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Briggs hugs her tight to him before placing a kiss on her coiffed hair then dropping to his knees. Grant and I join him as I take the jeweler’s box from my pocket.
Clover’s hands fly to her face, and she covers her mouth with trembling fingers. At least until Grant reaches up and draws her left hand to him. He kisses her knuckles before speaking only to her, despite the fact that the crowd of important people can hear every word. “Clover, we love you. We’re already yours and have been for a year. Please say you’ll stay with us for as many more as we have. Marry us? Be ours officially?”
I open the box and present a ring that glitters in the spotlights overhead.
We had it custom designed for her by one of the world’s most prominent jewelers. A pink pear-shaped diamond surrounded by a trio of the highest-quality white ones, set in a perfect triangle on a delicate gold band. I hold it out and she lets me slip it on her finger.
The rocks dwarf her knuckle.
And they’re utterly insignificant compared to the emotions she stirs in us.
“Is that a yes?” Briggs can’t handle the tension. Me either.
Clover squeals and flings herself at us, bowling us over. “Yes!”
The audience laughs as she climbs on top of each of her men, one at a time, kissing our faces before whispering her assent to her now-fiancés individually in addition to her blanket acceptance. When she gets to Briggs, he clamps his arms aroundher petite waist then levers himself up, raising her high above him.
She’s officially our prize. For good.
“In that case, we have one last show to put on.” My dick hardens in my suit pants at the thought of what’s to come.
“Hmm?” Clover tilts her head, reminding me of her lapdog, Beast.
“Come here.” I stride to the curtains. They part to reveal a black leather tattoo table. I pat it and Briggs lifts her into position.
She whimpers but stays put when I raise her beaded skirt, which sparkles beneath the bright lights.
I walk it over her perfect ass, leaving her lacy white panties in place. As if anyone needed a reminder of how innocent she was. Before us.
A man with spiked hair, and enough piercings to make it likely he sinks in pools, tests out his tattoo gun. The resulting buzz has Clover jerking.
Briggs, Grant, and I move around to stand by her head. We start unbuttoning our dress shirts at the same time, revealing her name indelibly inked across our chests, over our hearts.
“Sure of yourselves, huh?” she sasses despite her body bared to the entire room.
“Certain of our love for you,” Grant replies.
“Now it’s your turn.” I know Briggs’s palms must be itching to slap her perfect ass, pointed up to give the artist an ideal canvas. “Don’t say no, Clover.”
She doesn’t make a peep.
“Go ahead,” I order the tattooist, holding her panties aside.
He writes “Prize won by:” in elaborate script on Clover’s ass.
She doesn’t even flinch.
Then he looks at us. “Who’s first?”
“Rock, paper, scissors?” I suggest.
Everyone—us, Clover, and the crowd included—chuckles at that.
“Worked out last time.” Grant shrugs.
We hold our fists in a clump over Clover’s mostly bare ass, in sync as always. They bob three times before we shoot. This time it’s my rock that smashes their scissors.Fuck, yes.
I take the tattoo gun while the other two go again to determine who’s next. I remember the lessons the artist gave us leading up to tonight. With his guidance, I sign my name permanently on the part of our prize I had first. It’s only fitting.
