Chapter 29 #2
"Copy," Kit rumbled. The vibration traveled through my ribs, deeper than a bass guitar, settling in my marrow. "Where are we going, love? Furniture or wall, your call."
"Self-pleasure," I said, moving my hand between my legs. "Talk me through it. Do not move, Kit. You are the wall."
Kit went perfectly still. His scent, espresso, molasses, and deep earth, flooded the space, creating a sensory deprivation tank where only he existed.
"Right," he said, his voice dropping to that tectonic frequency that short-circuited my brain's logic centers. "Sorted. Hand on the mark, Z. Find the heat."
I touched myself. His voice was a physical weight, pinning me down more effectively than ropes.
"Slow circles," he instructed, the Manchester lilt curling around the syllables. "Clockwise. Drag it out. You don't get to sprint. Not yet."
"Kit," I whimpered, the friction building, bright neon orange behind my eyelids.
"I've got you. I'm holding the ceiling up. You just focus on the friction."
He narrated every twitch of my body. He told me when to breathe. He told me when to arch. He built the nest around me with words.
"That's it," he growled, tight and possessive, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. "Good girl. Taking orders so well."
The trigger phrase hit like a kick drum to the chest. My vision whited out. I came hard, shaking against his thigh, sobbing his name into the dark.
Kit didn't move. He held the tension in his own body, absorbing my release without taking his own.
He just held me while the aftershocks rattled my teeth, his presence the foundation that kept me from collapsing.
His voice was still vibrating through my ribs when I rolled over and pressed my mouth to his.
He froze. His entire body went rigid, like a drumhead pulled taut. I could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his breath hitched in his throat.
"Z," he warned, his voice rough. "You don’t have to—"
I cut him off with my teeth on his bottom lip. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him feel it. His hands shot to my hips, fingers digging in, but he didn’t move me. Didn’t push. Just held, like I was something precious and volatile.
"Shut up and fuck me," I said against his mouth.
A growl tore out of him, low and possessive, and then he flipped me.
One second I was on top, the next my back was against the mattress, his weight pinning me down.
His cock was already hard, pressing against my thigh, but he didn’t rush.
He braced himself on one forearm, the other hand sliding up to grip my throat, not tight, just there, his thumb brushing my pulse point.
"Tell me what you need," he demanded, his voice a dark velvet command.
I arched into him, my body already humming from the aftershocks of the last orgasm. "I need you to move, Kit. I need you to stop being careful and just—"
His mouth crashed into mine before I could finish. No finesse, no build-up. Just teeth and tongue and the raw, desperate sound he made when I wrapped my legs around his waist. He ground against me, his cock sliding through the wetness between my thighs, and I gasped into his kiss.
"Fuck, you’re dripping," he groaned, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate circle. "All for me?"
I dug my nails into his shoulders. "Less talking."
He smirked and then he was inside me in one smooth thrust. My back bowed off the bed, a broken sound tearing from my throat. He was big, stretching me in a way that bordered on pain, but the burn was perfect, the friction exactly what I needed.
"Good?" he grunted, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot and fast.
"Harder," I gasped.
He didn’t hesitate. He snapped his hips forward, driving into me with a force that stole my breath. The bunk creaked under us, the frame rattling against the bus wall, but neither of us cared. I clawed at his back, my body coiling tighter with every punishing thrust.
"Kit—fuck—"
"Right there?" His voice was a rough growl, his hand sliding down to grip my hip, angling me just right. "You take me so well, love. Like you were made for it, for me."
The words sent a jolt through me, my nerves lighting up like a live wire. I could feel the orgasm building, a tight, relentless pressure, and I wanted it, wanted the release, the way my vision would whiten out, the way my body would go limp and boneless under him.
"Don’t stop," I begged.
"Never," he promised, and then his mouth was on mine again, swallowing my cries as I came apart beneath him. His own release followed seconds later, his body locking up, his cock pulsing inside me as he groaned my name like a prayer.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a delicious crush, his heart hammering against my ribs. I could feel the sweat slick between us, the way his breath hitched as he tried to catch it.
"Fuck," he muttered into my neck, pressing a kiss to my pulse. "You’re gonna kill me."
I laughed, breathless, and tangled my fingers in his hair. "Worth it?"
He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes. The usual teasing glint was gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier. "Every damn time. But now you need to sleep," he commanded when I stopped shaking. "System reset."
I passed out instantly, safe in the gravity of him.
Lab Note: Subject K is a narcotic. Use with caution. Highly addictive. Resonance: Perfect.
Sunday: Conductor Mode
The whiteboard was cleared. I stood in the center of the nest, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that grazed my thighs.
Alfie, Euan, and Kit formed a triangle around me. The air was thick enough to chew, a dense fog of heated blackberry, ozone, salty sesame, and rich molasses. It was a complex bouquet, heady and intoxicating.
"Pack Night," I said. My voice wasn't shaky. It was the voice I used to mix stadiums, the voice that cut through feedback. "I'm running the board. Do not deviate."
"We're live," Alfie agreed, watching me with predatory devotion, the "ASK > ASSUME" on his thumb visible as he rested his hands on his knees.
"Positions," I ordered.
Alfie moved to my front, kneeling, eager. Euan took my left, clinical. Kit took my back, the anchor.
"Euan," I said. "Hands. Waist. Monitor tightness. Don't let me lock up. If I spike, you ground me."
Euan’s cool, calloused hands found my hips, thumbs pressing efficiently into the tensor fasciae latae. "Monitoring. Route confirmed."
"Alfie," I looked down. "Mouth. No hands. I want suction only. You are the input."
Alfie groaned, burying his face against me through the cotton for a second, worshipping the fabric, before diving underneath the hem. His mouth found me, hot and wet and desperate, tasting of mischief and devotion.
"Kit," I gasped as the first wave hit, my knees buckling. "Talk. Talk me through the mix."
"I'm on the fader," Kit growled in my ear, his chest vibrating against my spine, his massive frame supporting my weight entirely. "Riding the levels. You take it, Z. Take the input. Euan, adjust angle, a little to the left."
Euan obeyed instantly, shifting my hips with mechanical precision to optimize the angle for Alfie. Alfie moaned a vibration against my clit that sent sparks of gold and violet exploding behind my eyes.
I cried out, arching back into Kit, overwhelmed by the sharpness of the sensation. "I need weight. Ground me!"
"Adding bass," Kit said. He wrapped one massive arm around my chest, pinning me, while his other hand slid down to join Alfie, adding the heavy, rhythmic friction I craved.
"All of you, I need all of you," I begged, my head swimming in the sensory overload. "Unmute all channels."
It was a wall of sound. Synesthetic colors exploded, Alfie's frantic gold, Kit's grounding umber, Euan's cool slate, swirling into a blinding white light.
I was the mix, and they were playing me perfectly, a symphony of flesh and breath.
Each of them took turns fucking me senseless until I couldn't take it anymore.
"Mine," I sobbed, grabbing Euan’s hair with one hand, digging nails into Kit’s forearm with the other. "Mine. Mine."
I shattered. The climax was a full-system failure, a beautiful, terrifying collapse into the safety of the pack.
One by one, they followed me over the edge, touching each other, touching me, a tangle of limbs and scents and sounds, boundaries dissolving into unity.
Later, much later, the air in the lounge was heavy and sleepy.
Kit held a water bottle to my lips, hydration first. Alfie was cleaning me up with a warm towel he’d seemingly conjured from nowhere, humming a melody that didn't exist yet.
Euan was re-pinning the blanket fort where it had collapsed during the finale, ensuring the structural integrity was restored.
I reached for the tablet I kept by the bed.
"What are you analyzing now?" Alfie mumbled, half-asleep on my stomach, his face pressed into the soft skin there.
"Updating the patch notes," I whispered, my fingers tracing the cool glass of the screen.
I opened the note taking app. Technical documentation was my love language, after all.
SUNDAY SUMMARY: Orchestration successful. Resonance achieved. No clipping detected despite high gain input.
ADDENDUM: We’re going to need a bigger bus. And more towels.
A notification popped up as I was typing. Then another. And another.
Dread pooled in my stomach, chasing away the post-sex high I'd been riding and bringing reality crashing back in.
I didn’t want to look. But instinct propelled my hand, reaching with trepidation. The notifications scrolled across the screen like a digital mutation. Each line skewered my residual euphoria like a rusted needle's tip.
"Doxxed"? The word, freshly minted as a flare, burned itself everywhere—social feeds, inbox pings, the sickly yellow of urgency. I swiped desperately, heart buzzing with the anxiety like I’d swallowed a summer wasp.
My username was there, stark in the headlines. Real names, previous jobs connected, a sprawling diorama of half-truths painted by vicious minds with too much time and too little empathy.
I bolted upright, stark terror slicing through the veil of fatigue. How had it unraveled? Who knew enough to...?
The comments section was lit with digital flames, a volatile gamut consuming my life made drip-feed content for the insatiable void.
I needed to call Rowan. Initiate the emergency contingencies.
But there was no air in my lungs. I choked on static.