Instead, all I can manage is a vague sound of agreement as Ivy shifts beside the loveseat and a fresh wave of her scent hits us both.
Honeysuckle so thick it feels like it's going to possess me, mixed with the unmistakable sweetness of an omega in heat. Her cheeks are flushed, pupils dilated to the point where only a thin ring of blue-green remains.
That was insane of me.
Andentirelyfucking worth it.
Chapter
Forty-Three
IVY
It all starts with a kiss.
One second they're in each other's faces, snarling about something stupid and the next Whiskey's mouth is on Plague's and the entire room shifts.
I sit up straighter in my nest.
Oh.
Whiskey kisses like he does everything else. Full throttle, no brakes. His hands are fisted in Plague's turtleneck, dragging him closer, and Plague islettinghim. Plague's long fingers twist in Whiskey's flannel, knuckles white against the red plaid, and I watch his pale eyes flutter closed as Whiskey devours him.
Heat pools low in my belly. My thighs press together and my scent spikes. Even I can smell the honeysuckle flooding the room.
They stumble toward the loveseat, still bitching at each other. Whiskey forcefully guides Plague backward until they hit the loveseat in a tangle of limbs, furniture creaking ominously.Whiskey ends up on top, grinning down at the other alpha. His thighs are like tree trunks bracketing Plague's lean hips. Despite Whiskey not beingthatmuch taller than Plague, the size difference between the two alphas is immense.
It’s fuckinghot.
His hands go to Plague's turtleneck. "This needs to go."
"Absolutely not." Plague grabs his wrists.
I tense, waiting for the fight. Waiting for Whiskey to push, to insist, to take what he wants anyway.
"Okay," Whiskey says simply. No argument. "Pants though?"
Things progress from there. Belt. Button. Zipper. Plague's cock springs free, flushed and hard against his stomach, and Whiskey just stares like Plague’s giving him a gift. And then Whiskey's mouth is on him and I watch the ice prince of the Ghosts completely lose his mind.
"Did you learn to give head in a tornado?" Plague chokes out.
I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle my laugh.
Whiskey pulls off with an obscene pop. "You complaining?"
"I'm providing constructive criticism."
"Here's some constructive criticism for you."
He swallows Plague down again—deeper—and Plague keens. Back arching, head thrown back, dark hair spilling loose over his shoulders, throat bared. His hands fist in Whiskey's hair as he cries out and snarls at the same time.
The sound goes straight to my core. I'm slick already, heat or no heat, becausefuckwatching all that ice crack might be the hottest thing I've ever seen.
He comes with a snarl that might be Whiskey's name, might be cursing in three different languages at once. His whole body shakes through it, and I watch him shatter.
If he can let go like that, maybe I can too.
The thought catches me off guard.
