Back at the booth

Emily's legs shook as she staggered back toward the VIP booth, the silvery fabric of her dress clinging awkwardly where she hadn't managed to reattach the torn strap properly. Behind her, Gold Ring's laughter rumbled low in his chest—a sound that vibrated through the hand he'd splayed possessively across the small of her back, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of her nonexistent panties. "Easy, princess," he murmured, steering her through the crowd with practiced ease, his thumb rubbing circles against the fresh bite marks Garrett had left on her hip. "Wouldn't want you to trip."

The booth loomed ahead like an island in a sea of pulsing neon, the leather upholstery gleaming under the club's strobe lights. Kevin sat exactly where they'd left him, his tie still perfectly knocked despite the whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. Reynolds had sprawled across the curved section, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a patch of graying chest hair, while Garrett lingered near the entrance like a sentry—his cold eyes tracking Emily's unsteady approach with something between amusement and hunger.

Kevin's gaze flickered over her disheveled state—the smeared lipstick, the way her dress gaped open where Gold Ring's fingers had torn the side seam in the bathroom. His jaw tightened imperceptibly when the younger man from the restroom—*Mitchell*, she'd heard Gold Ring call him—brushed past her to claim the spot beside Reynolds, his designer shoes kicking up to rest on the table right next to her abandoned champagne flute. The crystal stem snapped under his heel with a crisp *ping* that made Emily flinch.

"Christ," Reynolds chuckled, swirling his drink as he took in Emily's trembling form. "Looks like you boys worked her over good." His fingers—thick and calloused—hooked into the neckline of her dress, yanking her forward until her knees hit the edge of the table. The torn fabric gave way easily, pooling around her waist as the booth's cold air conditioning prickled against her sweat-slicked skin. Mitchell whistled low, reaching out to thumb at the bite mark blooming purple on her inner thigh. "Tastes as sweet as she looks, too."

Kevin's glass hit the table with a sharp *clink*. "Sit." It wasn't a suggestion. Emily hesitated—just for a second—before Gold Ring's hand between her shoulder blades shoved her forward onto Kevin's lap. The leather squeaked under her bare skin as she straddled him, her thighs still sticky with the evidence of what they'd done in the bathroom. Kevin's fingers dug into her hips, his thumbs brushing the fresh bruises Garrett had left as he pulled her flush against his chest. Up close, she could smell the bourbon on his breath, see the way his pupils dilated when her nipples brushed against his half-unbuttoned shirt.

The music pulsed through Emily's bones as Kevin's fingers traced the curve of her spine—too light, too slow, like he was mapping her shivers. Gold Ring had pressed a fresh glass into her hand—something clear and sharp that burned her throat—but Kevin took it from her trembling fingers before she could take a second sip. "Eyes on me," he murmured against her temple, his free hand slipping between her thighs to stroke the swollen flesh there. Emily's breath hitched at the contact, her hips jerking involuntarily as his fingertips brushed over Garrett's dried cum still clinging to her skin.

Garrett watched from across the booth with hooded eyes, his thumb dragging across his bottom lip as Kevin's fingers slid inside Emily without preamble. The stretch burned—she was sore, *overused*—but Kevin just tightened his grip on her waist and worked her open with slow, clinical precision. "Look at her," he said to no one in particular, curling his fingers in a way that made Emily's nails bite into his shoulders. "Still so fucking *greedy*." Mitchell laughed, swirling his drink as Reynolds leaned in to pinch Emily's nipple—hard enough to make her gasp.

Kevin withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, holding them up to the pulsing lights before pressing them against Emily's parted lips. "Clean them," he ordered, his voice barely audible over the bass. Emily hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before Garrett's hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back. "You heard him," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. Emily's tongue darted out instinctively, her lashes fluttering as she tasted herself—salt and musk and something faintly metallic. Kevin's thumb brushed her lower lip, his other hand guiding her hips down onto his cock with agonizing slowness.

The stretch was unbearable. Emily's thighs trembled as she sank onto him, her breath coming in ragged little pants as Kevin bottomed out with a groan. Garrett's grip in her hair tightened, forcing her to meet Kevin's darkened gaze as Reynolds leaned over to drag his tongue along her collarbone. "Fuck," Kevin hissed, his hips jerking upward without warning. Emily cried out—a broken little sound swallowed by the music—as Kevin's hands clamped down on her hips, holding her still while he fucked up into her with short, brutal thrusts.

Mitchell chuckled, palming himself through his slacks as Emily's back arched under the ****. "Like she was made for it," he mused, his fingers tracing the bruises Gold Ring had left on her inner thighs. Kevin didn't respond—just dragged Emily down harder onto his cock, his breath hot against her throat as Reynolds bit down on her shoulder. Emily's vision blurred, her body caught between pleasure and pain as Kevin's thrusts grew erratic, his fingers digging bruises into her hips.

Emily's whimper dissolved into a gasp as Kevin's fingers tightened around her throat, his thrusts losing rhythm as he neared his climax. The champagne haze and pulsing club lights blurred the edges of her vision, but she could still see the way Mitchell's tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched her—could still feel Reynolds' calloused fingers tracing the sticky mess between her thighs where Garrett had left his mark. "Jesus," Gold Ring muttered, rubbing himself through his slacks, "look at her. Like some fucking doll come to life."

Kevin's hips stuttered—once, twice—before he buried himself to the hilt with a groan that vibrated through Emily's ribs. The heat of his release flooded her, pulsing in time with the bass shaking the booth's leather seats. Mitchell leaned forward, his fingers gripping Emily's chin to tilt her face toward the strobe lights. Mascara streaked her cheeks in inky rivers, her lower lip swollen from where Garrett had bitten it earlier. "Even ruined," he breathed, thumbing away a tear, "she's fucking exquisite."

Garrett's laugh was a dark rumble against Emily's back as he reached around to squeeze her breasts, his thumbs brushing her peaked nipples. "Ruined?" He dragged a hand down her stomach, fingers sliding through the slick mixture of sweat and cum clinging to her skin. "This is what she was made for." His palm came away glistening, and without breaking eye contact, he licked a slow stripe across his fingers. Emily shuddered, her thighs clamping reflexively around Kevin's hips—a movement that made him groan and thrust upward weakly, still half-hard inside her.

Reynolds reached over to twist a lock of Emily's tangled blonde hair around his index finger, the gold of his signet ring catching the light. "Pretty little thing like this," he mused, his other hand trailing down to where she was still stretched around Kevin, "begging to be used." His fingertips brushed her oversensitive clit, and Emily jerked in Kevin's lap with a broken cry, her nails scraping against his forearms. Gold Ring whistled low, adjusting himself with a grimace. "Fuck. Even her *noises* are pretty."

Kevin finally pulled out with a wet sound, his cum dripping onto the leather beneath them. Emily swayed, her legs trembling, but Garrett caught her by the waist before she could collapse. "Not done with you yet, angel," he murmured, flipping her onto her hands and knees with effortless strength. The booth's leather was cool against her bare stomach, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her abused skin. Mitchell's fingers traced the curve of her spine appreciatively. "Look at the marks on her," he said, pressing a thumb into the bruise forming on her hip. "Like fucking art."