Rowan’s cock fills my pussy to the hilt, his knot swollen and snug, stretching me in ways that should feel impossible but instead feel like the only way my body was ever meant to fit around them. Ice cream drips down my chin, and Rowan catches it with his thumb, smearing the sticky sweetness across my lower lip before he leans in to lick it clean.
His voice is rough from hours of growling my name, but the grin he flashes is pure mischief, the kind that makes my stomach flip even when I’m already wrecked.
I moan around the next spoonful Ronan feeds me, the flavor exploding—strawberry ripple this time, tart and creamy and somehow better than the last six flavors they’ve rotated through. My heat has been raging for four straight days, a wildfire my suppressants never stood a chance against once the adrenaline of the game crashed through my system and the pack’s protective growls wrapped around me like a second skin.
I take it all back.
Every complaint I ever muttered about heats being a distraction, every eye-roll at the thought of losing control. This? This is the best kind of fuckery the universe could have handed me.
Because I’m not just surviving it.
I’m thriving in it, locked between two Alphas who treat my pleasure like a strategic playbook they’ve memorized better than any power-play setup we drilled on the ice.
They feed me. Worship me. Let me be the bold, mouthy Omega who spent fifteen years fighting for every inch of rink time while still making sure I never have to fight alone again.
Rowan’s knot tugs gently as he shifts, the movement sending sparks up my spine that have nothing to do with the bruise still healing across my back.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” he teases, nipping at my earlobe. His juniper scent—Ronan’s, actually, but they bleed together when they’re this close—wraps around me like cool forest air cutting through the thick heat haze in the room. “We can feel it, sweetheart. That pretty little brain of yours is trying to analyze the angle instead of just feeling how full you are.”
I laugh, the sound breathy and broken because Ronan chooses that exact moment to roll his hips in a slow circle that drags his knot against every sensitive spot inside me.
“Analyzing angles is what got me that breakaway in the third,” I shoot back, voice husky. “You two should be thanking me for the hockey IQ that landed us in the playoffs instead of complaining that I’m multitasking while you’re turning me into a human ice-cream sandwich.”
Ronan chuckles low in his chest, the vibration traveling straight through his cock and into my core. He scoops another spoonful—chocolate fudge this time—and holds it to my lips.
“Open up, captain’s favorite distraction. You earned the sugar rush after that performance. Both on the ice and right here.” His amber eyes lock on mine, steady and intense, the same focused gaze he wears when he’s reading the defensive zone like a chessboard. “And yeah, we’re thanking you. Every single time you clench around us like that.”
I take the bite, letting the rich chocolate coat my tongue while my body clenches involuntarily around both of them.
The stretch is obscene, perfect, the kind of full that makes my hindbrain purr and my Omega instincts preen under the weight of being so thoroughly claimed.
Four days of this. Of the twins tag-teaming me while Archie watched with that quiet, intense hunger he’s only just learning to voice out loud. Four days of balancing the scales after weeks where my time with Archie had been the steady anchor and the twins had been the chaotic, exhilarating wings I’d barely had a chance to explore.
The investigation exploded across every social feed the second the arena lights dimmed.
Maxwell’s arrest, the sweep of half the opposing roster, the public testimony Archie screamed into a microphone thatsuddenly carried the weight of ten years of silenced pain. Campus security turned into a fortress.
The league granted us the full two-week grace period—media blackout, no mandatory appearances, just recovery and whatever the hell we wanted. Week one became catch-up time with the twins because I’d spent so many nights curled into Archie’s chest, letting his cedarwood scent chase away the ghosts of every tryout where coaches had looked straight through me.
It was time to let Rowan and Ronan remind me exactly how good it feels to be wanted by Alphas who see the tomboy Omega with the scarred knuckles and the NHL dream and decide she’s worth every chaotic second.
Rowan’s knot finally starts to deflate, the pressure easing in slow, delicious pulses that make my thighs tremble. He kisses the side of my neck, slow and reverent, lips brushing the sensitive spot where his teeth had grazed earlier.
“You okay, Wildcard? Still with us?”
I nod, swallowing the last of the ice cream and chasing it with a moan when Ronan’s knot tugs free next.
The sudden emptiness makes me whimper, but they’re already moving, gentle hands sliding under my knees and around my back, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
“More than okay,” I manage, voice wrecked. “That was… romance novels could never sell this level of service. Ice cream and double knots? I’m ruined for normal foreplay forever.”
They laugh in unison, the sound wrapping around me warmer than any blanket.
Rowan scoops me up fully, carrying me toward the oversized bath in the upgraded dorm suite the university had quietly assigned us during the media storm.
The room still smells like us—my peppermint-and-cherry-blossom cutting through their combined oak-juniper warmth, the air thick with the evidence of hours spent tangled together.
Steam rises as Rowan lowers me into the water, the temperature perfect, scented with something subtle and soothing that Jeffrey must have arranged because the man thinks of everything.
