Bad Girl (Temp.) - Chapter 8 - Three's a Crowd

May - New York - Angel and Mark

When Angel landed at JFK, she expected the usual circus—paparazzi, a blacked-out car, maybe even a snide remark from Mark’s driver. Instead, there was just Victoria, waiting with a sign that said “Welcome Home, Angel.”

Victoria hugged her. Not the cold, European double-tap she’d grown used to, but a full-body squeeze that threatened to crack a rib.

“He’s at the penthouse,” Victoria said, and gave her a look. “Don’t be nice. He’s impossible lately.”

The car ride into Manhattan was fast and silent. The city outside felt changed—no, she felt changed. Every building, every angry horn blast, every gaudy billboard was sharper, more alive.

Mark met her at the door. He wore a suit that fit better than any she’d ever owned, and he looked—fuck, he looked good.

Angel laughed and let him fuss over her, but she was busy taking in the penthouse. It looked the same, but also not: sharper, cleaner, the vibe less spartan and more “hyperfunctional.” The kitchen table was covered in binders, legal pads, and what looked like a hand-drawn flowchart of every executive’s weaknesses.

She whistled. “You’ve been busy.”

Mark shrugged, but he couldn’t hide the pride. “Did a little spring cleaning.”

“Just a little?”

He led her to the living room, pointed at an organization chart. “See this?”

“Yeah?”

“Got rid of half the board. Replaced them with people who actually give a shit.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “You got rid of Jane?”

“She quit before I could. Said she ‘didn’t feel challenged.’” Mark scoffed, then poured them both a drink. “I’m not playing anymore, Angel. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it my way.”

Angel sipped her bourbon, let it burn all the way down. She wondered if just the act of meeting his mother could have caused all this. “You sound just like me.”

Mark grinned. “Maybe I learned from the best.”

They sat, side by side, looking at the skyline.

“What about you?” he asked.

Angel leaned back. “It was… good. Hard, but good. The women are the same everywhere, you know? Same fears, same hustle, same stories.”

For a while, they just sat, the hum of the city filling the silence.

Then, Mark stood. “Come with me.”

They took the private lift to the garage. Parked at the center, under a spotlight, was a brand-new Ducati Monster in Ducati Red.

She stopped dead. “You’re kidding.”

“You like bikes, right? “

Angel snorted. “Like? I’d marry one if I could.”

Mark explained. “Tom gave me the Honda when we together so that we could go on road trips but most of the time I preferred to ride with him. The rest of the time, it stayed where you found it.”

She picked up the key, feeling its weight. “You’re not worried I’ll kill myself?”

Mark shrugged. “It’s safer than what you did in London. Besides, I got the one with ABS. And I hired a guy to tune it so it’s impossible to wheelie.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “You really know how to kill a buzz.”

Mark tossed her the keys. “Consider it an investment in your happiness. Also, in not dying of boredom. But you have to promise that you’ll take the car once you start showing.”

Angel walked around the bike, ran her hand along the seat, the engine, the gleaming paint. It was smaller and lighter than the bikes she would have chosen when she was a man but it was perfect for a woman her size. Then she kissed him, hard, and for a second neither of them spoke.

Then, Mark said, “There’s one more thing.”

He led her upstairs, to his office. On the desk, a manila envelope with her name. Inside: banking forms, a debit card, and a number. Seven digits, left of the decimal.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding. I want you to have options. And, as you like to remind me every other week, it was your money to begin with.”

That was a slight exaggeration but there was no reason for Mark to do this under the circumstances. Angel set the glass down and looked him straight in the eye. “I thought you liked control.”

Mark hesitated. “I’m learning.”

Angel laughed, then wiped her eyes. “You bastard. You’re not allowed to be this nice.”

Mark smiled, slow and wolfish. “Who says I’m being nice? I just want to see what you do with it.”

She pocketed the key fob. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Mark said. “If you want to leave, you can. But I hope you’ll stay.”

Angel let the silence stretch, the invitation unspoken.

Finally, she said, “I’ll think about it. But you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

May -New York - Haven House - Angel

One week later, Angel found herself standing outside the battered door of Haven House, the very shelter she’d once tried to bulldoze as Mark. Funny how the world worked.

She knocked, then let herself in. The manager, an ex-nun named Moira, was sitting in the tiny lobby with a clipboard and an expression of permanent skepticism.

“You’re early,” Moira said, a note of surprise in her tone.

Angel grinned. “I’m still on London time.”

Moira gestured at the whiteboard on the wall. “You’re on breakfast, then you can decide where you want to slot in for the first few days.”

The job at Haven House wasn’t glamorous, and that was the point. Angel swept floors, refilled coffee, taught self-defense classes in the dingy basement gym. She helped clean up after the regulars—wine drunk at 9am, panic attack at noon, brawl over the last Mars bar at three. For once, her work wasn’t about control. It was about survival, and sometimes even a little grace.

Moira, let Angel do as she pleased in the first week. “You want to teach yoga, teach yoga. You want to run the food bank, run it. We’re short on people everywhere.”

Moira never asked about the money that suddenly started showing up in the shelter’s account, or why the building repairs got fast-tracked, or why the old heating system was replaced overnight.

It was a late Thursday when the new girl showed up. Fourteen, maybe, hair shaved on one side and a busted lip. She said her name was “Gem,” and she wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. Angel recognized the look: feral, half-starved, waiting for someone to kick her out or worse.

Angel made her a peanut butter sandwich and let her eat it in the supply closet. No questions, no lectures.

After a while, Gem crept out, clutching the empty plate. “You really work here?” she asked.

Angel nodded. “I do.”

Gem stared at the tattoo snaking up Angel’s arm. “Did it hurt?”

Angel smiled. “Yeah. But not as much as not having it.”

Gem smirked, the universal language of teenage contempt. But she came back the next day. And the day after that.

By week’s end, she was helping in the kitchen, rolling her eyes at the grownups, and making rude gestures behind Moira’s back. Angel laughed quietly. She’d been that kid. Maybe she still was.

On Fridays, Angel ran the “job club” for the residents. It was mostly a way to get them to update their CVs, but it also gave her a chance to scope out anyone with skills worth stealing.

That’s how she met Kate Chen—Kate Chen, the only resident who wore pressed blouses and quoted Schopenhauer during chores. She’d arrived two weeks ago, eyes glassy, speaking only when forced. Kate had the posture of someone who’d spent too long in front of a computer, and the eyes of someone who’d lost a bet with life. She wore battered Nikes and a hoodie two sizes too big. Her accent was kind of posh, but her demeanor was pure zero-fucks.

She sat down at Angel’s table and said, “So, what’s your story?”
Angel shrugged. “Ex-dancer. Currently a billionaire’s fiancée. Now I make sandwiches for delinquents.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “You ever do any coding?”

“A little,” Angel lied. “Why?”

“I need help with something,” Kate said. She slid a laptop across the table, screen already open to a directory of court documents and unread emails.

Angel scanned the files. “What am I looking at?”

“My old life,” Kate said. “I used to design analytics software for healthcare. Got into a car accident, lost my job, husband cleaned out my savings while I was in the hospital. Now I’m fighting for the rights to my own code, but no one will touch me with a ten-foot pole.”

Angel scrolled through the legal briefs. It was a nightmare: NDAs, predatory contracts, restraining orders. Classic Mark Steele playbook.

Angel’s hands started to shake.

Kate noticed. “You okay?”

Angel stared at the screen. “What company did this to you?”

Kate named it. Angel felt a cold sweat break out. She remembered the acquisition, remembered the gleeful boardroom chatter, remembered the deal memo: “Move fast, break them, settle out of court if they complain.”
Kate kept talking. “I’ve tried every legal aid in the city. They all say the same thing—‘impossible.’ But I can’t let it go. That’s my code. My life.”
Angel closed the laptop, barely able to breathe. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I think I did this to you.”

Kate blinked. “You? You’re what, the janitor?”

For the first time since the swap, Angel broke. She sobbed, loud and ugly, right there in the rec room. She cried for Kate, for Clara, for every person she’d trampled on the way up. She cried for herself.

When she finally stopped, Kate passed her a tissue. “You know, most people don’t cry for me. They just offer platitudes and fuck off. It was just business. Men like Mark Steele always win. I was stupid to forget that.”

Angel’s chest squeezed. “You were never stupid.”

Kate blinked, once, then twice, like she’d been hit.

Angel reached out, touched her hand. “I mean it.”

Kate stared at their hands, then at Angel. For a second, her whole face changed—softer, almost human. “Thank you.”

Angel laughed, shaky. “Also, I’m not most people.”

Kate grinned. “Good. Because I have a plan.”

She pulled up the laptop again, and together, they started drafting an appeal. They sat together until Moira called them for lunch.

The flu hit Angel two days later, hard and fast. It started with chills, then fever, then the kind of headache that made her want to punch God.

She tried to work through it—made coffee, ran meetings, even went on a food bank run—but by day three she could barely see straight.

She hid out in her room, bundled under a blanket, riding the fever. She dreamed of drowning in a bathtub full of soup, of Mark shaking her awake, of her mother’s face on the far side of the glass. She woke to someone wiping her forehead. At first, she thought it was Maud, or Moira, but then she heard the voice.

“You’re burning up.”

It was Mark. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding a mug of broth and a washcloth. He looked terrified, which was funny, because Angel had never seen him scared of anything.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Angel croaked.

He grinned, but it was shaky. “Too bad.”

He helped her sit up, fed her the soup, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. Every touch was gentle, careful. Angel wanted to joke, but the tears came instead, hot and stupid.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered.

Mark pulled her close, stroked her hair. “I know.”

She clung to him, trembling. “Don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone.”

He kissed her temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They stayed like that, Angel falling in and out of sleep, Mark never leaving her side.

In the morning, the fever broke. Angel woke, sweaty and shaking, but alive. Mark was still there, asleep in the chair, chin on his chest, snoring like a bear. She watched him, heart pounding, then laughed—quiet, grateful, amazed. She reached out, touched his hand. He woke, eyes bleary, then smiled.

“Still an asshole,” Angel said, voice raspy.

Mark grinned. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Angel squeezed his hand. “No, I wouldn’t.”

They sat together, the sun coming up through the dirty window, lighting the whole room gold.

May - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

Two weeks later, the penthouse was packed with people Angel didn’t recognize. Mark had thrown an “open house” for the new regime—a meet-and-greet for board members, lawyers, and the handful of survivors from the last management cull.

Angel spent the first hour on the balcony, working through a three gins and watching the city pulse below. The noise inside was a wall of white teeth and expensive perfume, punctuated by the occasional nervous laugh.

As the guests were leaving, she spotted Lena by the bar, dressed in a sharp blue dress, hair loose for once. She looked more relaxed than Angel had ever seen her.

Angel walked over. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “I like to keep you guessing.”

Angel laughed. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

Lena hesitated, then shrugged. “Lead the way.”

They went upstairs, to the second-story library. Angel hadn’t lost her taste for collectibles but there was a slight difference this time.

She led Lena to a shelf and pointed. “Look familiar?”

Lena read the spines. “The Sheik. Forever Amber. The Flame and the Flower… Jesus, you’ve got the whole scandal section.”

Angel grinned. “I prefer ‘classics.’.”

Lena pulled out the copy of The Sheik. “This is a first edition. Where did you get it?”

“eBay. I got in a bidding war with someone named ‘Sultana69.’”

“Pfft, people underestimate romance novels. They’re a window into what people really want.”

Angel nodded. “What do you want, Lena?”

She thought for a minute. “I want to run something. To build something. Maybe not as big as Steele, but mine.”

“You’d be good at it,” Angel said.

Lena put the book back, turned. “Why did you bring me here, really?”

Angel exhaled. “I wanted to say sorry. For the way I…Mark treated you. You deserved better.”

Lena looked at her puzzled. “Thank you, but that had nothing to do with you. And he’s changed, I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because of you.”

“I still have to own what came before.”

Lena touched her hand. They stood, just breathing, for a minute.

Then Lena grinned. “I should get back before they start a coup.”

Angel smiled. “Please stay. You ever read ‘Bared to You’?”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Hasn’t everyone? Is that filed between Conrad and Dostoyevsky?”

“I see you know my filing system.” Angel pulled the limited first edition off the shelf, handed it to her. “It’s yours.”

Lena took it, a real smile this time. “You’re impossible.”

Angel winked. “So are you.”

They didn’t go back to the party. Instead, Angel took some wine out from the fridge and they both sat down on the large couch which dominated the reading area.

Soon Lena was halfway through her second glass of wine and deep into a diatribe about alpha males, which was either meant to be flirtation or a warning.

Angel listened, legs folded under her, chin on her fist. “Explain it to me again. Why the billionaire fixation? Not that I’m judging—just, you know, data gathering.”

“Oh, so you were just lying to me previously, trying to get in my good books,” Lena hiccupped. “You don’t actually like billionaire romances.”

“Nah,” Angel said, with the smile of confidence trickster. “I’m good with the whole billionaire thing. I’m just asking the expert.”

Lena smirked. “You want the short version or the meta-analytic?”

“Hit me with both. I’ll choose later.”

Lena eyed her. “Okay. Short version: it’s escapism. Who wouldn’t want to spend a couple hundred pages somewhere that isn’t here? It’s about luxury, possibility, no ceiling on what life can give you.”

“Money solves everything, huh.”

“Not everything. But it takes care of the boring problems so you can focus on the good ones, like sex and identity and whether you’re emotionally available enough to survive a weekend in the Hamptons.”

Angel grinned. “You ever been to the Hamptons?”

“I once dated a hedge fund guy who had a house there,” Lena said. “He made me sign an NDA about what happened in the sauna. Spoiler: It wasn’t that interesting.”

Angel sipped her wine. “So it’s about escaping poverty? Or just escaping.”

“Both,” Lena said. “But it’s also about security. If you grew up with money, you can afford to find it distasteful. If you didn’t, it’s oxygen. It’s the difference between ‘helicopter boyfriend whisks me away’ and ‘can I pay my rent.’”

Angel nodded. “So the fantasy is someone who handles the world for you.”

Lena shrugged. “At first, maybe. But the real trick is power. Every one of those books has a moment when the billionaire melts for the protagonist—like, really loses it. The all-powerful man brought low by ordinary love. It’s addictive.”

Angel made a face. “Sounds like a weird kink for emotional labor.”

Lena laughed. “It is. It’s also a kink for seeing the unseeable: the hidden heart, the private weakness. All the money in the world, but you’re the only one who can make him beg.”

Angel considered this. “There’s something a little medieval about it.”

“There is something medieval about all of it,” Lena said. “Alright, let’s break this down, shall we?” Lena leaned in, her glass of wine glinting in the low light. “The whole Cinderella thing—classic, right? Some nobody gets swept off her feet by a rich dude, and bam! She’s living the high life. It’s like fairy tales for adults.”

Angel chuckled, swirling her own drink. “Yeah, but it’s not just about the glass slipper. It’s about the idea that love can leap over social walls like they’re nothing. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, doesn’t it?”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Warm and fuzzy? Sure. But let’s not forget the empowerment angle. These heroines aren’t just sitting there waiting for their prince. They challenge him, set boundaries, and sometimes even put him in his place. It’s like taming a wild stallion, but with more emotional baggage.”

Angel leaned back, thinking. “I always figured those stories were kind of regressive. The hero does all the work, the girl just waits to be swept away.”

Lena shook her head. “Not the good ones. The best heroines push back. They don’t just accept the world, they reshape it. They make the billionaire play by their rules. They don’t just roll over. They’ve got integrity! They’re like, ‘I’m not here to be your trophy, buddy.’”

Angel mimicked a sassy hand gesture, making Lena laugh. “Like training a dangerous animal. But sexy.”

“Exactly,” Lena said, raising her glass. “But with better sex and more penthouses.”

Angel was silent for a moment, thinking about the great sex. “Is it weird that I kind of get it now? After everything?”

Lena smiled. “No. It’s only weird if you pretend you’re not the main character. Actually, even when you’re not.”

Angel shot her a look. “You always see through people like that?”

“Only the ones I like,” Lena slurred, leaning closer to Angel. “And don’t get me started on the forbidden love aspect. You know, the taboo stuff? The power dynamics are all kinds of messy, which makes it feel so much more intense. Like, ‘Ooh, can we really do this?’”

Angel felt her cheeks flush. “So, what’s the appeal for the billionaire? Why do they always fall for the ‘ordinary’ girl?”

Lena snorted. “Because she’s not a threat to his power, but she’s the only thing he can’t buy. She’s reality. And she always calls him on his bullshit.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “That’s the feminist take?”

“That’s the human take,” Lena said. ”Who doesn’t want to feel like they’re the center of someone’s universe? It’s like being wrapped in a cashmere blanket made of desire. But let’s be real—some women aren’t into this billionaire fantasy. It can be problematic, you know? All that power imbalance and gender stereotype crap. Control, possessiveness—where’s the line between passion and toxicity? It’s a fine line, my friend.”

“And yet,” Angel said, leaning closer, “the genre is evolving. We’re seeing female billionaires, equal partnerships, and critiques of wealth. It’s about time!”

“Cheers to that!” Lena clinked her glass against Angel’s, grinning. “Let’s rewrite those fairy tales, one drunken conversation at a time.”

They sat in silence for a while, the air thick with subtext.

Angel broke it. “You know, you could write one of these.”

Lena grinned. “I’d rather live it.”

They laughed, together. Angel felt the echo of it in her chest, unexpected and bright.

“So,” Lena said, “which one are you? The billionaire, or the love interest?”

Angel didn’t hesitate. “Both. And neither.”

Lena nodded. “Welcome to the club.”

They toasted, and the conversation drifted to other things, but Angel held onto that answer for a long time.

Lena was the first to cross the line.

It was barely midnight and the city was still singing with the afterglow of the party downstairs, but up there—where the only audience was the ghosts of bad decisions—she moved in slow, magnetic circles around Angel.

It started with a simple dare. “You ever been with a woman?” Lena asked.

Angel hesitated, and Lena saw it. “Not really,” Angel said. “Not before, and not like this.”

“Want to learn?” Lena’s hand was already on Angel’s knee, pressing through the silk of the dress. Lena kissed her. There was nothing hesitant about it.

Angel pulled her close, tasting red wine and lipstick. It was a good kiss, hungry and needy. She wasn’t sure if it was the magic, or the nostalgia. She didn’t care. They stumbled backward to the couch, kissing like teenagers, and Lena’s hands were suddenly everywhere—at her collarbone, sliding down the front of her dress, cupping her breast. She pinched Angel’s nipple hard, and Angel gasped.

“You’re so sensitive,” Lena whispered, kissing her ear.

Angel shuddered. “You’re good at this,” she breathed.

“I practice,” Lena said, her voice a dare and a promise.

She cupped Angel’s breast again, thumbed the nipple through the fabric, watched as Angel’s eyes went glassy. “You want more?”

Angel nodded, mute.

Lena slid her hand under the dress, over the waistband of Angel’s panties, pressed until she felt the slick heat. She watched Angel’s face, fascinated by every twitch, every surrender. “You like being touched by a woman?”

Angel moaned. “I like being touched by you.”

Lena kissed her again, then moved down, mouth open on Angel’s neck, her collarbone, licking a slow path to the rise of her breast. She pushed the dress down, bit the nipple, smiled at the sound Angel made—half gasp, half whine.

She pulled back for a second, breath ragged. “Do you want him to watch?” Lena nodded at the doorway.

Angel turned to look. She didn’t care. She wanted everything.

Mark was standing in the doorway, frozen.

Lena beckoned. “You coming, big man?”

He crossed the room in three steps. The old Mark would have made a joke or a power play. This Mark stood, reverent, hands trembling. They shifted, legs entangled, Angel’s dress bunched her waist, Lena’s hair wild across her face. Mark watched, breathing hard.

Angel looked at him, her eyes black with want. “You want to join?”
He nodded.

Lena pulled him down. She kissed him, full on the mouth, then turned and kissed Angel, letting Mark watch their tongues dance, the way Lena bit Angel’s lip, the way Angel clung to her like she’d drown without it.

Mark watched, then did what he’d always wanted to do: he took control.

He put his hand on Lena’s thigh, felt the muscle there, the slight tremble. He slid it up, found her wet already, stroked her through the fabric of her panties until she moaned into Angel’s mouth.

Then he turned to Angel, cupped her jaw, kissed her with all the pent-up need he had. She melted into him, opened her mouth, let him taste her. He palmed her breast, squeezed hard enough to make her gasp. Then he felt Lena’s hand join his, the two of them kneading and teasing Angel until she was shaking. He could feel the way her body responded—how her breath hitched and her back arched. He knew every inch of her body—every sensitive spot, every hidden valley—and he used that knowledge to his advantage.

With a knowing glance, Lena guided Mark's hands lower, gently positioning them to explore Angel's slick heat.

He smiled against Angel’s skin as his hands slid under her dress, pushing it up and out of the way. The cool air caressed Angel's thighs, making goosebumps erupt along her skin. Then Mark's fingers danced over her stockings, tracing delicate patterns. Finally, he reached her lace panties, soaked through with desire. He hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric and slowly, agonizingly, pulled them down her legs.

Angel lifted her hips, eager to be rid of the barrier between them. When her bare skin met the cool upholstery of the day bed, a shiver coursed through her. Mark's breath was hot against her inner thigh as he moved closer. Angel's heart raced as she anticipated where he would go next. She felt his lips brush against her mound, and her eyes closed as Mark's tongue parted her folds, teasing her labia with feather-light touches.

He knew how much she loved this—how her body would tremble and her hips would twist in response. Then he focused on that sensitive bud, alternating between soft, deliberate strokes and quick, electrifying flicks that made her gasp. Her hips instinctively bucked toward him, seeking more of that exquisite sensation. He wrapped his lips around her clitoris, sucking gently, drawing out the sweet moans that escaped her mouth. The heat built inside her, coiling tighter with every swirl of his tongue, every flick that sent her spiraling closer to the edge.

"Oh, God," Angel moaned, her fingers tangling in the couch cushions.

Her back arched, and a whimper escaped her lips, the tension mounting until it became unbearable. “Mark, please… I’m so close,” she gasped, her body trembling with anticipation.

Just as Angel teetered on the brink of release, Mark withdrew, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched her writhe in frustration.

“Not yet,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. She whimpered, her body desperate for the sweet release he had nearly given her.

“Tell me how it feels,” he commanded, his fingers still hovering near her, teasing but never satisfying. Angel's back arched, frustration mingling with desire as she struggled to articulate the sensations coursing through her.

“Mark, please… I need to—”

“Need to what?” he interrupted, his tone playful yet unyielding. “I want to hear you beg.”

"You're evil," she panted.

He grinned against her neck. "I know."

“Tell him what he wants to hear,” Lena encouraged, caressing Angel’s hair, trailing her fingers along the curve of Angel’s left breast. Angel didn’t want to give him that pleasure; or maybe she did.

Mark returned to his ministrations, his mouth brushing against Angel’s inner thigh, teasingly slow. He could feel the tension building in her body again, the way her muscles tightened in anticipation. Then with a gentle kiss, his tongue swirled around her clit, sending shockwaves of ecstasy through her. Angel moaned and pressed her cunt against his lips as he expertly worked her, alternating between soft licks and firm suction.

Lena joined in, her hands deftly working Angel’s breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples as Mark continued below. The combination of sensations overwhelmed Angel, her body trembling as she teetered on the edge.

Then Mark’s fingers replaced his tongue, sliding inside her, curving upward to find her G-Spot. His other hand massaged her clitoris, his thumb applying just the right amount of pressure.

"Mark," she moaned, her toes curling. "I'm so close... I'm going to..."

Angel's hips were bucking off the couch involuntarily.

"Oh, fuck, Mark," she cried out, her toes curling. "I can't... I can't take it anymore!"

“Just let go, babe,” Lena murmured, her voice sultry and coaxing.

With one final, deliberate flick, Mark pushed Angel over the precipice. Angel cried out, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave, her body convulsing in pure bliss. Lena cradled her gently, stroking her hair and whispering soothing words.

As the waves of ecstasy subsided, Lena leaned in closer, her breath warm against Angel's ear. “Now it’s your turn, babe,” she murmured, a playful glint in her eyes. Lena turned, knelt on the couch, and reached for Mark’s zipper. She freed his cock, already hard, and looked at Angel with a wicked grin. “You want to see what you’ve been missing?”

Angel nodded. Lena licked the head, slow, then took him in her mouth, inch by inch, until her nose pressed against his skin. She came off with a pop, and let Angel have the next turn.

Angel hesitated, her heart racing as she knelt before Mark, a swirl of nerves and excitement tumbling in her stomach. This was uncharted territory; she had never been in this position before, and the sight of him—his body, so familiar yet foreign—made her pulse quicken. She licked her lips, unsure of what to expect. Lena’s presence beside her felt like a lifeline.

“Ah… so you’ve never done this before. Interesting,” Lena whispered. “Just relax,” her voice smooth and coaxing. “Take your time. Start slow.”

Angel nodded, but her hands trembled slightly as she reached for Mark. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. The texture was unlike anything she had imagined, so different in her small hands—smooth yet firm, overwhelming in its presence. She glanced up at Mark, who watched her with a mix of curiosity and desire, and that made her feel strangely powerful.

“Now, use your tongue,” Lena instructed, leaning closer to demonstrate. “You want to tease him a bit. Just flick it along the tip like this.”

Angel mimicked Lena’s movements, her tongue darting out tentatively. The salty taste hit her with unexpected intensity, and she fought a wave of uncertainty. Would she even like this? What if she didn’t? But as she focused on Mark’s reactions—his breath hitching, his eyes darkening—something inside her shifted.

“Good… Just like that,” Lena encouraged, softly but eagerly, her tone filled with enthusiasm. “Now, take him deeper. Don’t be afraid to use your hands too.”

Taking a deep breath, Angel steadied herself. She opened her mouth wider, letting Mark slide further in. The sensation was strange and exhilarating, a mix of power and vulnerability. She could feel the weight of him on her tongue, the way he pulsed against her, and it sent a shiver of arousal down her spine.

Thoughts raced through her mind—why was she doing this? She’d read that women engaged in this to please their partners, to enhance intimacy. Was that what she was doing? Or was there something more? Was she really just trying to connect with Mark, to show him how much she cared?

But as she continued, she realized it was more than that. The taste, the texture, the control—she felt empowered in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The way Mark responded to her, the way his body tensed and relaxed under her touch, fueled her desire. She found herself getting lost in the rhythm, the push and pull of pleasure that coursed between them.

“See? You’re getting the hang of it,” Lena praised, her voice a sultry murmur. “Just follow your instincts. Let yourself enjoy it.”

Angel glanced up at Mark again, and the heat in his gaze sent a thrill through her.

She had once been a powerful man, but now, kneeling here, she was something entirely different—vulnerable yet strong, a woman discovering her own desires. The realization washed over her; she was turned on by this—the connection, the intimacy, the way she could bring him pleasure. With each movement, she embraced this new side of herself, the awkwardness fading as she surrendered to the moment. She was no longer just giving a blow job; she was exploring a part of herself she never knew existed.

Mark watched them, power coursing through him, every touch magnified. He could last forever, he realized. He had prepared for this moment since his first encounter with Angel. He’d never felt so in control of his own body—or anyone else’s.

He pulled them both up, kissed them, then bent Lena over the couch, her body partially supported by Angel, pulled her panties aside, and slid into her in one slow, careful thrust. Lena arched, bit Angel’s shoulder, moaned against her neck.

Angel watched, eyes wide, feeling Lena’s hot gasps against her cheek, and unconsciously moved her hand between her legs, rubbing herself as Mark fucked Lena slow and deep.

Lena’s orgasm was a riot, a whole-body shudder that left her limp and giggling, biting Angel’s nipple so hard she almost screamed. Mark kept going, slower, deeper, letting her come down. Then Angel pulled Lena off, knelt between Mark’s legs, and took his cock in her mouth again.
“Your turn,” Lena whispered.

Angel grinned, and Mark didn’t hesitate. He gently pushed Angel onto her back, and slid into her, her slickness making it effortless. She was so wet it was obscene. She gasped, legs around his waist, nails raking down his back. Lena knelt beside her on the couch, kissing her neck and toying with her nipples while whispering filth into her ear. When Angel came, her hips lifted off the couch, her toes curled, mouth open in a hoarse cry.

Mark continued to thrust into her but knew he was close. He pulled out at the last second, and came in hot, pulsing jets all over Angel’s stomach, then Lena’s hand, then the couch. The sight of it made both women laugh. Then they leaned in to tease Mark’s still firm penis, sharing it between their tongues. When Mark was done, they collapsed in a heap, Mark between them, sweaty and messy and utterly happy.

For a while, nobody spoke. Just the sounds of breathing, and the city humming below.

Then Lena said, “I needed that.”

Angel grinned. “Me too.”

Mark wrapped his arms around both of them, feeling like a king and a pet all at once. He looked at Angel, then at Lena.

Lena whispered, “So, what’s the moral of the story?”

Mark kissed her, then Angel. “There’s always room for one more?”

Angel laughed, wiped her mouth, and said, “You’re such a fucking man.”

“Let’s do this again,” he said, panting.

Angel nodded.

“Deal,” Lena said.

They drifted off, tangled together, hearts pounding, all the old pain burned away in the heat of something new.