"More," she says.
I line up and push in slowly, the slick making the slide easy, and the three of us go still at the same time. Iris' mouth fallsopen, a sound leaving her that's deeper than anything I've heard from her before, something that starts in her chest and vibrates through all of us. Quentin's head drops back against the pillows, his jaw clenched, a vein standing out in his neck.
"Don't move yet," Iris breathes. "Just... give me a second."
We hold there, the three of us connected, breathing together. Then Iris rolls her hips, just once, testing it, and the sensation is so intense my vision goes spotty.
It takes us a minute to find the rhythm. There's fumbling, adjustments, and a moment where my knee slips on the blankets and Iris has to reach back and grab my hip to steady me. Quentin shifts his angle and Iris gasps so sharply he freezes until she tells him to keep going. I match his pace from behind, finding the counterpoint, and when the rhythm finally locks into place the sound Iris makes is worth every awkward second it took to get here.
Unfortunately, my stupid Omega biology has me coming hard and fast, so hard my hips stutter, my forehead dropping against Iris' shoulder blade, a broken groan muffled against her skin. But I don't stop. I fuck through it, my cock oversensitive and throbbing, the mixture of slick and cum easing every stroke, the continued pressure making Iris cry.
The second orgasm builds before the first one fully fades, stacking on top of it, and when it breaks I lose track of my limbs entirely. My arms wrap around Iris' waist, holding on because my body has stopped taking directions from my brain and is operating on pure instinct.
Iris falls apart between us, her whole body locking tight, and that's when Quentin's composure finally shatters. "Jesus Christ." His voice comes out ragged, his hips jerking up into her, sending another shudder through me. "It feels like you're going to squeeze my dick off." His head presses back into the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck, that feels good."
"That's my lock," Iris manages, her voice wrecked, her body still pulsing around both of us. "It usually only activates with an Omega but I guess..." She trails off into a moan as Quentin rolls his hips beneath her. "I guess it happens now too."
I pull back carefully, my body spent, collapsing sideways into the blankets. Quentin doesn't waste a second. He flips Iris onto her back, and drives into her with a pace that makes the whole nest shift. Iris' legs wrap around his waist, her nails raking down his back, and the sounds coming from both of them are loud enough that I briefly consider whether her neighbors are going to file a noise complaint.
Quentin comes with his face buried in her neck, a groan tearing out of him that I feel in my own chest, his hips snapping forward one final time before his whole body goes rigid. He stays there for a long moment, breathing hard against her throat, before he lifts his head and stares down at her with an expression I've never seen on my brother's face.
"Yeah," he says, his voice completely destroyed. "We're doing that again."
Iris laughs beneath him. "Give me twenty minutes."
"Fuck." He rolls off of her and onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. "I think I'm going to pass out."
"Drama queen," I mumble from my pile of blankets.
"You came twice and then fell over, Milo. You don't get to call anyone a drama queen."
"I came twice because I'm talented and generous."
Iris pulls us both closer, her arms reaching in either direction, gathering us against her sides.
"This is the best outcome I could have imagined," I mumble against her skin, the words going soft at the edges.
Quentin's voice comes from her other side. "Don't jinx it."
A warm laugh comes from Iris,our Alpha,as she tightens her arm around me. "Too late. You're stuck with me now."
iris
It’sbeentwodaysof bliss, the Vark twins all but moving into my space. Not that I mind. I love their scents tangled up in every damn space of my apartment. However, Milo can’t cook for shit but still wants to provide for us. Like now.
Milo is burning pancakes and he knows it and he doesn't care. He's standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through a recipe he's already abandoned while the batter blackens in the pan. Smoke curls toward the ceiling and the kitchen smells like butter turning to carbon, but he's too busy arguing with Quentin about spatula technique to notice.
"You're supposed to flip when the bubbles pop," Quentin says from the counter where he's cutting fruit with the methodical precision of someone performing surgery. Each strawberry is quartered into identical pieces. Each blueberry has been inspected. "The bubbles popped two minutes ago."
"The bubbles are suggestions, Q. Not commands. I'm reading the batter. I'm feeling its energy."
"Its energy is charcoal."
"You don't know that. You're not even looking."
"I can smell it from here."
I sit on the counter next to the fruit cutting board with my coffee pressed against my chest as I watch them bicker the way I've started watching everything they do, with the private, specific pleasure of someone who gets to keep this.
