Page 115 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

Sloane reaches for me the way he always does, trying to pull me closer, trying to take. I catch both of his wrists and pin them above his head against the wet tile. He resists for half a second out of pure habit, then goes still.

“Stay,” I tell him.

I keep his wrists pinned with one hand and use the other to map him. The tension in his shoulders. The tight line of his abdomen. The places where weeks of holding everyone else together have settled into muscle. When my fingers close around his cock he groans low and rough, his head tipping back against the tile. Another sound drifts down from the nest and Sloane’s hips jerk forward into my fist.

“She’s happy,” he says, voice wrecked. “Fuck, Idris—she’s so fucking happy.”

I stroke him slowly, tightly, watching every reaction. “I know.”

“I missed this.” The words come out broken, almost angry with how much they cost him. “I missed you wanting me when there was nothing left to fix. I missed being something you reached for because you wanted it, not because the pack needed managing.”

I lean in until my forehead rests against his and my hand keeps working him under the water. “I missed it too.”

Sloane’s eyes close as a tremor runs through his whole body. I release his wrists only long enough to turn him so his chest is against the tile, then press in behind him. My cock slides along the seam of his ass, slick with water and the precome already leaking from my cock. He pushes back immediately, but I hold him there.

“Patience, Sloane. I don’t want to fucking hurt you.”

He grunts, thrusting back against me. “Sometimes I wish I had slick to make this easier. Fuck, Idris, just use spit. I need you inside me.”

I chuckle, spitting enough into my hand before stuffing two fingers into his hole. He cries out at the intrusion before rocking back slowly. I open him up, roughly scissoring my fingers inside of him before adding a third and then a fourth.

A guttural sound leaves my lips as my knot starts to swell and I replace my fingers with my cock. I cover Sloane’s hands bracedon the wall with mine before slowly pressing inside of him, knot fluttering against his ass.

“Color,” I ask against his ear.

“Green. Fuck—green. Move.”

The rhythm starts controlled. Deep, steady thrusts that force him to feel every inch as water pounds over both of us. Steam thickens until the rest of the bathroom disappears. Every time another soft, wrecked sound carries from the nest, Sloane clenches around me and I feel it in my spine.

His usual stream of words dies until only rough moans and my name remain. I reach down and wrap my hand around his cock again, stroking in time with my thrusts. His head drops back against my shoulder.

“Idris—”

“I got you.”

My knot begins to swell as I push deeper, forcing the thickening base past the tight ring of muscle until it locks us together. Sloane comes the second it seats fully, hard, shaking, a raw sound tearing out of his throat as he spills over my fist and against the tile. The rhythmic clench of him around the knot pulls my own release out of me in long, heavy pulses. I bury my face in the side of his neck and let it take me, my hips giving small thrusts against the lock while I empty into him.

I wait until the swelling softens enough to slip free, then keep him pressed to the wall while I clean us both with slow, thorough hands. I soap my hands and wash us both, checking the marks I left as I go.

Eventually a small, breathless laugh escapes him. “Dash told us not to fuck on the couch,” he says, voice wrecked and almost giddy with relief. “We technically obeyed.”

I press a kiss to the wet skin behind his ear. “Technically.”

“You think Theo’s going to let up on Callie so we can cuddle them tonight?”

I chuckle, pulling him into a soft kiss just as another moan hits my ears. “I think we might have to wait a little. Seems Theo’s still taking care of her. It just means I have a little more time with my Alpha.”

Theo

Callie has been in the nest long enough for everything to smell like her. Her cardigan lies beneath my cheek, warm from where she wore it this morning, and her hair is spread across the pillow in a pale tangle that keeps catching around my fingers. She is supposed to be reading, but she has not turned the page in several minutes because I keep pulling strands across my mouth and watching them slip free.

“You are making progress impossible,” she says, though she is smiling when she looks down at me.

I push closer until my face rests against the soft curve of her stomach. Her dress has ridden high enough that my knee touches bare thigh beneath the blankets, and she makes a small pleased sound when I rub my cheek over the knit covering her waist.

The nest has grown since breakfast. I brought in another blanket from the linen closet, two pillows from the guest room, and one of Sloane’s shirts that still smells like cedar beneath the detergent. Callie added the scarf Idris gave her, folding it near my head without asking whether it belonged there, and the sight of it beside Dash’s old sweater made something quiet settle inside me.

Dash sits on the floor with his back against the bed, a book open across one knee and a mug of coffee cooling near his hand. He has read the same page twice because Callie keeps reaching over the edge of the mattress to run her fingers through his hair.