The Other Fire Part Two
~SAWYER~
August’s cock is a beautiful, veiny thing—thick enough to stretch my jaw, hard enough that the head flushes deep when I drag my tongue along the underside.
I take him deeper, humming around the weight of him, and the sound that punches out of his chest is half curse, half prayer.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been this frisky with another man.
Rust shows in the way my throat needs a second to remember the angle, the way my free hand has to relearn the exact pressure that makes an Alpha’s hips stutter.
I don’t mind the rust. It keeps me honest.
What I do mind—what I privately appreciate—is how tightly August has been holding himself back these past five years for the Omega who still owns the better part of his heart.
Loyalty like that is rare.
It tastes better than any release I’ve ever chased.
Now that the four of us are a pack, even the temporary federal kind, something permanent has started rooting under the surface.
This night is going to test every inch of it.
I can feel the test in the way August’s fingers tighten in my hair, in the way his scent—iris and pear blossom and the green bite of sage—has gone thick and dark with want. My own answers it: magnolia heavy as a southern night, cracked black pepper, the low caramel burn of aged bourbon.
The two of them braid together over the dying fire until the whole backyard smells like something that could last.
I stroke the base of him with a firm, steady hand, then tighten a deliberate ring of fingers just above the swelling knot. The extra pressure makes his thighs jump. He curses under his breath, low and broken.
“I guess I should reward you,” I murmur against the wet head, letting the words vibrate through him. “You’ve been using those listening skills of yours and taking action. I can commend that.”
Then I take him all the way to the back of my throat.
Deep. Slow. No half-measures.
My nose brushes the soft hair at the root; my throat works around the thickest part of him.
August’s hips jerk once before he forces himself still, one big hand braced against the stone bench so hard the knuckles go white. I swallow around him, once, twice, and the sound that rips out of him is pure surrender.
“Fuck—Sawyer—”
He comes hard, pulsing against my tongue, flooding my mouth until I have to ease back just to keep from choking.
I don’t swallow.
I hold it, let the thick, salty heat pool on my tongue while I release his cock with a wet slide. My hand stays busy, massaging the swollen knot in slow, firm circles that draw another full-body shiver out of him.
I rise up over him, one knee between his spread thighs, both hands planted on the cool stone on either side of his head.
The kiss I give him is pure chaos—tongue, teeth, the messy transfer of his own release spilling between our mouths until it coats both our chins. It’s filthy. It’s perfect.
For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I struggle to keep the leash on myself with another man. The struggle is exciting. I refuse to say the word out loud, but every cell in my body knows it.
We stay like that until neither of us can breathe without gasping. When I finally pull back, a thin string of spit and semen connects our lower lips for a second before it breaks.
“Are we going to go see what our Omega is up to?” I whisper against his mouth.
August groans, low and wrecked.
“Fuck yeah.”
We put the fire out together—water from the garden hose, a few careful stirs of the embers until the last orange glow dies.
Clothes get sorted with the same unhurried efficiency we bring to every other disaster. Shirt half-buttoned, jeans still open at the fly, hair a lost cause. Neither of us pretends it’s a big deal.
The yard is empty except for the frogs and the distant slap of marsh water.
Nobody’s watching but the stars.
Inside the house, the air is warmer, scented with cedar and apricot and the faint leftover smoke we tracked in on our boots.
Amber’s giggle floats down the hallway from the master bedroom, bright and unguarded. Beckett’s deeper rumble answers it. The sound of them settles something restless in my chest.
We push the door open without knocking.
Amber is cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wrapped in a soft gray robe that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Beckett stands at the edge of the mattress holding a wide-tooth comb in one hand and a paddle brush in the other, frowning at both like they’ve personally offended him.
“It shouldn’t make a difference,” he’s saying, completely serious. “Hair is hair. You drag something through it, and it gets less tangled. Why are there two tools for the same job?”
Amber loses it.
The laugh that bursts out of her is full-body, the kind that makes her tip sideways onto the pillows and clutch her stomach. Tears sparkle at the corners of her eyes.
“You’re—oh my God—you’re actually debating this.”
August and I stop in the doorway. I arch one eyebrow. August does the same, arms folded, still looking deliciously wrecked from the yard.
“What in heaven’s name is that man gonna do with your hair?” I ask.
Amber sits back up, still giggling, and points an accusing finger at Beckett.
“He wants to brush it. But he doesn’t know the difference between a comb and a brush. And I like watching him struggle.”
August shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Beckett, what’s gonna happen if we’re a girl dad? You’re fucked.”
Beckett actually laughs—rare, warm, the kind that softens every hard line of his face.
“Well, our daughter’s coming to y’all, because she’d cry the second I fucked up her hair. You two can be the ones who fix the pigtails. I’ll stick to teaching her how to swing a hammer.”
I step fully into the room and wave a hand.
“Move aside, both of you. I can do it. Somebody find me a blow dryer.”
Beckett hands over the tools without argument.
August disappears into the bathroom and returns thirty seconds later with a small travel dryer and a bottle of leave-in that smells faintly of coconut.
Amber watches the whole exchange with bright, curious eyes, then shrugs the robe off her shoulders and lets it pool around her hips.
She’s completely naked underneath—skin still flushed from whatever Beckett put her through, curls a tangled halo around her face, the faint marks of teeth and fingertips visible along her collarbones and the insides of her thighs.
She looks too hot for a simple hair-care session.
I still want to do it.
She settles cross-legged in the center of the bed again, spine straight, hands resting loosely on her knees.
The others sprawl around her—Beckett propped against the headboard, August stretched out on his side with his head near her thigh—both of them relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since the day I rolled into this town. No tension. No careful distance.
Just four people who have finally stopped running long enough to share a mattress.
I plug the dryer in, test the heat on the back of my own hand, then start working the comb through the worst of the tangles.
Soft, patient strokes from the ends upward. Amber’s eyes flutter half-closed.
“You happy?” I ask quietly, over the low hum of the dryer.
She opens her eyes and smiles—slow, genuine, the kind that reaches all the way to the green flecks in her hazel. “Yup. Super happy.” A beat. She tilts her head, studying my face with the same sharp attention she uses on seating charts. “Is he happy?”
The look she gives me is knowing. She can smell the residual heat on my skin, the way August’s scent still clings to my collar.
She knows exactly what we were doing out by the fire.
I lean in and press a soft kiss to the side of her neck, right over the place where her pulse jumps.
“Yeah,” I whisper against her skin. “I’m happy. He’s happy. Now let’s get this hair sorted so we can snuggle.”
She giggles, the sound vibrating under my mouth.
“Snuggle my ass. You’re gonna make my hair messy again.”
I straighten, still working the dryer in long, careful passes, and meet her eyes in the mirror of the dark window.
“I’ll attempt to be reasonable.”
I know firsthand I’m totally not keeping that promise.