Iwake up slowly, my body heavy and warm and completely surrounded.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am or anything beyond the bone-deep satisfaction humming through every cell, the delicious ache between my thighs, the way my skin feels sensitized and alive.
Then I feel the Alphas. Mason is behind me, one arm draped over my waist, his face buried in my hair. His bare chest is pressed against my back, warm and solid. Dylan is in front of me, sprawled on his stomach with one leg thrown over mine, his wild hair spread across the pillow like dark honey streaked with ash. His hand is resting on my hip, fingers splayed possessively even in sleep.
We’re all completely naked, tangled together under soft sheets that smell like sex and cinnamon and honey and us.
My head is still foggy, thoughts moving through molasses, and all I want to do is sink back into this warmth, into them, and never leave.
Last night was incredible, mind-altering.
I’ve never experienced that level of intensity, that perfect synchronization, or sense of being completely and utterly cherished while being thoroughly fucked.
Mason knotted me at the end. I remember the overwhelming fullness, the way it felt like he was locking himself inside me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. I cried out his name while Dylan held me and whispered praise in my ear.
Then I must have crashed hard because I don’t remember much after that. Orgasms tend to exhaust me like that. And my body buzzes with residual pleasure, pulling toward it like it’s magnetic north and I’m helpless to resist.
I could stay here forever. Wrapped up in them, safe and warm and wanted.
Then I glance at the clock on the bedside table.
6:00 a.m.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I have to be at the harbor at seven, as Ash, to meet Slater for the charter. For work, for the investigation I’m supposed to be conducting instead of sleeping with half of the pack I’m investigating.
Shit, shit, shit.
I need to move and get out of here, transform into Ash, and somehow make it to the harbor in an hour.
I start to slide carefully out of bed, trying not to wake them, moving with glacial slowness.
Mason makes a soft sound in his sleep, his arm tightening around my waist instinctively, and I freeze.
Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
I gently lift his arm, slipping out from under it, and he immediately rolls toward Dylan instead, his hand finding Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan shifts in his sleep, moving closerto Mason, and suddenly they’re wrapped around each other, snuggling close.
They look so peaceful and beautiful together.
Mason’s sandy-blond hair is messy from sleep, his face relaxed and handsome as hell. There’s a small smile playing on his lips like he’s having a good dream.
Dylan’s face is half buried in the pillow, that dark hair no longer tied up but instead spread everywhere. His tattooed arm is thrown over Mason’s waist, pulling him close, and even in sleep, there’s something possessive about the gesture.
I have to physically resist the urge to crawl back between them.
The pull is almost painful. My instincts are screaming at me to stay, to curl back into their warmth, to let them wake up with me still there.
But I can’t.
I move quickly now, scanning the floor for my clothes. They’re scattered everywhere, a trail of fabric marking our path from the door to the bed.
My jeans are crumpled near the foot of the bed. I grab them, trying to be quiet, while I spot my top hanging off the dresser. How did it even get there? Boots are by the door.
Where the hell is my bra?
