Their thighs pressed against his—warm, soft, deliberate heat bleeding through the thin fabric of his pants. Victoria's right leg draped half over his, the pleated skirt riding so high the black lace garter strap dug into the plush swell of her thigh, creating that obscene indent where flesh yielded and lace claimed.
Nastya's left thigh mirrored it—full, trembling slightly, the stocking top biting deep enough that a faint red line already bloomed beneath the sheer black nylon.
Both skirts were hiked shamelessly, the short pleats fanned open like dark invitations, flashing the soaked black lace thongs beneath.
Phei didn't flinch.
Even pinned between their bodies like a butterfly mounted for display—criminal skirts trapping him, heavy breasts brushing his arms with every breath, nipples hard and scraping through cropped hoodies—he just sat there.
