The war ended two years ago, but Joe Teague still carried it in the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers twitched toward the .38 on the nightstand. The Blue Orchid Club’s penthouse was a sanctuary of burgundy velvet and gold sconces, the city sprawling below like a spilled tray of diamonds. Jasmine’s record spun low—Billie Holiday crooning about lovers who couldn’t stay. You knelt on the thick rug, stockings whispering as you crawled to Joe where he sat in the armchair, shirt unbuttoned, tie loose like a noose he’d slipped.

“Daddy,” you breathed, the word a key turning in his chest. Jasmine echoed it from the bed, voice smoky as the cigarette between her fingers. “Daddy, viens ici.” Her robe had slipped off one shoulder, caramel skin glowing against crimson silk.

Joe’s eyes—storm-gray and battle-weary—flicked between you. “Both my girls tonight.” He crooked a finger. You rose, hips swaying, and Jasmine slid from the bed to join you, her hand finding yours. Together, you straddled his lap, your skirt rucked high, her robe falling open. His hands—callused from triggers and fists—gripped your waists like he was anchoring himself to the only truth left in L.A.

You kissed him first, slow and filthy, tasting bourbon and the ghost of wartime ration cigarettes. Jasmine’s lips found his neck, teeth grazing the scar under his jaw—a souvenir from Anzio. “We missed you, Daddy,” she murmured, French curling around the word like lace. “Three weeks on that stakeout. You left us aching.”

Joe’s growl vibrated through you. “Show me.”

You sank to your knees in tandem, a choreography perfected in stolen nights. Jasmine’s fingers worked his belt while yours freed his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. You licked a stripe up the underside, slow, while she took the head into her mouth with a hum that made his thighs tense. “Fuck,” he hissed, hand fisting in your hair, then hers. “That’s it. Good girls.”

The record skipped. Billie’s voice cracked like a gunshot. Joe hauled you up by the arms, spinning you toward the bed. “On your backs. Now.” You obeyed, hearts hammering. Jasmine’s robe pooled on the floor; your dress followed, peeled away like evidence. Joe stood over you, shedding the rest of his clothes—scars mapping his torso like a war zone you both wanted to worship.

He crawled between you, a predator in a king-sized cage. First, he kissed you—deep, claiming—while his fingers slid into Jasmine, curling until she arched with a broken moan. Then he switched, mouth on her breast, teeth tugging the nipple until she whimpered “Papa, s’il te plaît”—the French slipping out when she was close to unraveling. His thumb found your clit, circling in time with his thrusts into her with his fingers.

You were a symphony of gasps and slick sounds, the city’s distant sirens a bassline. Joe pulled his hand free, slick with Jasmine, and painted your lips with her. You licked it clean, eyes locked on his. “Taste her, Daddy,” you whispered. “Then fuck me while she watches.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Jasmine propped herself on elbows, legs spread, fingers lazily circling her clit as Joe lined up and sank into you in one brutal thrust. The stretch burned so good you saw stars. “Daddy—” you choked, nails raking his back. He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, the headboard knocking like a fed’s fist on a speakeasy door.

Jasmine crawled closer, kissing you through every thrust, her tongue mimicking Joe’s cock. “Look at you taking him,” she purred against your lips. “Our perfect girl.” Joe’s hand left your hip to tangle in her curls, pulling her into a three-way kiss—messy, desperate, all teeth and devotion.

When you came, it was with Jasmine’s fingers on your clit and Joe’s cock dragging against that spot inside that made you sob his name. He followed seconds later, spilling deep with a guttural curse, forehead pressed to yours. Jasmine wasn’t far behind—your mouth on her breast, Joe’s fingers back inside her, working her through it until she shattered with a cry that could’ve summoned every vice cop in L.A.

After, the record had ended. Silence wrapped you like a blanket. Joe lay in the middle, one arm around your waist, the other cradling Jasmine’s head on his chest. You traced the scar on his ribs; she pressed kisses to the one on his shoulder. “My girls,” he murmured, voice raw. “Ain’t lettin’ this city take you from me.”

Outside, the neon flickered. Inside, you were untouchable—three hearts beating in polyamorous sync, Daddy’s empire built on sweat, cum, and the kind of love that survived wars and worse.

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