Before Marcus could claim her, Silas’s hand shot out, resting on Marcus’s shoulder. “Patience. The stone is not yet ready for you.” His eyes locked with Eloise’s, glazed and submissive. “Turn over, onto your back.” She complied, the hot stone searing her shoulder blades. Her legs fell open, a lewd, vulnerable display. Giselle sauntered over, oil dripping from her own fingers. “Let me prepare the altar,” she said, her voice saccharine. Giselle’s touch was not like the men’s. It was clinical, possessive, and laced with a subtle cruelty. She oiled Eloise’s inner thighs, her stomach, her breasts, paying particular attention to her nipples, twisting them until Eloise gasped. Then she focused on Eloise’s exposed core, spreading the lips, exposing the swollen, needy flesh to the steamy air and the hungry eyes watching. “There,” Giselle said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “A feast.” Marcus needed no further invitation. He moved between her splayed legs, his expensive facade gone,
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