“That’s it, pretty girl,” he’d mutter. “Take it all. You love it, don’t you?”
I groan, hips stuttering into my hand.
It's still not enough.
Then there’s Theo. Always watching. Always waiting. Until he’s not.
His presence is quieter, though: more deliberate. He’d take his time. He'd lay her out like she mattered, like every inch of her deserved reverence. His voice would be low and unshakable, murmuring praise against her skin as he coaxed her open.
“You’re doing so good, baby. So full. So perfect.”
Fuck.
I stroke harder now, hand slick with precome, fist working in tight, relentless motions. My head falls back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut.
I can hear her. I can hear all four of us.
Her gasps. My growl. Theo’s breath breaking. Connor’s filth.
The image hits like a truck: her bent forward, stretched around me, dripping slick while the others take their turns, while her whole body begs for more.
She’s not just mine, she’sours.
The possessiveness deepens, settling into something more rooted. Something that doesn’t want to chase her away or keep her for myself—just keep her close. Keep hersafe.
I snarl under my breath, stroking faster now, chasing it down. The water masks the noise, but I can still hear the ragged edge of my voice.
I can feel how close I am to falling apart as her name lives somewhere behind my teeth. The tension coils tight in my spine, every muscle straining as heat climbs fast and brutal, knot-lust burning through me like a fucking match.
“Fuck,” I grit out, teeth bared. “Emery,fuck—”
The image of her curves between my hands again, along with the phantom sensation of the others close behind her. Of the pack forming around her. Wanting her. Needing her.
And it tips me over the edge.
I comehard—hips jerking forward, hand tight around the base, release pulsing out of me in sharp, desperate waves. It's too much all at once, and I bite down on a groan, body seizing against the tile as my breath rips free.
I ride it out with my jaw clenched, pulse thudding in my ears, body shaking from the force of it.
Even as it fades, even as the water washes it all away, the aftershocks linger.
The scent of her. The sound of her.
Theideaof her.
Still there. Still echoing.
I stay with my forehead pressed to the tile, water still pounding down over me as my breathing slowly evens out. My body feels heavy and drained, utterly spent—
And still; the want remains.
It's quieter now, but no less certain, and I can’t just blame it on hunger or adrenaline any longer. This feeling… it’s instinct locking in, stubborn and territorial, digging its heels into something it refuses to release.
Her.
And no matter how hard I tell myself I shouldn’t—no matter how many reasons I stack up to keep my distance—I can still feel it humming under my skin, calling toward the omega sleeping down the hall.
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t hear it.
