When the Dark Wins

“Well then come on over here, Lady Luck.” He offered the hand with the dice again, not moving away from the divider. “Let’s see how you do.”

She flung the blanket back in disgust and stood, ready to be done. Someone who sold their own was worse than any Covvie, no matter how convoluted their ideas.

In two strides she faced him and snatched a die from his hand. His fingers closed around the other.

“Ladies first.”

Let’s get lucky.

She rattled the die in her fist. Dropped it on the floor, glaring at him without looking down at her roll. He dipped his head with interest, craning to see the pips, and hissed through his teeth.

“Ooh, five,” he said, dripping enthusiasm. “Good one, Gambler.”

Buckeye glanced down to confirm, only to see his die tumble down beside the sole of his boot. Half a dozen black eyes stared back at her.

Shit.

August hummed satisfaction. “Tough break.” He was already stowing the pencil and notebook back in his rear pocket. A rough hand came to her shoulder. And pressure. “I’m gonna need to collect on this here win.”

The traitor was already shoving her down, working apart his belt. Her face was hot, as though something like this didn’t already happen nearly every day now.

But this was different. August knew what he was doing. There was something like innocence among the younger priests. Like they had no more control over their bodies than she did, their eyes glazed and overwhelmed when she met them in service. Only Mather managed to keep above it. And August, well … he was no innocent. Not by a mile.

He had his cock in hand, pulling it plump, crowding her against the divider even as she scuffled backward on her knees to avoid him. There was nowhere left to go when the back of her head met transparent wall, and August smeared semi-hard cock along the seam of her mouth.

“Go on.”

She closed her eyes. Let it happen.

Lips parted by rote, closing around meat. Drawing the rush of blood, the swelling of muscle with a busy tongue and suction. Her face close to the scrub of hair at his crotch reminded her what a luxury bathing was in The Vice.

Just get done. Get him off.

But August was not one of the priests, to just stand there and be serviced. His palm was on top of her head, boots spraddled on either side of her hips. He began stuffing his cock into her face like he was trying to hide it from enforcers.

Her eyes were wide above a garbled noise of surprise. Hands and feet scrabbled against floor, thighs, hard plastic wall at her back. A fist was in her hair, and her skull thumped against the dividing wall in a dull rhythm.

“There we go.” His voice floated down, a useless balm that did nothing to smooth the jerk of hips, the onslaught of battering flesh.

She sputtered around him. Her throat made continuous, percussive glottal noises. There was no way. No way to take more, but he had more. Had more and gave it, holding her head from both sides in splayed palms while her face turned red and her nose mashed into his lower belly.

When he pulled back, she heaved for air. Coughed. Had a full mouth again.

Just come. Just fucking come, already.

Delirium took over. Claws hooked into the cliff’s edge of the assault, taking her down. Survival mode.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

And then everything stopped.

She was panting. Blood pulsed into the ache at the back of her head, which would probably bruise beneath the hair. August came down on a knee, inches from her face, one lazy hand jacking his red prick

. She tried to make her eyes focus.

“Double or nothing,” he said, scooping the scattered die near her left leg with his free hand.

Buckeye blinked at him. Swallowed to soothe her throat.