Luna's fairy-light paradise should've been a sanctuary for just us. Should've been our gentle space where I could stop performing and she could heal me with soft touches and medical facts whispered between kisses.

But my women had other plans. They always did.

It started maybe an hour after Luna had fallen asleep on my chest, her bare breasts soft and warm against my skin, one leg thrown over mine so her slick, still-sensitive pussy pressed lightly against my thigh, the faint musk of our earlier lovemaking lingering between us.

Her breathing was even and content, nipples still faintly peaked from the cool air and the memory of my mouth.

The door—which we'd left cracked because privacy was a joke in this estate—pushed open slowly.

Emma padded in first, wearing nothing but one of my t-shirts that hit her mid-thigh, the thin cotton doing fuck-all to hide how her heavy tits swayed free underneath, nipples dark and stiff against the fabric from the night chill.

No bra, no panties—her bare pussy lips peeked briefly when she lifted one knee to crawl onto the California king.

She didn't say anything, just slid under the sheet and curled up against my left side, pressing her naked thighs to mine, her cunt warm and slightly damp as it nestled against my hip. Her head found that spot between my shoulder and chest she'd claimed since the Trent incident, silky hair spilling over my skin like spilled ink.

Luna stirred, lifted her head—her own nude body glowing golden in the fairy lights, full breasts shifting heavily, dark areolas tightening again at the movement—saw who'd joined us, then just smiled sleepily and shifted to make room, one arm draping across my chest so her fingers brushed Emma's shoulder.

"Hi, Emma."

"Sorry," Emma whispered, voice thick with exhaustion and something rawer. "I couldn't… when he's here but not in the main bedroom, I can't sleep with him in the house, but without him there."

She nuzzled closer, lips brushing my collarbone, one hand sliding down to rest possessively over my cock—still half-hard from earlier, sticky with dried cum and Luna's arousal—giving it a gentle, almost absent squeeze like she just needed to feel I was real.

"It's okay," Luna said, and meant it. She leaned over to press a soft kiss to Emma's forehead, her own bare breasts dragging across my chest in the process, nipples grazing my skin and sending a fresh pulse of heat straight to my groin.

This was our dynamic now. Individual time that inevitably became group comfort—skin on skin, heat on heat, no barriers.

Ten minutes later, Celeste arrived.

The French goddess who usually commanded every room she entered, who ran multi-million dollar art gallery, with ruthless efficiency, who'd made grown men cry in boardrooms—she stood in the doorway in nothing but silk pajama bottoms slung low on her hips, the top long discarded.

Her perfect, heavy tits hung free, dark nipples already tight from nerves or cold or both, the faint sheen of nervous sweat making her olive skin gleam under the fairy lights.

She looked lost, vulnerable in a way no boardroom would ever see.

"Je suis désolée," she murmured, voice cracking just a little. "I don't mean to intrude, but…"

"Come on," I said, lifting my free arm.

She practically dove onto the bed, shedding the silk bottoms as she crawled in so they puddled forgotten on the floor.

Naked now, she pressed against my right side with desperate hunger, full breasts flattening against my ribs, one thigh sliding over mine so her wet heat smeared across my skin.

Her cunt was already slick—arousal from whatever nightmare or emptiness had driven her here—and she ground once, shamelessly, against my hip before settling, face buried in my neck. Celeste Dubois didn't need anyone.

Except she absolutely fucking did, and that need was me, raw and aching.

"Bad dreams?" I asked quietly, hand sliding down her bare back to cup one firm ass cheek.

"Non. Just… empty bed. Empty room. When you're here but not in the main bedroom, it feels wrong." Her voice trembled. She reached for my hand, guided it between her thighs so my fingers slipped through her soaked folds—hot, swollen, dripping—then pressed my palm flat against her pussy like she needed me to feel how much she ached for contact.

Luna reached across me to squeeze Celeste's hand. No jealousy, no territorialism. Just understanding. She leaned in and kissed Celeste softly on the forehead—slow—then pulled back with a gentle smile.

These women had built something beyond typical relationship dynamics.

Gabrielle was last, maybe another thirty minutes later. She at least knocked, then slipped inside wearing only an oversized sleep shirt she immediately peeled off and dropped. Naked, flawless—toned abs, full breasts with pale pink nipples already hard, shaved pussy glistening faintly—she hesitated only a second before climbing in at the foot of the bed.

"Room for one more?" Her voice was small, uncertain. Another woman the world saw as unshakeable, reduced to needing comfort like a child afraid of the dark.

"Always," Luna said, scooting up. Gabrielle curled up by our feet like a cat, pressing her bare breasts to my shin, one hand wrapping around my ankle while the other slid up my calf, fingers brushing the underside of my balls before settling there—warm, grounding, possessive.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered into the blankets, voice muffled against my skin. "We're grown women."

"We're his women," Emma corrected sleepily, shifting so her own slick cunt dragged along my thigh again. "Different rules."

And that was it, really. Different rules. In the outside world, Celeste commanded arts worthy millions, Gabrielle terrorized boardrooms, Emma was heading to college soon, Luna was about to revolutionize emergency medicine.

They were powerful, independent, brilliant.

But here? In the soft glow of fairy lights, all of us naked and tangled, skin flushed and damp with shared heat, cunts slick and cocks half-hard from simple proximity, nipples grazing nipples, thighs pressed to thighs—here they were just women who needed their man's warmth to sleep properly.

Needed the press of bare flesh, the scent of arousal and comfort mingling, the steady thump of my heart under their ears and palms.

"You know what's funny?" Luna said quietly, her medical mind always analyzing even as her fingers traced lazy circles around one of my nipples.

"This isn't codependence. I've studied it. Codependence is needing someone to function. This is… optimization. We function fine alone, but we function better together—skin to skin, cunt to cock, heart to heart."

"Always with the medical terminology, she's like Anastasia now," Celeste laughed softly, the sound vibrating against my throat as she nuzzled closer, her pussy clenching once against my fingers still cupped between her legs.

"Says the woman who described her last orgasm as 'a half-million dollar art piece,'" Gabrielle shot back, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my balls.

"It was accurate!"

"It was French art corporate's dirty talk is what it was."

I listened to them banter, feeling the weight of them against me. Not physical weight—enhanced strength made that negligible. But the emotional weight of being needed this much. Of being the anchor for women who'd learned the world wasn't safe.

Being the warmth for those who'd been cold too long.

Being the hard cock, they could grind against in their sleep if they needed to, the broad chest they could cry into, the steady pulse they could feel when everything else felt unsteady.

Emma's breathing evened out—she was asleep, one hand still loosely curled around my shaft. Celeste's fingers stayed laced with mine, her other hand pressed flat over my heart. Gabrielle's thumb kept tracing slow, soothing patterns over the base of my cock and balls.

Luna's head rose and fell with my breathing, her bare breasts pillowed against me, one nipple dragging gently with each inhale.

This. This was the part of the harem nobody understood. Not the sex—though it was always there, simmering, ready. Not the power dynamics, not the supernatural shit. Just this—being needed so completely it hurt in the best way. Being the safe space for women who'd learned the world wasn't safe.

Being the warmth, the heartbeat, the raw human anchor in a tangle of naked limbs and quiet vulnerability.

They didn't need me to fix them. Their insecurities weren't wounds to heal but textures that made them real—Celeste's craving for constant touch, Gabrielle's midnight uncertainties, Emma's refusal to sleep without skin from me as long as I was available, and only if I was with mom, Luna's gentleness now. They were perfect in their imperfections. Strong in their softness. Independent in their desperate, beautiful interdependence.

And then, because the universe had a sick sense of timing, midnight hit.

[BREAKING NEWS ALERT: Russian Oligarch Dmitri Volkov Found Dead in CIA Custody]

The notification blazed across my vision, courtesy of ARIA's news monitoring. IHIN had delivered exactly as promised. Dmitri was gone, and the world was about to lose its collective shit.

But before I could even process that bomb, the system decided to add its own chaos.

[DING! MASTER'S TRIUMPH!

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