Twin Babies for Rival Twins

Chapter 1

I woke up naked, tangled between two men, their heat still radiating against my skin like I’d been branded.

My skull throbbed, all was due to the costliest whiskey and cheapest decisions at The Elite Space. I could have said NO!

I’d been told to “serve the VIPs.” Turned out they were twins. The Arlingtons. Rivals in everything, even breathing.

They threw cash around like confetti, daring each other to spend more. Bottles of Macallan appeared and vanished; a single tip could have paid my rent for a year. Shots lined up, amber liquid disappearing down throats that barked clouts.

“I’m tougher,” one said.

“But I’m richer.”

“My private jet’s faster.”

“My penthouse has a better view.”

“You'd fall after the seventh round of shots.”

“Then let's see.”

I was told to keep serving the shots, until it all dissolved into slurred bets: “My d**k’s bigger.”

“I last longer than you do, Elias.”

Elias sneered, “Enzo, you couldn’t satisfy a stopwatch.”

Enzo shot back, “Elias, your boardroom stamina doesn’t translate to the bedroom.”

Then the leather-jacketed goon leaned in, he reeked of mixed booze, gold tooth gleaming: “Elias or Enzo—who’s got the biggest c**k, sweetheart?”

Elias stood up and undid his belt. I looked away.

Before I could breathe, Enzo laughed, low and dangerous. “Let’s find out.” Two hands—identical, calloused—grabbed mine. The rule was iron: never say no to an elite. I was dragged to the guest suite like a trophy.

I remembered every second. Hands. Mouths. Bodies. Both of them. Together. I’d let it happen. No, I wanted it.

My skin still carried their fingerprints. Elias behind me, driving in like he was closing a hostile takeover, each thrust a signature on a contract.

Enzo in front, hand fisted in my hair, guiding my mouth like it was his to command. I took them both, one in my throat, the other buried deep in my p***y. Then they changed.

“Jesus!”

I looked at them again.

“I did all that?”

I remembered how they flipped me like a page. Enzo’s tongue between my legs, merciless, circling until my hips bucked and I came so hard I bit my own wrist to stay quiet. That was where I lost it.

Elias tipped whiskey down my throat while Enzo ate me. The burn chasing away the last of my shame. “Good girl,” he’d murmured, voice velvet over steel.

Round after round, through positions I didn’t know had names, until I was drunk on them, on the way they looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.

I remembered saying… “Please…more

..” the words still echoed in my skull like a curse.

I hated how much I loved it. I hated that I’d begged.

“f**k!” Yes, f**k! That was all I did all night long.

The room stank of s*x and sweat. Semen dried in crusty patches on my thighs, between my breasts, in my hair, on my cheek, and more on my mound.

I slid out from under their arms, one heavy across my chest, the other flung over my hip. The sheets stuck to me. I peeled free, barefoot on cold marble, gathering clothes like evidence: panties ripped at the seam, dress crumpled under a tuxedo jacket that cost more than my tuition. My bra was missing entirely; I didn’t look for it.

I dressed in the hallway, fingers fumbling zippers, the mirror showing a girl I barely recognized with lips split, neck bruised purple, eyes too bright.

I ran into their midst and they turned. Oh f**k! Their men.

Two groups. One in suits sharp enough to cut glass, murmuring into earpieces. The other in sagging jeans and leather, cigarettes glowing like warning lights. Elias’s people. Enzo’s people. Same blood, different wars.

Their father—CEO by day, don by night—had split his empire down the middle and handed each son a blade.

A suit stepped forward. “How’s my boss?”

The leather jacket grinned, gold tooth flashing. “Yeah, sweetheart. Who’s got the bigger d**k?”

I stared at the floor. “They’re fine.” No answer to the second question. I pushed past, heels clicking too loud.

Outside, no cameras, thank God. I flagged a cab and slid in. “Just drive, please.”

The partition was up; the driver didn’t speak. I pressed my forehead to the cool window and let the city smear past in streaks of neon and exhaust. “What have I done?”

“Miss, where?”

“The dorm down the street.”

My regret came with the silence. I was nothing to them. A server. A one-night scoreboard. Elite Space hired hundreds of us. Girls with perfect teeth and desperate bank accounts, queuing for a single shift that paid more than a semester of textbooks.

I knew I would never see them again. They wouldn’t remember my name by breakfast. I was far beneath their stratosphere—Samantha Jones, community-college scholarship fat kid with thrift-store shoes and a mother who cleaned offices at 4 a.m. They’d forget me before the sheets were changed.

I pressed my lips together to prevent sobs. But the tears, they couldn't be stopped. Even though I blinked multiple times.

Matthew’s voice slithered in anyway. Three months ago, dorm-room fight, his last stab before he walked out: “No one’ll want you, Sam. Not with those hips. Those breasts. You’re built like a disappointment.”

I believed him. Skipped meals until my ribs showed. Wore hoodies in July. Then two billionaires had mapped every curve with their tongues like they were charting new continents. They’d groaned my name like it was currency.

I pressed my thighs together; the ache between them pulsed in memory. Regret tasted metallic. I should have said no. I Should have run when they grabbed my hands. I should have remembered I was disposable.

Instead I’d arched into them, whispered filth I didn’t know I knew, come apart so many times I lost count. I hated how alive it made me feel. I hated that I wanted to do it again.

The cab lurched to a stop outside the dorm. I paid in crumpled bills and stumbled up three flights. My room smelled like ramen and regret. I showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing until my skin was raw, but the scent of them lingered in my hair.

***

Weeks blurred. Finals. Library carrels. My body turned traitor; breasts swollen, stomach roiling at the smell of tuna. I blamed exam's stress, deadlines, the ghost of Matthew’s smirk. Then the world tilted mid-essay, black spots blooming, then nothing.

I woke up in the clinic, fluorescent lights humming like hornets. The matron loomed, chart in hand, face carved from judgment.

“Found expired birth control in your room,” she said. “Careless. You’re three weeks pregnant, Samantha Jones.”

The air left my lungs in a soundless scream. Three weeks. Elite Space. The twins. And the contraceptive, “What! Expired?”

“Yes, Sam. I guess the baby wants to come,” she said and flashed teeth I wished I could punch.

I pressed a palm to my stomach. Nothing yet—just the ghost of a flutter. Elias or Enzo—didn’t matter. “I'm f****d!” Yes, you're f****d, Samantha.