Chapter 283: Awkward Wanting Princess

Because she

was

lying. They all were. Every single one of them had noticed. Had stared. Had tried not to stare and failed miserably, eyes drawn back again and again like moths to a flame that was absolutely going to burn them.

The outline was

obscene

.

Thick. Long.

Curved slightly upward like it was reaching for her. The wet spot at the tip spreading, growing, evidence of exactly how much he was enjoying watching her fall apart.

And she—

Delilah was grinding against it now. Soaking him with her need while he soaked the fabric with his. Two wet spots becoming one. A dark bloom of desperation spreading across both their clothes.

"

I’ve never seen one that big

," Amber admitted, and the rawness in her voice surprised even herself.

The

confession.

The

vulnerability

of it.

"The statistical probability," Yuki started, because numbers were safe, numbers were comfortable, numbers didn’t make you feel like your entire understanding of the world had just been upended—"of natural endowment at that size is approximately—"

"Yuki."

"—0.001% of the male population—"

"

Yuki

."

"Right. Sorry. Shutting up."

But she wasn’t. Not really. Her analytical brain was churning, calculating, trying to fit what she was seeing into frameworks that made sense. Trying to understand how the boy everyone had bullied, the boy no one had noticed, the boy they’d all looked through like he was furniture—

Had

this

hidden in his pants the whole time.

The video kept playing.

And the room got warmer.

Or maybe that was just them. Maybe it was just four girls’ bodies reacting to something primal and undeniable, blood rushing to places it shouldn’t, hearts pounding, breath coming shallow and quick.

Amber noticed it first—the way her own thighs had pressed together. The way her breathing had gone shallow without her permission. The way her hand wanted,

desperately wanted

, to slip under her skirt and touch herself.

Just a little.

Just to relieve the pressure.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

But she noticed the same tension in the others.

Natasha

sitting too straight, spine rigid, like if she relaxed even slightly she might do something improper.

Yuki’s

hands gripping the remote like a lifeline, knuckles going white.

Gianna’s

perfectly still posture betraying the subtle movements underneath—the tiny shifts in her hips, the almost-imperceptible squeezes of her thighs.

Virgins

, Amber thought, and almost laughed. Almost burst out in hysterical giggles right there in the dark.

Maddie would lose her absolute mind if she could see us right now.

Four spoiled princesses. Four Legacy heiresses. Sitting here in the dark pretending we’re not all soaking our underwear over the her boy.

The charity case.

The orphan.

The nobody.

On screen, Delilah had started riding Phei in earnest.

Like

devotion

.

Like she’d found god between her cousin’s legs and was never going to recover.

And Phei—fucking Phei, the charity case, the orphan, the boy they’d all ignored and mocked and treated like dirt—sat there with complete control.

That said he was

enjoying

this.

"He’s not even trying," Gianna whispered. "He’s just... letting her."

"Letting her what?"

"

Use him. Break herself on him

. And he’s

watching

. Like it’s—like it’s

entertainment."

The words hung in the air.

Heavy.

Damning.

Because Gianna was right. There was something in Phei’s expression—amusement, maybe, or satisfaction, or something darker and more possessive—

that said he wasn’t doing this for his own pleasure?

He was doing it to watch Delilah lose her mind?

And gods help her, she was

losing

it.

Completely.

Utterly.

Beautifully

.

Natasha’s hand moved.

Just a little. Just to her knee. Resting there like she was trying to anchor herself, to hold onto something solid in a world that had gone liquid and strange.

But it was the first crack in her composure, and Amber caught it immediately.

She didn’t say anything.

Just...

watched.

Yuki’s hand drifted too. Down from the remote to her lap, fingers tracing absent patterns on her skirt that definitely weren’t data analysis. Circles. Spirals. Getting closer and closer to the hem with each pass.

And Gianna—cool, collected Gianna who’d probably seen men buried in concrete before dessert—had abandoned all pretense of subtlety. Her hand was on her

inner thigh

now, hidden in the shadows of the couch.

But Amber could see the tiny movements. The rhythmic press. The way her fingers kneaded her own flesh like she was trying to scratch an itch she couldn’t quite reach.

God, we’re pathetic.

We’re sitting here touching ourselves to a video of our friend getting dry-humped by the boy we all used to mock.

Maddie was right.

We reek of virginity.

We absolutely fucking reek of it.

But she couldn’t stop watching.

None of them could.

Amber’s breath caught in her throat. Lodged there like a stone.

Somewhere to her left, she heard Yuki make a sound—a tiny, involuntary whimper that was absolutely not statistical in nature. That was pure, raw,

wanting

.

And then she felt movement.

All around her.

Looked around.

And realized that every single one of them—

every single one

—had a hand between their thighs.

The silence stretched.

Four pairs of eyes meeting in the darkness. Four faces flushing red with shame and arousal and the dawning horror of being

caught

.

But caught doing what?

They were all doing it. All four of them. Touching themselves in the dim light of Amber’s room, watching their friend get ruined while they pretended to be better than this.

Pretended they were above it.

Pretended they hadn’t spent the last ten minutes getting wetter than they’d ever been in their lives.

Natasha looked like she wanted to die. Like she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole just so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge what her hand was doing under her skirt.

Yuki’s analytical facade had cracked entirely, leaving something raw and desperate underneath. Something

human

. Something that wanted and needed and didn’t give a damn about statistical probability.

Gianna just smiled—that slow, dangerous smile that said she had no intention of stopping. That said if anyone had a problem with it, they could take it up with her family’s lawyers.

Or their enforcers.

Whichever was more convenient.

And Amber?

Amber licked her lips.

"Well,"

she said, voice hoarse like she’d been screaming.

"This is awkward."

No one responded.

No one

could

respond.

On screen, Delilah was crying now. Actually crying—tears streaming down her face as she ground against Phei’s cock. Her ruined panties the only thing between them, the fabric soaked through, practically transparent.

"

Oh, my gods... he’s

coming,"

Yuki whispered, and for once there was no data in her voice.

Awe.

"Again," Gianna added. Her voice had gone thick. "Look at her body. The spasms. That’s at least her third."

"How do you know that?"

"That’s how eyes work, Natasha."

Delilah shattered.

His hips bucked.

His cock twitched.

His head fell back for just a moment, jaw clenched, tendons in his neck standing out like cables.

And even through the remaining fabric, you could see it—the pulses, the throbs, the thick ropes of come flooding his boxers and mixing with her slick. Drenching them both. Ruining them both.

He’d come too.

She’d made him come.

Or he’d

let

her make him come.

Either way, the two of them were drenched now—in sweat and tears and each other’s release. Collapsing together on the bench while the fire crackled behind them, painting their tangled bodies in flickering gold and shadow.

"I need to take notes," Yuki said faintly. Her voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. "For... scientific purposes."