Happy Valentines Day

The rain-slicked streets of the city felt like a gauntlet, but the hallway of the luxury high-rise was worse. It was too quiet.

Vixen smoothed her dress—a blood-red silk that cost more than her first car—and checked her reflection. Her makeup was a mask, her heels were weapons, and her heart was a riot.

The Chicago skyline was a jagged wall of diamond and obsidian outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but Vixen barely saw it. All day, the date on the calendar had felt like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing. February 14th usually meant a hollow ache, a catalog of memories from Valentine’s Day's past.

But this was a rare occasion. This was a step further into their world: a formal invitation into the "closed circuit" of elite, established love that Edward and Sophie usually reserved only for each other. And Vixen wasn’t about to let her pain ruin it.

She paused at the door of the penthouse suite, smoothing the blood-red silk of her dress once more. She’d spent an hour in the hotel bathroom downstairs, meticulously covering the faint gray smudges under her eyes—remnants of a private breakdown she’d had earlier in the evening. She was going to take charge, drive them both to the brink, and leave before the morning sun could expose the cracks in her armor. She needed this. She needed to be the one in control, because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a ledge she wasn't ready to jump from.

Edward normally met her at the door, but she had no time for such pleasantries. She swiped her keycard and pushed inside, her heels clicking a rhythmic, aggressive demand on the marble. "I hope you two are ready," she called out, her voice a practiced, lethal purr. "Because tonight, I’m—”

The words died.

The penthouse wasn’t set for their usual kink fest; it was set as a sanctuary. The lights were dimmed to a warm amber glow. A trail of white lilies—her favorite, though she’d only mentioned it once in a drugged-out haze of post-coital sleep—led not to the bedroom, but to the hearth.

Edward was there, his tie already undone, a glass of vintage scotch in his hand. Sophie was wrapped in an ivory sheer robe, elegant as ever, her nipples prominent through the fabric. Her eyes were soft and heavy with a look that made Vixen want to bolt back to the elevator. It was a look of recognition.

"You're late," Edward said, his voice a low rumble. He didn't move toward her. He just looked at her, seeing right through the red silk. "You’re shaking."

"I had a day," she snapped, moving to the bar to pour herself something stiff. Her hands were still trembling. The ghosts of her past—the voices that told her she was a temporary distraction, a toy to be put away when the real couple wanted peace—were screaming. She needed them, but the alcohol would luckily keep her from admitting it. She took a sip of her drink, slowly taking it in as Edward and Sophie’s gazes stayed locked on her.

Sophie stood up, crossing the room with a grace that felt like a trap. She didn't reach for Vixen’s zipper. Instead, she took the glass from Vixen’s hand and set it on the counter.

"Come here," Sophie whispered, pressing a palm to Vixen’s cheek. "Tonight isn't a performance, darling. You don't have to earn your place here."

Vixen tried to laugh, a sharp, brittle sound. "No, no. I’m the one who runs the show, Soph. That’s the deal."

"The deal has changed," Edward said, appearing behind her. He didn't touch her, but his heat was a physical weight. "Tonight, the only thing you’re allowed to do is receive. No managing our pleasure. No checking the clock. Just... us."

They led her to the oversized velvet sofa. It felt like being led to an altar.

Edward took her shoes off, his large hands kneading the arches of her feet with a firm, grounding pressure that forced the breath out of her lungs. Sophie sat behind her, running her hands up Vixen’s exposed back gently before applying slight pressure.

"You're always so guarded," Sophie murmured into her ear, her breath hot and sweet. "Even when we're inside you, you're somewhere else. Planning. Protecting. But not tonight."

The "action" began not with a bang, but with an agonizingly slow erosion of her defenses. Edward moved up, his hands sliding under the silk of her dress; his touch was authoritative and steady. He didn't ask; he commanded her body to relax.

When Sophie’s hands found their way to the sensitive skin of Vixen’s inner thighs, Vixen tried to take over—to reach down, to guide them, to do something to maintain the illusion of control.

Edward caught her wrists. He pinned them gently against the cushions.

"Stay still," he commanded.

It was the breaking point. Deprived of her ability to "work," Vixen was instead forced to feel. She felt the way Sophie’s lips traced her collarbone; she felt the way Edward’s thumbs traced circles on her palms. It wasn't the frantic, rough sex she’d prepared for. It was a focused assault on her senses.

As Sophie’s tongue found a rhythm that made Vixen’s hips arch involuntarily, the tears she’d been holding back all day finally burned behind her eyelids.

"Vixen, look at me," Edward whispered, his face inches from hers.

She opened her eyes, her vision blurred.

"You aren't a guest," he said, his voice thick with a sincerity that terrified her. "You’re home. Now let go."

She did. As she shattered, her back arching and a sob catching in her throat, she realized the terrifying truth. She wasn't just their "Vixen" anymore. She was theirs.