of it, and stacked the dishes in the sink for the robots or ghosts or whatever cleaned them overnight. Then, without discussion, they drifted into the den, kicked off their shoes, and flopped onto the oversized sectional.

They spent the next five minutes arguing over what to watch. Sam lobbied for martial arts movies; Andi made a case for classic horror. In the end, they split the difference and put on a screwball comedy from the eighties, the kind with ridiculous hair and an even more ridiculous premise.

They watched in silence at first, but by the time the first big gag hit, they were providing their own MST3K-style commentary.

“What the fuck is that jacket?” Sam demanded, pointing at the screen.

“Honestly, I’d wear it,” Andi replied. “It has big ‘yacht captain on coke’ energy.”

“You could pull it off,” Sam agreed. “But you’d need aviators. Maybe a cigar.”

Andi made a finger-gun gesture. “Ay, captain.”

The night rolled on like that—movie, seltzer, popcorn from somewhere (Sam had found a hidden stash in the kitchen). They took turns predicting the next plot twist, and when the lead characters finally kissed, Sam whooped and threw a handful of popcorn in the air like confetti.

They were so deep in their commentary that neither noticed when the credits started rolling. Andi only realized it when she looked over and saw Sam slumped, eyes half-closed, her head drooped back against the cushion.

“You alive over there?” Andi asked.

Sam grunted. “Barely. Too much food. Too much fun. Too much…” She gestured vaguely.

Andi stretched, then let her head drop onto Sam’s shoulder. The fit was perfect, as if they’d been designed for it. They sat like that, letting the world spin a little slower.

After a while, Sam said, “You know, you’re the only person who ever really got me. Like, from day one.” Her voice was quiet, but not uncertain. “I spent my whole life being the odd one out, and you just… let me in.”

Andi was quiet for a long moment, then squeezed Sam’s hand. “You’re home, Sam. You always were.”

Sam swallowed hard, then chuckled, the sound rough. “You’re sappy even when you’re not a girl.”

“Shut up,” Andi said, but she was smiling, and it felt so much like peace.

They stayed that way until the end of the credits, the room lit only by the flicker of the TV and the last glow from the fireplace. When Sam finally got up, she yawned so hard her jaw cracked, then staggered into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of water.

Andi took hers, drained it in one go, and set the glass on the coffee table. “If you ever get tired of being the anchor, let me know,” she said, softer now.

Sam looked at her, and for a second, the mask dropped—every sarcasm, every layer of bravado peeled away, revealing just the girl who’d come all this way to laugh with her best friend.

“Deal,” Sam said, and they clinked their empty glasses together.

They sprawled, side by side, the couch swallowing them whole. The next movie started, and neither noticed what it was. At some point, Sam reached for the popcorn, and, in a spectacular act of miscalculation, inhaled a kernel so badly she started coughing.

Andi sat up, eyes wide. “You okay?”

Sam managed to hack it up, then wiped her eyes and grinned. “**** by popcorn. That’s how I want to go out.”

Andi laughed, full and unguarded.

Somewhere between the second and third movie, the suite lost the sharpness of party night and drifted into the gentle, ambiguous blur of a sleepover that neither participant wanted to end. The TV flickered without much input; the bowl of popcorn—half demolished, half stale—sat between them on the couch like an offering. Andi’s head had found a comfortable place tucked into the bend of Sam’s shoulder, and neither saw a good reason to move.

Most of the talk had drained away with the hours. Even Sam, the perpetual motion machine, ran out of momentum, letting her hand rest on Andi’s thigh, thumb idly tracing circles through the fabric of her pajama pants. The fire in the suite’s hearth made the room smell faintly of pine, even though Andi knew it was probably just an aroma algorithm. She closed her eyes, let herself float.

For a while there was only the whisper of the flames and the soft tick of the old-fashioned wall clock.

Sam was the one who broke the silence, but not with a joke or a dare. She said, “I forget sometimes that you carry more than the rest of us put together.” The words were so uncharacteristically gentle, so nakedly direct, that Andi almost mistook them for part of the TV’s background noise.

But then Sam shifted, scooted a little closer, her body warm and grounding. “Seriously,” she murmured, “sometimes I think you’re the only real grown-up here.”

Andi snorted, tried to play it off, but the sound was tired and a little hoarse. “Good thing I’ve got you to keep me from falling over,” she said, and she meant it. She leaned harder into Sam, who accepted the weight without protest.

The fire crackled and popped, sending orange shadows crawling up the far wall. In the bedroom, the painting of Katherine watched over them, the green eyes oddly reflective in the shifting light.

They stayed like that, together but separate, for a few long, easy minutes. It felt like an old routine—like there had never been any gap, any years or heartbreak between them.

Then Sam, never content to let a perfect moment rest, stretched, yawned, and said, “Let’s have some real fun.”

Andi rolled her eyes. “If you mean hide and seek, I am too tired and also too good at it.”

“Not that,” Sam said. Her tone was sly, but the look on her face was something softer, almost secretive. She stood, brushed popcorn dust from her lap, and padded to the elevator door.

It pinged, almost as if on cue, the numbers blinking in the dim light.

Andi watched as Sam pressed the call button and waited. There was a quiet confidence in the way she stood, hands in her pockets, gaze steady. After a moment, the doors opened, and Liesa stepped out.

She wore a silk wrap, loosely belted, hair down around her shoulders and cheeks slightly pink. She saw Andi on the couch and hesitated, one bare foot half in, half out of the elevator. Her eyes flicked to Sam, who nodded her encouragement.

“Come in,” Sam said, and her voice was kind, no sarcasm or tease.

Liesa inched forward, hands nervously clutching the tie of her robe. She gave Andi a shy, searching look, as if to check whether this was a trap or a trick of the heart.

Andi sat up, tried to smooth her hair, failed. “Hey,” she said, and it sounded smaller than she’d intended.

Sam grinned, the old mischief back for just a second. “She deserves tonight,” she said to Andi, but the way she said it made it clear: tonight was about repair, not conquest.

Liesa looked between them, the question plain on her face. She hovered at the edge of the living room, uncertain, like a lost child in a familiar house. Her eyes sparkled with hope, but also a kind of wariness. She did not move until Sam beckoned her forward, then she crossed the room in a swirl of silk, stopping just out of reach.

Andi stood, smoothing the pajamas and wishing she’d picked something less rumpled. For a second, the room felt too big, the walls closing in, and all her old fears—the ones about not being enough, about being replaced, about failing to love the right way—came flooding back. But Sam stood close, ready to catch her if she stumbled, and that made it bearable.

Liesa opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked at Andi, then at Sam, then back again.

The silence stretched. Then Andi said, softly, “Do you want me to stay like this, or…?” She trailed off, not trusting herself to finish the question.

Liesa looked down, twisting her fingers. “If… if you want to.” She smiled, shy but real. “But I—I miss him.”

The words landed with a kind of gravity that Andi couldn’t ignore. She glanced at Sam, who smiled and nodded, as if to say, See? Not so hard.

Andi took a step forward, closed the distance, and reached out to brush Liesa’s arm, gentle as a breath. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Liesa’s relief was visible—a softening of her posture, a little unburdening of the eyes. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Andi’s shoulder, and the three of them stood together for a long, quiet moment.

Outside, the surf pounded the rocks, the old music of the world. Inside, Andi felt herself recalibrate, piece by piece.

“I can change,” Andi whispered. “If that’s what you want.”

Liesa nodded, the motion delicate and precise. “Tonight, yes. Please.”

Andi closed her eyes and let the change happen. The shift was always more subtle in the dark. Andy blinked, expecting disorientation, but found the familiar mass and length of his own arms, the sense of width in his chest, the slightly lower pitch when he spoke Liesa’s name. She sagged into him like it was gravity’s will, her hands seeking the old configuration, her cheek pressed hard to his collarbone. For a few seconds she just stood, breathing him in, her eyes squeezed shut. Then she backed away, the silk wrap sliding off her shoulders and pooling at her feet.

He stared, not at the skin—though there was a lot of it, more curves than any engineer could have anticipated—but at the way she held herself. Liesa was trembling. Not with cold, but with arousal that looked like fear. She held a tight lid on it as much as she could, remembering the time she had let the arousal take over, so she could hide. Sam noticed too, and in her effortless way, closed the distance and held Liesa from behind, hands braced on her waist, her cheek nuzzled into Liesa’s neck.

Liesa shivered—not with cold, but with the magnitude of her own nervousness. Andy had never seen her like this. She wasn’t the cocky, dare-you-to-try urban artist, or the quietly shy girlfriend who’d taken him on moonlit walks and slow, exploratory sex when they were twenty. She was raw and trembling, her eyes darting as if trying to find the escape route, even as she leaned into Sam’s embrace.

“It’s okay,” Sam murmured, voice pitched low, the kind of voice used to calm animals and old friends in crisis. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

Liesa exhaled, a fragile, warbling breath. She didn’t look up. Instead, she clutched at Sam’s arms, steadying herself. Her legs shook, and when Andy reached to touch her hand, she recoiled—not from him, but from the uncertainty of her own reaction.

He waited. He let Sam guide her.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Liesa said, voice muffled by the curtain of her hair. “Last time, it—”

Andy remembered. The way she’d gone in heat with need, the transformation overwhelming every line of her personality, until there was nothing left but heat and animal drive. It had terrified her. It had left Andy shaken, too, seeing her turned into something she didn’t recognize, didn’t want to be.

Sam’s hands didn’t move. She just held Liesa steady, anchoring her. “We’re not letting go,” Sam said. “You don’t have to be afraid of yourself.”

Andy stepped closer, slow as he could, and set his hand on Liesa’s wrist. “We’ve got you,” he said, and meant it. “Both of us.”

Liesa turned, finally, her eyes shining in the half-light. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said. “How it gets—”

“I do,” Sam said. “Maybe not the same, but enough.” She pressed her cheek harder against Liesa’s neck, and her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Let us help. Just let go.”

Liesa stared at Andy, searching for a sign of impatience, or pity, or anything that would let her push him away. There wasn’t any. He just looked at her, open and steady, and nodded once.

“I want to,” Liesa whispered. “I’m just… I’m scared I’ll disappear. That it’ll take over again.”

Andy took her hand, this time without resistance. “We’ll bring you back,” he said, voice rough but certain. “We always do.”

The moment hung there, delicate and breakable. Then Liesa let out a sound—part laugh, part sob—and released the last of her tension. She sagged into Sam, and Sam caught her, holding her upright. Andy reached out, cradled the side of her face, and thumbed away a tear before it could fall.

Sam kissed the nape of Liesa’s neck, then set to work undoing the bra clasp. Her fingers were deft, gentle, as if she’d spent years undressing nervous lovers. Sam trailed kisses from Liesa’s neck to her shoulder, then bit, soft and playful, just above the clavicle. Liesa shuddered. Andy’s pulse hammered in his wrists, but he kept his touch careful, holding her hand as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Is this okay?” he asked, barely trusting his own voice.

Liesa nodded. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—speak.

Sam guided her forward, toward the oversized bed, moving with a gentle certainty that made Andy ache. She sat Liesa on the edge, then knelt at her feet, stroking her calves, her thighs, always careful, never rushing. Liesa trembled at every touch, but didn’t resist.

Andy sat beside her, keeping one hand on her back, the other resting lightly on her knee. The air between them felt charged, heavy with anticipation and a kind of reverence.

Sam reached up and pressed her palm flat to Liesa’s chest, just over the heart. “Breathe,” she murmured. “You’re in control.”

Liesa inhaled, then exhaled, and the shivering eased. She closed her eyes, head tilting back, hair spilling over her bare shoulders.

Sam kissed her sternum, then her stomach, then the inside of her thigh. Liesa’s hands flexed on the bedspread, **** for something to hold, but she didn’t move. Andy stroked her back in slow, wide circles, trying to anchor her to the moment.

“Do you want to lie back?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, so he guided her down, careful to support her head. Liesa sprawled across the bed, arms loose at her sides, legs parted just enough to betray the depth of her need. Her breathing came in sharp, shallow pants.

Sam’s hands were gentle, methodical, but never clinical: there was always that undercurrent of mischief, the suggestion that she could do something wicked at any moment. She started by running her fingertips along the ridges of Liesa’s spine, featherlight, barely there, and Liesa’s entire body responded as if she’d been scalded. The shiver was so visible that Andy felt it in his own chest, a sympathetic resonance. He’d seen Liesa naked more times than he could count—at school, in long-ago dorm beds and in the Suite itself—but this was different. Liesa was unguarded, uncertain, her need so huge it threatened to swallow her. Andy was painfully aware of how easy it would be to tip her from pleasure into panic, or from arousal into shame.

Sam seemed to sense it too. She worked in slow, concentric circles, always giving Liesa a second to process, to feel, to decide if she actually wanted what was happening. At first she just pressed her palm into the small of Liesa’s back, grounding her, then slid it down to cup the curve of her ass, kneading gently. Every movement was deliberate, a question mark ending in a period of warmth.

Liesa’s muscles tensed and released under every touch. She bit her lip so hard Andy thought she might draw blood. Sam kept her mouth close to Liesa’s shoulder, not kissing, just breathing her in. Then, almost as an afterthought, she bit—very lightly—into the spot where Liesa’s neck and shoulder met. Liesa’s eyes flew open, and for a second she looked right at Andy, wild and pleading.

Andy reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. He could feel the sweat on her palm, the jittery tremor running through her. “You’re okay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

Sam heard it, and nodded against Liesa’s skin. “Let yourself feel it,” she coaxed. “No one’s going to let you get lost.”

Liesa laughed, or maybe sobbed, and her shoulders dropped an inch, the tension slowly melting. Sam’s hand moved from Liesa’s ass to the inside of her thigh, pausing there, waiting for permission. Liesa didn’t speak, but she didn’t pull away, either. Sam took the invitation and inched her hand up, her thumb tracing slow, lazy circles just above the knee.

For a long time, this was all: the gradual migration of Sam’s hand, the careful way Andy stroked Liesa’s arm, the sound of Liesa’s breath as it switched from shallow to deep and back again, like a tide coming in. Andy watched the way Liesa’s stomach moved—sometimes rippling with nerves, sometimes going perfectly still with anticipation—and tried to match his own breathing to hers, as if the synchronization might actually help.

Then, with no warning, Sam dropped to her knees at the edge of the bed and pressed her mouth against Liesa’s thigh, just below the hem of her underwear. Liesa’s hips jerked up, involuntary, and Andy tightened his grip on her hand, anchoring her in place. Sam didn’t rush. She trailed her tongue along the seam of Liesa’s panties, then up, over, and around, never quite committing, always making Liesa guess. When she finally hooked her fingers under the waistband and pulled the fabric down, Liesa whimpered and twisted, as if she was being exposed to the world.

Andy wanted to say something reassuring, but words felt clumsy. Instead, he just let Liesa squeeze his hand as hard as she needed, and locked eyes with her whenever she looked his direction.

Sam started slowly, drawing out the anticipation until Liesa was trembling, her thighs clamped tight around Sam’s ears. The first time Sam licked her, just the barest flick, Liesa gave a sound that was closer to a scream than a moan. She let go of Andy’s hand and clutched at the bedspread, her nails digging into the thick cotton. Sam took her time, slow at first, as if calibrating Liesa’s reactions, then gradually increasing pressure, speed, and depth. She never broke contact, not even when Liesa bucked against her face and started to sob.

Andy felt helpless, but not in a bad way. He wanted to do something, anything, but he could tell that what mattered most was just being there—just being the person Liesa could look at and know she hadn’t vanished, that she was still herself, even as she came apart.

Sam’s hands knew exactly what to do. She splayed her fingers across Liesa’s hips, holding her steady, stroking circles into her skin. Andy watched the movement, the way Liesa’s muscles jumped and fluttered under Sam’s grip. He felt a strange gratitude toward Sam, for making this something Liesa could want instead of endure.

Liesa’s breathing got faster, more ragged. She started to chant something under her breath in Flemish, which Andy only understood bits of, but the cadence was unmistakable: a prayer, or a plea, or maybe just a mantra to keep herself from floating away. Sam didn’t let up. She licked her in broad, flat stripes, then teased at the edges, then back to slow and deep, always keeping Liesa right on the edge but never letting her topple over.

Andy leaned in, pressed his forehead to Liesa’s, and whispered, “Let go. It’s okay.” He meant it with his whole body.

That was when Liesa broke. She arched up from the bed, her whole body a taut line, and screamed—not just in pleasure, but in release, like a dam bursting. Sam kept her mouth on Liesa, working her through the aftershocks, even as Liesa’s hands flailed and gripped and tried to find something solid.

Liesa’s orgasm went on and on, wave after wave, until her legs gave out and she collapsed back on the bed, breathing in huge, messy gasps. Andy held her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other smoothing her hair away from her sweaty face.

Sam crawled up beside her and curled around Liesa’s back, pressing her lips to the shell of Liesa’s ear. She murmured something Andy couldn’t hear, but it made Liesa laugh—a real, broken laugh, like a child. The three of them lay tangled together, the sheets damp and the air full of the smell of sweat and sex and salt.

Liesa looked up at Andy, her eyes red but shining. “Thank you,” she said, voice hoarse. “I’m still here. I’m still me.”

Andy nodded, unable to speak. He felt something break open in his own chest, a pressure he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone.

Only then did Sam ease off, crawling up to lay beside Liesa, stroking her cheek, whispering soft nothings into her ear.

Andy kissed Liesa’s hand, then her shoulder, then the damp, salty line of her jaw. He murmured her name, again and again, until the shaking slowed.

When Liesa could breathe, she opened her eyes. She looked at Sam, at Andy, and for the first time since entering the Suite, she smiled. It was a small, uncertain thing, but it was real.

“You did it,” Sam said. “You stayed here.”

Liesa nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Andy brushed the hair from her face, gentle as a prayer. “Do you want more?” he asked, letting her decide.

She hesitated, then nodded again, more certain now.

Sam moved with a kind of languid assurance, her role in this newly-forged triangle suddenly unmistakable. She nudged Andy gently with her hip, silently telling him to take the lead, then slid herself up and around, sandwiching Liesa between them. Liesa lay in the sculpted hollow atop the comforter, her body still loose and trembling, all her previous tension spent in that single, volcanic release. Andy hesitated at first, but Sam gave him a look—soft, insistent, the look she used to give him after a bad exam, or in the hospital lobby when he’d freeze up and forget how to be a person. The **** of it cut through years of self-doubt and apology. You belong here. She didn’t say it, but it was there in her eyes.

So Andy did as he was told. He settled himself between Liesa’s legs, drawing her knees gently apart, but carefully, always waiting for the flinch or the withdrawal that never came. He found that his hands shook if he thought about it too much, so instead he focused on the small things—on the velvet of her inner thigh, the warm, unselfconscious sprawl of her feet, the way her belly rose and fell with each shallow, unfamiliar breath. Liesa’s gaze darted from the ceiling to the wall to Sam’s face, never quite landing anywhere for long. Andy wondered if she even remembered he was there.

Sam propped herself up on one elbow, curling her body protectively around Liesa’s head and shoulders. She used her free hand to stroke Liesa’s hair, combing it away from her eyes, sketching slow, soothing patterns on her scalp and cheek. Occasionally she’d lean in and murmur something in faux-Flemish, the accent horrendous, the words meaningless. But Liesa responded to each word with a little shiver.

For a long time, none of them spoke. Andy traced lazy arcs up Liesa’s thighs, mapping the route from kneecap to hip crest by sense memory alone. He let his fingertips drift over the faint peachfuzz, the subtle muscle knots, the places where sunlight had turned her skin a shade darker than the rest. He was afraid to rush, afraid to break whatever spell held Liesa together. So he just let himself be slow, which felt new and precarious, like walking through deep water.

At some point, Liesa’s breathing changed. She let out a long, hitching sigh, shifting her hips forward just enough that Andy’s hand slipped under the edge of her panties, knuckles grazing the silk before he realized what had happened. He tensed, looked up at her face, but she didn’t flinch. In fact, her lips parted, a tiny sound escaping that might’ve been his name.

Sam, alert as ever, caught the shift. “Easy,” she said, her voice pitched low, ironed flat so it wouldn’t startle. “You’re still steering, ‘k? We can stop whenever.”

Liesa shook her head, not so much a no as a **** plea to keep things rolling. She pressed the crown of her scalp into Sam’s palm, like a cat **** for affection.

Andy slid his hand higher, letting his knuckles follow the warm, damp seam of Liesa’s underwear. He hesitated, then traced a slow, deliberate line along the fabric, never dipping beneath. He wanted to give her every out, every possible chance to bail. He’d learned, with Liesa, that even the gentlest touch could tip her from pleasure to panic, and he wasn’t going to risk her trust for a second.

But Liesa’s body wasn’t panicked; it was greedy. She arched her back, pelvis tilting up to meet his hand, and made a sort of pleading whine that Andy had never heard from her before, or from anyone. He looked to Sam for guidance, but Sam just smiled and kept petting Liesa’s hair.

He dipped two fingers between her legs and found her wet, even slicker than he’d expected. He didn’t rush this either, just stroked along her folds, mapping her with the same reverence he’d used for her arms and neck. Liesa’s hips bucked involuntarily, but she didn’t try to pull away. Instead, she let out a series of short, choked breaths, her hands curling into the comforter at her sides.

Sam shifted her hand from Liesa’s hair to her chest, splaying her fingers just above the sternum, not pressing, just anchoring. “Breathe,” she reminded, and Liesa tried, her lungs catching and releasing in spasmodic gulps.

Andy found her clit—small, tucked away, but so sensitive that even the lightest pressure made Liesa jump. He circled it with the flat of his finger, watching her face for the first sign of overload. Her eyes rolled back, then closed, but her jaw was set, teeth bared in a ragged sort of grin.

He slid a finger inside, slow, then another, waiting for her to tense or say stop. She didn’t. She just gasped, her head rocking back into Sam’s chest. Sam bent close and whispered something, and Liesa let out a bark of laughter, wild and unselfconscious, before dissolving into a litany of Dutch curses. Andy didn’t understand a word, but he understood the tone: ****, reverent, hungry.

He pumped his fingers in and out in time with her breath, slow at first, then faster as she grew frantic. Sam kept her anchored with one hand to her chest, the other playing with Liesa’s nipple through the thin fabric of her tank. Liesa’s entire body went rigid, then loose, then rigid again, like she was being broken and remade with each stroke.

The second time Liesa came, it wasn’t a scream so much as a rattle—an unholy, guttural sound that left her writhing, clutching at both Sam and Andy, as if they were the only things tethering her to the world. When it was over, she collapsed, her body a heap of spastic twitches, every muscle spent.

Sam gathered her in, cradling Liesa to her chest, kissing her forehead, petting her hair. Andy watched them, heart raw and wide open. He’d never seen Liesa like this, never seen her let go so completely.

Liesa’s body trembled in aftershock, but the hunger that had seized her once was already rekindling, flickering in the way her hands clung to Andy’s arm, the way her mouth sought his shoulder and neck. She pressed her lips to his skin, open-mouthed and needy, her breathing a patchwork of laughs and sobs and quick, animal panting. Andy, still fully clothed from the waist up, felt the heat of her pour through both of them, a feedback loop that threatened to short out his capacity for rational thought.

He kissed her back, tasting the faintest salt of tears and sweat, and the tang of Sam’s lip balm. Liesa’s hands wandered his chest, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, the movements frantic and uncoordinated. Her fingers found one, then another, popping them loose with an aggression that suggested if Andy didn’t cooperate, she’d simply rip the shirt from his body. He caught her wrists, holding them for a moment, forcing her to slow down.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Liesa swallowed hard, blinking up at him. She nodded, her face awash in embarrassment and longing, and let her hands fall to her sides. Andy undid the rest of the buttons himself, shrugging off the shirt and letting it drop to the floor. He felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. Sam was watching Liesa intently, her gaze sharp but not unkind. Andy angled himself carefully, ensuring Sam wouldn’t have to watch anything that might make her uncomfortable. He slipped one hand up Liesa’s side, feeling the flutter of her ribs and the thud of her heart, and the other hand slipped beneath the waistband of her panties. He peeled them down, slow at first, but Liesa bucked her hips, impatient, and wriggled them off with a graceless kick that sent them spinning across the room.

For a second, Andy thought he saw a flash of terror in her eyes, the afterimage of some past panic. Then Liesa exhaled, a slow, intentional breath, and reached for him again, pulling his head to hers for a kiss that was all tongue and teeth. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to sting, and then giggled, the sound like a hiccup.

Sam, stretched out beside Liesa, propped herself up on an elbow and watched the scene unfold. She looked at Andy, gauging his readiness, then at Liesa, reading every microexpression of doubt and desire. Andy could feel her awareness like a third hand on his back, steady and reassuring.

He paused, giving Liesa one last out. “If you want to stop—”

She shook her head, almost violently. “No. Please. I want—” She trailed off, but her hips kept moving, guiding him, hungry for friction.

Andy slipped off his own boxers, pushing them down just far enough to get free. He positioned himself between her legs, careful, deliberate, letting her see every movement. Liesa watched him, her eyes wide, her mouth parted in an anxious little O. Andy hesitated, then pressed the tip of himself against her entrance, waiting for her to change her mind.

Instead, Liesa reached down, grabbed his ass, and yanked him forward.

The sensation was electric—hot and slick and impossibly tight. Liesa let out a gasp, her whole body shuddering at the initial stretch, but she didn’t wince or pull away. Andy buried himself slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully inside her. He kept his eyes on her face, searching for any sign of pain, but there was only raw, astonished pleasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Liesa muttered, and Andy almost laughed. He started to move, slow at first, then faster as she adjusted to him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and rocked her hips in a rhythm that was all want.

Sam leaned over and kissed Liesa, deep and slow, her tongue teasing at the corners of Liesa’s mouth. She cupped Liesa’s face in both hands, cradling her like something precious. “You’re doing amazing,” Sam whispered. “You feel so good, don’t you?”

Liesa nodded, unable to form words. Her hands scrabbled at Andy’s shoulders, then at Sam’s arms, as if she needed both of them to anchor her in place. Andy could feel the urge to dominate, to go hard and fast, but he throttled it back, matching his pace to Liesa’s breathing, to the little mewls and whimpers that escaped her lips.

Sam slipped out of her jeans, knees awkwardly splayed. When she was free, she scooted up the bed and lowered herself over Liesa’s head, straddling her face at an angle that provided her some privacy from Andy’s gaze, not that he would have looked. Liesa hesitated for a split second, but Sam reached down and stroked her hair, guiding her in. Liesa responded with a slow, deliberate lick, then another, learning the shape of Sam with her tongue. It was almost ceremonial, a ritual of trust.

Andy watched as Liesa opened to both of them, her body a conduit for their care and desire. He thrust into her, slow and steady, one hand gripping the back of her thigh, the other smoothing the hair from her forehead. Liesa moaned into Sam’s pussy, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and Sam let out a shaky laugh, fond and surprised.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Sam said, grinding down just a little, careful not to smother Liesa. She caught Andy’s gaze and, for the briefest moment, they shared a look of absolute, unguarded awe for the woman between them. Then Andy’s attention was yanked back to Liesa, who was all but thrashing now, her hands pawing at Sam’s ass and Andy’s chest in turn.

They found a rhythm, a kind of three-part harmony composed of gasps, slick heat, and the messy chorus of human want. Andy thrust harder, and Liesa responded in kind, her whole body tensing with the effort to take him deeper. Sam helped, using her hands and words to keep Liesa anchored, never letting her drift into fear or memory.

At some point, Andy felt himself getting close—too close. He fought it back, breathing hard, biting the inside of his cheek. Liesa seemed to sense it; she broke away from Sam for a second and pulled Andy down for another kiss, tongue insistent, almost ****.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t. He drove into her, each stroke more urgent than the last. Liesa’s body went rigid, then arched, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Sam reached between them, found Liesa’s clit, and rubbed it in tight, frantic circles. Liesa detonated around Andy, her orgasm ripping through her so violently that Andy could feel it, every twitch and spasm echoing in his own body.

He let himself go, burying his face in the curve of Liesa’s neck as he finally came. The world telescoped down to the three of them, to sweat and stickiness and the thrum of blood in his ears. He collapsed on top of her, careful not to crush her, and felt Liesa’s arms wrap around him, fierce and unyielding.

Sam slumped to the side, breathing hard, her face flushed and her hair wild. She reached for them, pulling Andy and Liesa into a loose, tangled pile. Liesa was crying again, but this time the tears were soft, almost soundless. Sam stroked her back, murmuring nonsense words, and Andy just held her, letting the silence stretch.

They lay like that, tangled and sticky, until their breathing returned to normal. Andy kissed Liesa’s forehead, then Sam’s, then let his head fall to the pillow.

Liesa giggled—an honest, delighted sound—and Sam joined in, both of them laughing until the air was soft and easy again.

When they’d calmed, Liesa slipped off the bed and padded to the bathroom. She returned a minute later, wearing only a pair of plain cotton underwear, her hair damp from the faucet. She climbed back onto the bed, curling up between Sam and Andy, her face buried in Andy’s chest, Sam’s arm draped over her back.

Andy stroked her hair, and watched her face, seeing in it, for the first time in years, the ghost of her innocence and the girl he had fallen in love with during college. He knew, then, with a certainty he had rarely felt before, that Liesa would be okay. That she and Sam would be fine.

They drifted, the three of them, half-asleep but wholly at peace.

IVA: Threesome (Instigator): +4 VP
First! x2
Liesa: Brought to Orgasm in front of the Master! +3 VP
First! x2
Liesa: Edging by the Master! +2 VP
First! x2
Liesa: Threesome (Participant): +3 VP

Andy shivered at the sound of rushing water.

He was back at the footbridge, the boards buckling under the weight of rain, the river a churning maw of black hunger beneath. Laura balanced on the railing, arms crucified against the storm, her blue dress a second skin revealing every tremor of her body. Her face contorted—tears streaming but jaw clenched in fury, her eyes not just pale but burning like acetylene flames in the darkness. She screamed something that tore through the downpour, but his legs had fused to the wood, muscles petrified. Then she plummeted—her body snapping downward as if yanked by invisible hooks—and his throat shredded itself raw with her name.

The sound ricocheted—first his voice, then Laura's shriek answering from below, then the water's thunderous jaws snapping shut.

For a heartbeat, the drowning figure transformed—no longer thirteen but fully grown, her beauty so complete it was terrible to witness. Her eyes locked on his, wild with animal terror, and then she vanished beneath the surface, fingers clawing at empty air, five white streaks of desperation disappearing into black nothing. He sprinted along the bank, muscles tearing, lungs bursting, but the distance between them stretched impossibly. His body betrayed him—legs leaden, feet sinking into mud that pulled like hands from the grave, refusing to let him follow her into that final darkness.

He woke with a gasp, sweat cold on his skin. Liesa was gone from the bed, but Sam was still there, curled on her side, breathing even and slow. In the half-light, Andy saw the painting of Katherine watching him from across the room. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he thought she might step out of the frame.

Instead, she lifted her hand in a wave, her eyes soft, kind. She made another gesture, bringing her hands together into a heart. It was heartbreaking, but it was enough.

Andy smiled, a small and battered thing, and nodded back.

He lay there, heart pounding, letting the memory of the dream drain out of him. When he finally fell asleep again, he dreamed of nothing at all.