Epilogue Coming Back For Me…Always #2
His cock drives into me over and over, each thrust pushing me harder against the wall, the angle perfect for hitting that spot inside that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
My body is exhausted—actually exhausted, muscles trembling and oversensitized—but apparently my Omega biology doesn't care about minor details like physical limitations.
I'm wet.
So wet.
The obscene sound of our bodies meeting fills the nest room, mixing with our combined breathing, the particular symphony of sex that I've become intimately familiar with over the past two weeks.
"That's it," Jett growls, his voice rough and strained. "Take it. Take all of me."
I moan into his mouth—can't help it, can't stop the sounds from escaping—and my legs wrap around his waist automatically, locking at the ankles, using what little leverage I have to meet his thrusts.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
My internal counting continues beneath everything else—the baseline rhythm that keeps me tethered when pleasure threatens to scatter my thoughts completely.
The kiss breaks.
We're both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same space while our bodies work toward the inevitable conclusion.
"You're perfect," Jett murmurs, and the words shouldn't affect me as much as they do. "Fucking perfect. All of you. Every crazy, beautiful, deadly part."
Movement in my peripheral vision.
Blaze.
He's descended from the aerial ring, landing with practiced silence, moving toward us with that particular grace that comes from years of performance training.
His hand finds my jaw.
Tilting my head.
Away from Jett.
Toward him.
And then he's kissing me.
The contrast is immediate—Blaze's kiss is fire and playfulness where Jett's was control and need. His tongue traces my lower lip, requesting entrance rather than demanding it, and I open for him with a moan that vibrates through all three of our connected bodies.
Jett's rhythm doesn't falter.
If anything, having Blaze join us seems to spur him on, his hips snapping harder, faster, driving deeper with each thrust. I'm caught between them—pinned to the wall by Jett's body, my mouth claimed by Blaze's, overwhelmed by sensation from every direction.
Blaze's hand slides down my neck, tracing patterns on my collarbone, then lower, finding my breast through the thin fabric of whatever top I'm wearing. His fingers circle my nipple—already hard, already sensitive—and the dual stimulation of his touch and Jett's cock makes my whole body arch.
"Gonna come," I gasp, breaking the kiss with Blaze to warn them both. "Fuck, I'm gonna—"
"Do it," Jett orders, his voice strained. "Come all over my cock. Let me feel it."
Blaze's mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin where a bond mark would go, and the threat of it—the promise—sends me over the edge.
The orgasm hits different this time.
Not the explosive, all-consuming pleasure of the first two rounds, but something deeper. More intense. The cumulative effect of multiple climaxes building on each other, compounding until my whole system short-circuits.
I scream.
Actually scream.
Loud enough that I briefly worry about disturbing the neighbors before remembering we don't have neighbors—this house sits on enough private land that we could probably commit murder and no one would hear.
We have committed murder.
Multiple times.
The thought makes me giggle—high and manic and completely inappropriate given the current circumstances.
My body convulses around Jett's cock, inner walls clamping down with enough force to make him curse. Slick gushes out—I can feel it, hot and wet, coating us both, making the slide even easier as he continues fucking me through the aftershocks.
Then he's pulling out.
Sudden.
Immediate.
Leaving me empty and gasping and confused.
"What—"
I watch, dazed and pleasure-drunk, as Jett's hand wraps around his own cock—swollen and red and clearly close to knotting. He strokes himself with quick, efficient movements, jaw clenched with the effort of control.
"Can't knot you," he grits out between clenched teeth. "Not now. If we knot, you're not making it to recital practice."
"And we already almost fucked up last time," Blaze adds, though his voice carries amusement rather than real concern.
Last time.
Right.
The memory surfaces through the haze—three days ago, when Sage knotted me right before a scheduled rehearsal and we ended up forty-five minutes late because you can't exactly separate when biology locks you together.
The rehearsal director was not amused.
Jett's hand works faster, and I watch with fascination as his knot swells fully, as his cock pulses with release that paints his stomach and hand instead of filling me like I suddenly, desperately want.
"Administrators love me," Blaze continues, pressing a kiss to my temple. "That's the only reason we got away with it. But I can't be pulling that off a second time."
A giggle escapes.
Then another.
High, bright, absolutely unhinged—the sound of someone whose brain chemistry is completely scrambled by endorphins and Omega biology and the sheer absurdity of her current life.
My fingers twitch against Jett's shoulders.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Counting.
Always counting.
Three partners this morning.
Four if I include Kai.
Even number.
Safe.
Good.
Blaze and Jett lower me carefully—coordinated effort, their hands supporting my weight as my feet find solid ground again. My knees are jelly. Completely useless. If they let go, I'm hitting the floor.
They don't let go.
Both of them keep their hands on me—steadying, supporting, anchoring me while my body remembers how to function independently.
"You okay?" Blaze asks, his golden eyes scanning my face with something that looks almost like concern.
I nod.
Can't quite form words yet.
Too overwhelmed, too satisfied, too thoroughly wrecked to manage coherent speech.
Jett leans in—one more kiss, this one softer. Gentler. The kind of kiss that says thank you and you're mine and I'll catch you if you fall.
Then Blaze kisses me too—his version of the same sentiment, translated through fire and mischief and the particular warmth that is uniquely him.
A knock sounds at the door.
Sharp.
Authoritative.
Unmistakably Kai.
The door opens before anyone can answer, and Kai fills the doorway like he owns it—which, technically, he does.
His dark gold eyes sweep the room, taking in the scene we present—me standing on shaky legs between Blaze and Jett, all of us thoroughly disheveled, the scent of sex absolutely saturating the air.
"Are you guys done rubbing it in while I take business calls and keep this empire afloat?"
The words come out dry.
Irritated.
But I can see the heat behind them—the desire he's been suppressing while handling whatever legitimate business dealings the Lawson empire requires now that his father is dead and investigators are sniffing around the circumstances.
Blaze laughs—bright and utterly unrepentant.
"Stop being grumpy," he says, releasing his hold on me to gesture at the space around us. "No grumpy men are allowed in the new nest space."
New nest space.
The words make me smile despite my exhaustion, and I take a moment to really look at what we've created here.
The room is massive—easily twice the size of my quarters at Ruthless, with vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with natural light.
The walls are painted a soft blush pink—Kai's choice, though he'd never admit it—and the floor is covered in plush carpet that's perfect for barefoot dancing.
Shirts are everywhere, like I noticed earlier.
But not just shirts.
There are hoodies draped over chairs—Jett's mostly, because he runs cold.
Sage's collection of soft cardigans hanging in the open closet.
Blaze's performance costumes from his circus days displayed on mannequins like art pieces.
And Kai's ties—silk and expensive—coiled in a basket near the bed like sleeping snakes.
My costumes occupy the east wall.
The audition piece on its mannequin, surrounded by newer acquisitions. Practice clothes folded neatly in cubbies. Performance pieces for upcoming showcases at Juilliard, each one more elaborate than the last because apparently Martinez wasn't kidding about the scholarship covering materials.
The aerial ring dominates the center of the room—professional grade, properly installed, with crash mats arranged beneath for safety even though I rarely use them.
My blades are mounted above the bed—crossed like a coat of arms, polished to a mirror shine.
The same blades Kai used to kill his father two weeks ago.
The same blades that were covered in elder Lawson's blood while investigators swarmed the warehouse, asking questions and filing reports and ultimately concluding that Kai couldn't possibly be involved.
After all—the official story goes—he was with his newly bonded Omega that day.
They have witnesses.
Time-stamped security footage from the boutique where we were shopping for my costume.
Phone records showing Kai taking business calls from locations nowhere near the warehouse.
And a performance hall full of people who saw me on stage while the explosion happened.
The perfect alibi.
Meticulously constructed.
Absolutely airtight.
To think investigators were more excited to announce the death of the elder Lawson—a known criminal figure, though they could never prove it—than they were to solve the murder.
Clearing "Kai" of any association with such crimes was barely an afterthought.
Just a newly bonded Alpha protecting his Omega from unknown threats.
Case closed.
Move along.
Nothing to see here.
The best getaway any of us could have asked for.
"We'll get the car ready," Jett says, pulling me back to the present moment. His hand squeezes my hip once—gentle, grounding—before he releases me and moves toward the door. "So we're not late dropping off our sweet dancer."