Morning knocked on the curtains and was denied like a poor relative at a noble wedding.

The room stayed dim, thick with amber light, drawn curtains, warm air, expensive sheets, and the kind of silence that only came after a bed had been thoroughly sinned in. The world outside could wait, burn, celebrate, gossip, assassinate someone’s reputation over breakfast, or stage another marble-floor family tragedy for the internet to caption.

None of that mattered here.

This room had already hosted its own holy disaster.

Phei stood at the foot of the bed, bare-chested beneath the low glow, and looked at the wreckage with quiet satisfaction.

Valentina lay in the center of the bed, naked beneath a loose fall of sheets, her body sprawled in the heavy, shameless exhaustion, she had begged to be pushed past her pride and had received exactly what she ordered.

Her lustrous skin still gleamed with the sheen of sweat and his claim, those magnificent full breasts rising and falling in deep, slow breaths, heavy and flushed, marked faintly by the grip of his hands, and her nipples were still tight and dark from the relentless attention they had received.

The inward curve of her waist flared into hips built for gripping and riding, the lush, rounded swell of her ass was barely covered by the sheets, while her long, powerful thighs — the same ones that had locked around his waist like a warrior’s vow just a few minutes ago — now lay parted in exhausted surrender, the glistening proof of how thoroughly he had taken her still visible between them.

Her dark hair spilled across the pillows, and even ruined like this, she still carried that warrior’s arrogance, that stubborn Valentina dignity which made being fucked senseless look like a personal victory.

She had wanted to test herself...

...And Phei had obliged.

Generously and cruelly with excellent customer service, really.

And fuck, the way her body had answered him — every curve of Valentina had been yielding then pushing back, every gasp feeding the lustful Young Dragon inside his chest.

When she grew tired, he would lean close and tell her in that low voice how her proud trained body was the perfect sheath for every inch he gave her, how those magnificent breasts and that lush ass had driven him half-mad while also reminding her her promise she had made and the caffeine she had had so that she could last this long and watched the great Valentina blush like a girl who had never been complimented on her own surrender.

But Valentina had held on longer than Maddie and Sierra combined.

That was the part that would make her insufferable to the two princesses once she went berserk.

She would pretend otherwise, of course:

She would act calm, mature, disciplined, maybe even humble if the morning had taken pity on everyone and temporarily damaged her personality. But Phei and everyone knew better.

The moment she recovered enough to sit straight, that quiet pride would start glowing behind her eyes.

There was Maddie too who now lay curled near Val, cheek pressed into the sheets, one hand still tangled in Valentina’s hair as if she had fallen asleep mid-tease and refused to release her victim.

Her lithe, playfully curvaceous form was still a temptation even in sleep — the soft pale skin of her back exposed, the gentle flare of her hips giving way to a plump, heart-shaped ass that peeked from the disheveled sheets like an invitation, the kind of ass that jiggled so sweetly when she laughed or rode him hard.

Her perky big breasts were pressed softly against the mattress, nipples likely still tender from the watching she had done, her whole body flushed with the afterglow of shared heat even if she had chosen to stay on the sidelines.

Sierra rested on the other side, arm over her eyes, lips faintly curved, her body loose with exhaustion but her posture still carrying that ridiculous elegance.

Even drained, she was all long, graceful lines and refined sensuality — the elegant column of her throat, the proud full swell of her breasts rising and falling steadily, the way her hips tapered into legs that could wrap around a man and make him forget every other woman in existence.

Phei had invited them to fuck him together after he fucked Valentina until she couldn’t anymore:

Together.

He had planned to take them all with a wicked, low-voiced smile and words meant to make them blush — telling Maddie how her playful curves would look even more delicious bouncing on him while he praised every soft jiggle and every sweet sound she made, and telling Sierra how her elegant body deserved to be worshipped with the filthiest compliments until that icy Montgomery composure cracked into pretty, gasping surrender.

They had laughed, those two, the sound rich with challenge and heat, and turned his invitation into their own private theatre instead.

Maddie had rested her chin on Sierra’s shoulder, whispering commentary that was not whispering at all, while Sierra delivered dry remarks sharp enough to cut furniture.

They had watched Valentina get taken apart piece by piece and they’d agreed to he gave them exactly that.

Phei smiled faintly as he realized something, numbers rose in his mind.

The invisible accounting of stamina, limits, growth, thresholds, and all the little ceilings his women kept smashing through with pride, lust, and supernatural assistance.

Valentina’s number remained impressive, her lustrous body having taken the full force of the Young Dragon’s appetite and still looking like she had won something.

Melissa still stood near her in that deeper range, a contest waiting to become everyone’s problem later.

Maddie and Sierra had respectable limits, their deliciously curved forms having writhed so beautifully under his attention but Patricia was better than either of them in endurance, just below Melissa with the Goddess above, and of course Patricia was lower compared to Cassiopeia.

As his thoughts touched Cassiopeia, he warmth in his expression thinned.

Cassiopeia’s limit still bothered her; the cold little pause whenever Valentina or Melissa’s endurance came too close to conversation.

She was proud enough to act above comparison and competitive enough to measure herself anyway.

That was Cassiopeia.

A woman made of silk, knives, discipline, and problems she refused to call problems.

Her body was its own quiet battlefield — slender strength wrapped in dangerous softness, breasts that filled his hands with perfect weight and heat, hips that moved with lethal grace, and an ass so tight and tempting it made the dragon in him want to sink his teeth into it just to hear her sharp, proud intake of breath.