Chapter 4 #4
I reach blindly for Rafe, and his hand grasps mine before his lips cover mine.
The kiss is hungry. His tongue is in my mouth, and I have never tasted anything so good.
I suck greedily upon it as Lark performs a kind of feral magic upon my pussy, his lips, his tongue, kissing me there with the same gusto that Rafe consumes my mouth.
Rafe slides his other hand down to cup my breast gently.
He squeezes the weight before catching my nipple between fingers and thumb and rolling it.
The sensations are unbearably exquisite. Their dual touch and kisses are like a tsunami coming for me, slamming me from every direction at once.
My climax is near instant and shattering. Rafe swallows up my cry.
The moment they lift their heads, I beg, “More.”
After that, my thoughts turn hazy as my heat comes for me hard and fast. I sink my teeth into their flesh and mark them as mine. I score them with my nails. They give me all the pleasure my body can take, but their clothes remain on, and they take none for themselves.
But I will not be satisfied until their hot flesh is made one with mine.
Distantly I acknowledge that the step I am about to take is a significant one. They try to deny me, but I am unwavering in my demands: pleading, begging, and finally sobbing until they relent and strip off their clothes.
It is Rafe who moves above me, his expression stark, and a tic thumping in his jawline. Cupping my cheek, he demands I give me my eyes. “Violet, there is no going back from this… from what you ask me to do.”
“Good. I do not want to hold back.” The feel of him over me, his warm body pressing me into the bed, his power, yet gentleness and restraint, overrides any lingering doubts. “Not when it feels so right.”
He groans and kisses me like I am precious as he lines up and sinks a small way in, stretching me. Heat blooms in my core. The anticipation of more, of untold pleasure just out of reach.
Wrapping my arms and legs around him, I pull him in.
“Gods!” he mutters roughly, lips against my throat. And then he sinks into me, fully, and I come to understand the revelation that is the joining of masculine and feminine flesh.
The pain is fleeting. My climax is spontaneous. Sweet spasms engulf my core as I lovingly squeeze over his hard cock.
He moves, and I realize there is more, that this is only the beginning, and I am greedy for it all.
They no longer deny me, giving me what I need over and over again. Hard cocks penetrating. A frenzy of coupling that seems to have no end.
I lose count of how many times they take me, only that it is not enough.
Time passes, and still my body demands more.
When I sob, when everything they do is not quite enough, when they are shaking with fatigue, and I’m breaking them as surely as they are breaking for me—for they are both betas and my body craves something delivered only by an alpha and his knot.
Only I despair at the thought of an alpha. How could I want any other when I have already found perfection in these two? Ordinary. Betas. Yet, in this moment of clarity, I understand they are extraordinary men.
Finally, borne of sheer desperation, Rafe says to Lark, “She needs your fist.”
The words cut through the haze. Something inside me wakes with sharp curiosity even as I wonder what he means.
“She needs to be knotted,” Rafe continues, “or as close as we can get.”
My intellect surfaces fully.
“The fuck are you asking me to do?” Lark says.
“She needs it,” Rafe says with that cool assessment of a man who is always in control, even now, even wasted from taking me so many times. “Look at her. She needs it.”
I lack the cognizance to understand what they are saying, yet my trust in them is absolute. “Please,” I beg.
Rafe gathers me up and takes a position sitting at the head of the bed, laying me back against him with my head against his chest. He lifts my legs over each of his and spreads me extra wide.
My pussy sparks with interest at the sudden dominant move, and again as Lark sprawls on his belly at the apex of my thighs, where he presses three thick fingers inside me without preamble.
I arch. Rafe is right here holding me. One hand collaring my throat, the other gathering my wrists and shackling them loosely against my belly. “Go ahead,” he says, coolly.
And Lark does—pushing, slow, relentless, stretching me, twisting, working me open, making me ache so good.
“That’s our sweet, perfect princess,” Rafe says, his lips against my ear. “Let Lark do this for you. Let him help you how you need.”
I yield to them both—to Rafe holding me, to Lark opening me—and as his fingers curl inside me to make something that is perfect, I understand with the clarity that only this stripped-back state can bring: I do not need more than these two. They are perfect, perfect for me.
Trust. I find the meaning of that word as I accept his flesh into mine.
Truth. I experience an epiphany as I submit.
And as my body shatters and convulses into spasmodic bliss that eclipses all other pleasures, I claim them as mine.