Page 9 of Knot The Nanny We Planned

I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow. But the pillow smells like cedar. Like Deklan. And the wall against my cheek is vibrating with the distant pulse of water, and I can't stop thinking about what's happening on the other side of it.

Is he hard? Of course he's hard. I smelled his arousal in the hallway, thick, pine-scented Alpha musk that made my knees buckle. His pupils were blown wide, his nostrils flared, his massive frame coiled tight as a spring. He was holding back. I could see it, the effort it took, the way his fists clenched and unclenched, the way his jaw locked when my scent hit him.

JD Blaine, holding himself back from me.

A fresh wave of slick pulses between my thighs, and I whimper into the pillow. This is insane. I've never been this wet in my life. Not during my heats, not during the awkward fumbling in the back of Tommy Barker's truck in high school, not ever. My body is producing slick like it's trying to flood a room, and the ache between my legs is a hollow, desperate thing that won't be satisfied by anything except…

No.

I press my thighs together harder. My clit is throbbing, swollen and sensitive, and the friction of my underwear against it sends sparks up my spine. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make it worse, but every movement just makes the fabric slide against me, and my hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more.

Don't touch yourself. Don't touch yourself. Don't…

Another sound through the wall. Deeper this time. A groan that starts low in his chest and rises, raw and unfiltered, muffled by the shower but still audible. Still devastating.

He's touching himself. The knowledge slams into me like a physical force. JD is in that shower, water running over his naked body, his hand wrapped around his cock, and he's thinking about… Me.

He's thinking about me. I know it the way I know my own name. The scent-match doesn't lie. Whatever invisible thread connects us, it's pulling taut right now, and every sound he makes travels along it and lands directly between my legs.

My hand slides down my stomach before I can stop it.

Don't.

My fingers slip under the waistband of my underwear.

Don't.

I'm soaked. Completely, obscenely soaked. My fingers glide through the slick that's pooled between my folds, and the contact, finally, finally, makes my back arch off the mattress. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but a small, breathless sound escapes anyway.

Through the wall, the groaning stops and I freeze.

Did he hear me? Can he hear me? The walls aren't that thin, are they? But the shower is running, and maybe the water is loud enough to cover it.

The groan comes again. Louder. Rougher. And then another sound, something hitting tile. A fist, maybe. A palm slammed against the wall.

And it's the wall we share.

Oh God. Oh God, he's right there. Inches away. On the other side of this drywall, in that shower, with his hand around his cock, and I'm on this side with my fingers buried in my slick, and there is nothing, nothing, but six inches of plaster between his body and mine.

I stroke faster.

Two fingers sliding through my wetness, pressing against my entrance, teasing but not pushing in. My thumb finds my clit, and I rub in tight, desperate circles, my hips rolling against my own hand. I imagine it's him. I imagine JD's large, calloused hand replacing mine. I imagine his fingers, thick and insistent, sliding inside me, curling against that spot that would make me see stars.

Please, Alpha.

The words form in my mind unbidden, and they're so desperate, so needy, that tears prick my eyes. I've never called anyone "Alpha" during sex. I've never felt the pull to. But with JD, with all three of them, the word feels right. Natural. Like it's been waiting in my mouth my whole life.

Through the wall, I hear him roar.

It's not a groan. It's not a moan. It's a roar, primal, guttural, and so loud it shakes the picture frame on my nightstand. The sound of an Alpha coming. The sound of a knot releasing. And it pushes me over the edge so hard and so fast that I don't even have time to muffle my scream.

I bury my face in the pillow and shatter.

The orgasm rips through me in waves, my inner walls clenching around nothing, my slick gushing over my fingers, my thighs trembling violently. I ride it out with my hand pressed hard against my sex, grinding against my own palm, but it's not enough. It's not enough. The climax crests and breaks, but the ache doesn't ease. The hollow, desperate need doesn't fade. If anything, the orgasm just makes it worse, my body has tasted relief, and it wants more. Wants them.

I lie there in the aftermath, chest heaving, fingers still slick, and stare at the ceiling.

The shower next door cuts off, and silence follows.