Three some

The leash and the mirror

The rope between her wrists yanked taut, and Zoe's body slid off the bed before her knees hit the floor. The carpet scraped her skin, a dull burn traveling up her thighs as Lucas dragged her forward, the rope held in one fist like a leash. Her palms pressed flat against the floor, trying to slow herself, but he just pulled harder, her nails catching on the fibers.

Through the bathroom doorway. Past the sink. Until her reflection swam in the steamed mirror and Lucas stopped, the rope going tight. Her knees ached from the crawl. The condensation on the glass blurred her shape into something abstract — dark hair, pale skin, a body marked and trembling.

"Up."

She didn't move fast enough. His hand found her hair, fistful of it at the nape, and jerked her head back. Her spine arched, her throat exposed, and she was looking at herself now. Forced. Her brown eyes wide in the mirror, the steam beginning to streak where her breath hit the glass.

Lucas's other hand came up. He wiped his palm across her cheek — slow, deliberate — smearing the drying c*m on her skin into a gloss. Her mascara had bled into dark crescents under her eyes. Her lips were swollen, split at one corner, the color rubbed off from sucking his c**k. Her hair was a nest of tangles, strands stuck to her cheek with saliva and sweat.

"See that?" His voice dropped, low and warm, almost tender. His hand slid from her hair down the side of her neck, fingers spreading to cup her throat — not squeezing yet. Just resting there, his thumb against her pulse point. "That's what a used slut looks like."

Zoe's throat moved under his palm. Her eyes stayed on the mirror. On the woman in the glass who couldn't be her — but was. The ropes around her wrists, the red marks blooming on her olive skin, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, fast breaths. She looked wrecked. She looked like she'd been taken apart and not put back together yet.

Lucas's thumb pressed against her windpipe — just a hint of pressure. Enough to make her breathing catch, her vision narrow. Her hands came up instinctively, fingers brushing his forearm, but she didn't push. She held. Like she was steadying herself on him.

"Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. His eyes found hers in the mirror. "You've never looked better, have you?"

Her lips parted. No sound came out — she had no sound to give. But her hand moved from his forearm to the wrist of the hand on her throat, her fingers curling around his skin. Not pulling. Holding. Like an answer.

Behind them, a shadow filled the doorway.

Ryan leaned against the frame, still naked. His c**k hung soft and half-hard between his legs, a smear of her wetness and his c*m drying on his thigh. His pale blue eyes moved over the scene with lazy interest — her on her knees, Lucas's hand on her throat, the mirror holding all of it.

He scratched his stubble, the rasp loud in the quiet. "She looks good like that."

Lucas didn't look away from Zoe's reflection. "She does."