7 #2
Scotty speedily catches my bicep to keep me on my feet while pleasure in a mix of flaming-hot passion, trillions of sparkling bubbles, and a shy yet delighted hope temporarily overwhelms the bond from Tate, Tiger, and Alby respectively as Ezla continues, It has only been a short handful of days, but the way we have had to be so far . . . I am not liking it.
I can tell that was difficult for her to admit, and something within me softens for her. God, I want to hold her in my arms again.
Anticipation mixes with nervousness from my brothers as our Bonded keeps her mind open to all of us, and my heart picks up speed as we approach the familiar door marked with a luminous ‘14’.
Reaching it, HC scans her thumb on the panel on the wall beside it, and the taalk slides away to allow us entrance into the blindingly white room.
The second we’re all inside and the door closes behind us, Tate moves.
His helmet crashes against the shining floor with a loud thud, rolling away, and he doesn’t give Ezla time to unlock her own before he rushes at her.
The distance between them eaten up in a blink, her helmet hits the taalk in record time, and I hardly have time to think, Holy fuck, I missed her beautiful face, before it’s blocked by the back of Tate’s head as he slams his mouth to hers, large hand wrapping around her neck like a collar.
Vengeance moans into him as he mercilessly bloody devours her, and the sinful note has me hardening in an instant.
A familiar squeak from Alby meets my ears as Tate then shoves our Bonded’s back into the wall, smacking a palm into the section beside her head as if he needs the support to stand up straight, and I dart a glance his way to make sure he’s okay, catching Tiger and his awed hanging mouth beside him in the process.
Snapping his mouth shut, Tiger then turns excessively exaggerated wide eyes on Alby and whispers to him far too loudly for it to actually be a whisper, “Bestie, are you seeing this passion?”
Glad as hell that my happy-go-lucky brother’s spark has been reignited for the time being, I turn my attention back to Ezla, my own eyes bugging out of my head when I see those gorgeous pert nipples of hers on full display.
Lips parting, I vaguely note Scotty coming to stand beside me, his breaths as unsteady as mine as we watch Tate yank impatiently at every item on our Bonded’s body until there’s nothing left, only glorious, bare milky-olive skin.
She strips him with equal vigour, until they’re both completely exposed to each other.
Tate’s chest heaving, a growl shakes the air around him as he notches himself at her entrance. His hips slam forwards without wasting a single little millisecond.
“Havoc,” he grunts out, immediately setting a brutal rhythm, the rapid slap-slap-slap of their joining echoing through the room as he hauls her up so her legs are wrapped tightly around his hips.
“Tate,” she moans huskily in response, pleasure contorting her features.
She’s not at all attempting to block us out or deny how much she wants him, wants all of us—her arousal and rapture flow freely and heavily down the bond—and I think, This is how it should have been that morning.
This is what I wanted to feel when I reached out for my Bonded and felt only cold sheets that day—her unrepentant need for us, her desire to stay with us as much as we want to stay with her.
“Missed you so much,” Tate pants out as he thrusts into her powerfully with no signs of slowing. “Don’t do that to me again . . . I need you . . . You’re mine.”
Letting out another unholy noise of pleasure, Ezla’s reply comes through the bond: I did not wish to leave you—I would have stayed. I . . . I wanted to stay.
I hear the breath catch in two sets of lungs from where Tiger and Alby stand as well as Scotty’s short exhale and rasped, “Love . . .”
“I would— Fuck,” Vengeance cuts herself off, tipping her head back against the wall as Tate’s mouth latches onto her neck and his hands grip her backside to move her up and down on his cock.
But her slim fingers sink into the longer hair on top of his head and she pulls him back with a breathy, “Not this time, my beast,” before he can suck bruises into the skin there.
Pain ripples down the bond, but I can’t identify whose. Or maybe it’s all of ours as everyone immediately understands exactly why Tate can’t mark her the way he wants to. Exactly who would see that claim on her.
Yet Vengeance snarls, a complete contrast to her previous tone which I could’ve almost described as soft, and demands, “Do not think of him. Only us. This is only us, and I need you to give me all of you.”
“Yes, Havoc,” Tate groans into her, the sound nearly agonised. And then he’s moving the both of them, holding her by her ass, her arms wrapping around his neck in return as he carries her to one of the low glinting white tables in the centre of the room.
When they pass by Alby and Tiger with Tate still buried inside of her snugly, one of those long, smooth limbs of hers whips out, and Tiger’s delighted squeal pings off every surface as he’s dragged along with them by his hair, he and Alby having removed their helmets at some point.
By now, I’m too hot to keep my own on, and I take it off with my hooded gaze digging into HC as if in a trance, placing it on the floor next to me.
Tate lays her out on the table, and he doesn’t hesitate to resume pumping his hips, an endless delirious chant of, “Yes, yes, yes,” running from him while Tiger dumps himself on his knees on the floor beside them—hands scrambling to grip onto the table, his next excited sound is muffled by Ezla’s tongue in his mouth in the next second.
“My Havoc,” Tate rumbles, thankfully not attacking him in any way when he catches the intimacy right by his head, only planting a series of gentle kisses along one of the arms that are extended to allow Ezla to cup either side of Tiger’s face, contrasting with his hips’ rough movements. “All mine . . . So fucking warm.”
Quickly glancing at Alby, I take in the way he hugs himself awkwardly, every inch of him a blaring red as he nibbles on his lip nervously.
Like me and Scotty at my side, I can tell he wants to join in but is too scared, too self-conscious, to be so bold, so I give an upward jerk of my chin in silent encouragement when his eyes briefly flicker to me as he feels my stare.
Inhaling sharply, he stalls for a moment.
But when a panted, “Alby,” comes from that low table, his hesitation vanishes as it always does with those two syllables on our Bonded’s plush lips; rushing into action, he scurries over with his eyelids stretched to the size of basketballs, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste.
And I’m readying to head over myself, not about to miss out on this when I’ve been aching for Vengeance for days that have felt like years, when my gaze shifts to Scotty and pauses there.
He isn’t moving. Not at all. I don’t even think he’s aware I’m observing him, he’s so out of it. His visible eye is locked on our Bonded, just like the others’, but there’s also so much . . . pain, longing, guilt, and fucking misery, warring with the arousal in his gaze.
My insides pinch uncomfortably.
Scotty is not okay.
I don’t know how to help him, I don’t even know if I can, but he can’t go on the way he is. Very soon, if he’s not careful, he’s going to burn himself completely out.