“Jealous, Petrov?”
“Fuck yeah.” Luka’s voice is pure gravel. “But my Diamond’s gonna prove I’ve got way more to spare for that pretty mouth than your measly shots.”
Renzo laughs, breathless and cocky.
“Don’t go making challenges you can’t fulfill, Petrov. I most certainly have it in me for another round to prove I can fill her mouth full of my cum and she’ll enjoy every bit of it, right Octavia? You’d do that for your new Alpha, yes?”
She moans around Luka’s cock in answer, the vibration pulling a curse from him and a fresh gush of slick from her.
I feel it coat my thighs, hot and slippery, and the sound of it—wet, rhythmic, obscene—pushes me right to the edge.
I curse, hips snapping forward one final time.
“You two can both fuck off and shoot your shots.”
I pull out—barely in time—gripping my cock with a white-knuckled fist as my release crashes over me.
No condom, no knotting, just the raw, pulsing rush ofmonths of denial emptying onto her perky ass while my knot throbs uselessly against my palm.
The relief is so sharp it borders on pain.
Luka follows a heartbeat later.
Head thrown back, growl tearing out of him as he spills into her waiting mouth. She takes it all, cheeks hollowing, throat working, then pulls off with a soft, wet pop and tilts her head back to show him—tongue out, his release pooled there like liquid gold.
Renzo curses, jerking hand flying, and his release shoots across her stomach in thick stripes just as Luka drops to his ass on the bed, still holding her gaze.
She swallows slowly before showing Luka the result again, and he growls and leans in on his ass, hooking his hand around the back of her neck this time and pulling her in for the most sloppy possessive kiss I’ve ever seen—and I dare say my cock is twitching to life as if I hadn’t fucking came.
“Fuckkkkk.” Renzo lets out a breath. “Fuck the Olympics. Get these two an Only Fans and we’ll be millionaires by dawn.
“Or you guys can be less loud so I can enjoy having a fucking nap, since y’all have been fucking for hours.”
CHAPTER 20
The Elephant In The Room
~MADDOX~
“The enforcer’s job isn’t to hit the hardest.It’s to see what everyone else misses.”
We looked to the door.
Kael Sørensen stood in the doorframe like a monument to misery. Six-foot-four of platinum-blonde, silver-streaked, jaw-clenched, arms-crossed, dark-circles-under-the-eyes Alpha who looked like he’d been through a war and the war had been fought entirely inside his own skull.
His practice sweats were wrinkled. His hair—normally maintained with the architectural precision of a man who considered disorder a personal failing—was disheveled in the specific, fingers-through-it-too-many-times way that indicated hours of restless, horizontal frustration. His pale gray eyes were bloodshot.
Not from tears—from the sustained, unrelenting effort of a man who had been attempting to sleep through an olfactory siege that the ventilation system had been delivering directly to hisbedroom with the relentless efficiency of a military supply chain.
He looked miserable.
Not the standard, baseline Kael misery that the man wore like a second jersey—the low-grade, chronic, I-am-dissatisfied-with-the-universe-and-the-universe-will-hear-about-it displeasure that characterized his resting expression and that the team had learned to interpret as his version of neutral. This was elevated misery. The premium tier. The kind that came from spending hours in a bedroom directly above a room where the Omega he’d claimed through a proxy was being thoroughly, vocally, enthusiastically taken care of by three Alphas who were not him, while his rut blockers fought a pharmacological war against the scent infiltrating his airways and his body waged a biological rebellion against every decision he’d made since choosing the upstairs bedroom.
Poor bastard.
Scratch that. Not poor. He was doing this to himself. Every second of that suffering was self-inflicted, self-sustained, and self-perpetuated by a man whose stubbornness could have powered a small city and whose capacity for self-sabotage had been elevated to an art form over the years I’d been in his pack. Kael Sørensen did not do things he did not want to do. Which meant that if he was standing in this doorway at—I glanced at the clock on the nightstand—four-thirty-seven in the morning, looking like a man who had been run over by his own decisions, it was because some part of him had decided that the misery of being in this room was preferable to the misery of being alone upstairs, and that calculation was the most honest thing he’d done all night.
I felt zero pity for him.
