21. Temptations On The Sunset Horizon #3

I surrender, full-body, to the headlong rush of sensation, years of careful boundaries and survival instincts collapsing in a heap around my feet.

With every glide of his thumb along the side of my throat, I feel the pulse thrum in my ears: a primal drumbeat, a call to arms. My fingers claw at the back of his shirt, hauling him closer, refusing to allow even a breath of space between us.

He presses me into the wall, body caging mine, and I swear I taste blood where I bite his lip, but he only growls and plunders deeper.

There’s something wild in the way his restraint ratchets tighter even as his hips roll forward, the hardness of him unmistakable, pressing into my stomach with a promise I can barely comprehend.

Each movement, each squeeze or pull or tentative retreat, is calculated to wind me higher, to keep me teetering at the edge.

My legs are trembling, not from fatigue but from the sheer voltage of being wanted like this, and every time he relents for a half-breath it’s just to drink me in, to fix me in memory before he loses himself again.

He nips at my bottom lip, then soothes the sting with the broad sweep of his tongue, and the tenderness is almost more shattering than the need.

He breaks the kiss only to lap at the taste of me on my own lips, humming in deep, lewd satisfaction, and then dives back in, as if he’s chasing a flavor he might never get enough of.

His grip at my throat gentles just a fraction, thumb stroking the frantic flutter of my pulse, and the pleasure is so sharp it nearly tilts into pain.

I kiss him back with equal fervor, trying to communicate without words how much I need this, need him, need whatever they're willing to give me. Three years of suppressed sexuality surge forward, demanding satisfaction, demanding to be seen and met and matched.

When we finally break apart, we're both gasping.

My lips feel swollen, well-used, and his don't look much better. There's a wildness in his eyes that makes my stomach flip, promises of what could happen when medical restrictions lift and he doesn't have to hold back.

"Gorgeous," he mutters, thumb brushing my abused bottom lip. "Look at you. All pink and needy and perfect."

I am needy.

Desperately, embarrassingly needy. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel shame about it.

Not when he's looking at me like I'm precious, like my desire is something to be celebrated rather than suppressed.

"River," I breathe, not sure what I'm asking for but knowing he'll understand.

He does. Of course he does.

His hand slides down from my throat, tracing a deliberate path between my breasts, over the delicate lace barely containing them, down past the garter belt to hover just above where I need him most. The anticipation makes me squirm, pressing back against the wall like I can phase through it and escape the intensity of what's happening.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for until his fingers slip beneath the barely-there fabric of the panties.

"Fuck." The curse punches out of him as his fingers find me dripping, slick coating my thighs and pooling hot between my legs. "You're soaked, Dandelion. All this for me?"

I should be embarrassed by how wet I am, how easily my body betrays its need. Instead, I spread my legs without hesitation, giving him better access, not caring that I'm in a boutique changing room with only a curtain between us and the rest of the world.

River takes the invitation for what it is, fingers sliding through my folds with devastating gentleness.

He's learning me, mapping every sensitive spot while I try to muffle the sounds wanting to escape.

When his thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure, I have to bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Shh," he soothes, even as he slides one finger inside me. "Quiet, baby. Can't have the whole store knowing how good you feel on my fingers."

The words make it worse, make me wetter, and I can smell it now—our scents mingling in the small space, his pine and earth mixing with my honey sweetness until the air is thick with sexual musk. Anyone who walks by will know exactly what's happening in here, blockers or no blockers.

River adds a second finger, curling them just right, and my knees actually give out. Only his free arm around my waist keeps me upright as he works me with methodical precision. He's watching my face, cataloging every reaction, figuring out exactly what makes me shake.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice full of wonder. "Taking my fingers so well. Been empty too long, haven't you?"

"Yes," I gasp, past the point of anything but honesty. "So long, River, please?—"

He knows what I need before I can articulate it. His fingers speed up, thumb pressing harder on my clit while he fucks into me with a rhythm that has me climbing fast toward release.

The intensity in the air is suffocating, every sense tuned to the way River’s body presses mine to the cold, paint-chipped wall, to the way his touch so utterly disregards anything outside this tiny, fabric-wrapped world.

But it’s the sounds— God, the sounds —that threaten to undo me: the slick, shameless noises his fingers make as they plunder into me, the wet suck and slide echoing off laminate tile and plastic hangers like a filthy metronome, the urgent slap of skin and the hollow thud of my back when he thrusts just a bit harder, as if staking a flag inside me.

It is not delicate.

It is not the soft soundtrack of a romance movie— no, this is animal, visceral, a chorus of need that sounds like it should be happening in a dark alley, not a daylight-bathed fitting room stocked with handmade linen.

I bite down on every startled whimper and moan, clutching a fistful of River’s shirt, but there’s no way to silence the chorus of our bodies.

The rhythm of it, the symphonic wetness, is so loud I’m sure the clerk must be loitering just outside the curtain, hand pressed over her mouth in either horror or awe.

River, for his part, seems intoxicated by the sound, by the way my body gives up all pretense and spills for him.

His eyes never leave mine, pupils blown wide with hunger as he watches me come apart.

Every time his fingers sink deeper, I hear the obscene slick and feel the answering jolt deep inside me, an electric tangle of pleasure that sparks with each curled thrust. The air is so thick with scent and heat that I almost hallucinate: the taste of the blood in my mouth from biting my lip, the sharp tang of adrenaline and sweat, the earthy pine of his skin, and—rising, cresting, undeniable—the honeyed musk of my own arousal, thick as sap.

It’s everywhere. It’s everything. It floods this little booth, seeps into my lungs, rewires the chemistry of need.

The noise is relentless, a vulgar punctuation for every perfect movement, as if my body has become an instrument made for this alone.

I'm close, so close, thighs trembling and breath coming in pants I can barely muffle. Just a little more and ? —

He withdraws his fingers entirely.

Before I can protest— before I can do more than whine at the loss —River drops to his knees.

The sight of him there, looking up at me with pure hunger while my slick gleams on his fingers, nearly finishes me on its own.

"Need to taste," he growls, and then his mouth is on me.

The first swipe of his tongue makes me see stars. I slam both hands over my mouth, muffling the cry that wants to escape as he licks through my folds like a man starved.

There's no hesitation, no careful exploration—he eats me like he's been thinking about it for months, like he knows exactly what he wants and how to take it.

When his tongue thrusts inside me, replacing his fingers, I almost scream.

Only the last shred of awareness that we're in public keeps me silent, hands pressed hard against my mouth while he fucks me with his tongue.

The sounds he makes—greedy, appreciative, absolutely filthy—vibrate against my sensitive flesh.

My thighs shake around his head as he works me over, alternating between fucking me with his tongue and sucking on my clit until I can't tell up from down.

The pressure builds impossibly fast, coiling tight in my belly, and when he sucks hard while pressing his fingers back inside, I shatter.

The orgasm hits like a lightning strike, white-hot and overwhelming. I bite my palm to muffle my cries, whole body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me.

River doesn't let up, licking me through it, holding my trembling legs to keep me from buckling completely.

He makes the most obscene sounds as he licks up every drop of slick, greedy and appreciative like I'm the best thing he's ever tasted. His tongue is thorough, catching what's run down my thighs, cleaning me with an attention to detail that has aftershocks rippling through me.

When he finally leans back, his mouth and lips glisten with my slick. The sight is so erotic I have to close my eyes, another pulse of arousal hitting despite just coming harder than I have in years. I watch through heavy lids as he licks his lips clean, savoring the taste with obvious pleasure.

"Fuck, that was divine," he says, voice wrecked. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

He stands with fluid grace, steadying me with gentle hands as I sway on unsteady legs.

The white lace is hopelessly twisted, and I'm sure I look thoroughly debauched. The thought should mortify me.

Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Claimed in all the ways that matter.

"This piece," River says, fingers tracing the edge of the lace with possessive intent, "you can only wear around us. Understood?"

I nod, still too overwhelmed for words. The idea of wearing this for all four of them, of letting them see me like this— vulnerable and wanting and theirs —makes my pussy clench despite just being thoroughly satisfied.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and I have to bite back a whimper at how those words affect me.

"Is everything okay in there?" The sales attendant's voice from outside makes us both freeze. "I heard some... noises."

My face flames with mortification, but River just grins, looking supremely unbothered by nearly being caught with his face between my thighs.

"Everything's perfect," he calls back, voice remarkably steady for someone who just tongue-fucked me into oblivion. "Actually, we'll take this lingerie piece in every color you have."

"River!" I hiss, shocked. "That's?—"

"Every color," he repeats firmly, then leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear. "The white is gonna be for the night we officially make you ours, Dandelion. Want you wearing it when we claim you properly, when there's no more restrictions holding us back."

The promise in his words makes me shiver, already imagining that night.

All four of them seeing me like this, touching me, tasting me, making me theirs in every way possible.

"Now," he continues, pulling back with visible effort, "let me clean you up because we have some riding to do."

He produces a handkerchief from his pocket— of course he carries one —and gently cleans between my thighs with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. The contrast between his careful touch now and his hungry mouth minutes ago gives me whiplash in the best way.

"I'll wait outside while you change," he says once I'm decent enough. "Take your time."

He slips out through the curtain, leaving me alone with racing thoughts and trembling limbs.

I catch my reflection in the mirror— hair mussed, lips swollen, skin glowing with satisfaction —and barely recognize myself.

This isn't the controlled, cautious Omega who fled Iron Ridge.

This is a whole new me. A blossoming Omega. Someone who takes what she wants and lets herself be wanted in return.

Twenty-three hours left.

After what just happened, after the promise in River's eyes and the taste of freedom on his tongue, those hours feel like a lifetime. But they also feel like preparation.

Time to ready myself for what's coming, for the claiming and bonding and belonging that waits on the other side.

I start changing back into the new white romper outfit and new boots, ready for the ride ahead, my movements slow and careful on unsteady legs.

Outside, I can hear River talking to the sales attendant, his voice calm and pleasant like he didn't just take me apart with his mouth in a public dressing room.

Every color, he'd said.

The white for their claiming night.

My pussy clenches at the thought, already eager despite the satisfaction still humming through my veins.

Twenty-three hours, and then I'll find out exactly what it means to belong to the pack at Cactus Rose Ranch.

I can hardly wait.

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