3. Chapter 3
Chapter three
Willow
I can't sleep.
Every nerve in my body is a live wire. The sheets are too rough, the pillow too flat, the darkness too thick. And the scent, cedar and rain, woven into the fabric of these sheets like it was ironed in, won't let me breathe.
Deklan prepared this room. I don't know how I know that, but I do.
The bed is made with military precision, corners tucked tight enough to bounce a quarter.
A small vase of wildflowers sits on the nightstand, wildflowers, not roses, not something a designer would choose.
Something personal. Something that says I noticed you'd like these even though he never met me before today.
The beta with the broken nose and the grumpy scowl picked wildflowers for my room.
And now his scent is in these sheets, and I'm lying here, thighs pressed together so tight they're shaking, trying to remember every reason I have to be a professional, responsible, dignified adult.
Reason one: this is a job.
Reason two: they're my employers.
Reason three: I am not the kind of omega who crawls into bed with men she just met, no matter what my biology screams.
Reason four…
A sound cuts through the wall. Low, guttural, and almost animal.
I go completely still, my breath frozen in my chest.
It's JD. In the room next door. And that sound, that deep, rumbling growl that vibrates through the drywall and settles in my bones, is not a sound a man makes when he's sleeping.
No. That's a sound a man makes when he's in pain. Or pleasure. Or both.
I hear the shower turn on. The pipes groan in the walls, and I squeeze my eyes shut, because my brain, that traitorous, heat-soaked brain, immediately supplies the image.
JD Blaine, six feet four inches of solid Alpha muscle, standing under running water.
Naked. Water streaming down the planes of his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of dark hair below his navel to where his,
Stop!
I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow. But the pillow smells like cedar. Like Deklan. And the wall against my cheek is vibrating with the distant pulse of water, and I can't stop thinking about what's happening on the other side of it.
Is he hard? Of course he's hard. I smelled his arousal in the hallway, thick, pine-scented Alpha musk that made my knees buckle.
His pupils were blown wide, his nostrils flared, his massive frame coiled tight as a spring.
He was holding back. I could see it, the effort it took, the way his fists clenched and unclenched, the way his jaw locked when my scent hit him.
JD Blaine, holding himself back from me.
A fresh wave of slick pulses between my thighs, and I whimper into the pillow.
This is insane. I've never been this wet in my life.
Not during my heats, not during the awkward fumbling in the back of Tommy Barker's truck in high school, not ever.
My body is producing slick like it's trying to flood a room, and the ache between my legs is a hollow, desperate thing that won't be satisfied by anything except…
No.
I press my thighs together harder. My clit is throbbing, swollen and sensitive, and the friction of my underwear against it sends sparks up my spine.
I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make it worse, but every movement just makes the fabric slide against me, and my hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more.
Don't touch yourself. Don't touch yourself. Don't…
Another sound through the wall. Deeper this time. A groan that starts low in his chest and rises, raw and unfiltered, muffled by the shower but still audible. Still devastating.
He's touching himself. The knowledge slams into me like a physical force. JD is in that shower, water running over his naked body, his hand wrapped around his cock, and he's thinking about… Me.
He's thinking about me. I know it the way I know my own name. The scent-match doesn't lie. Whatever invisible thread connects us, it's pulling taut right now, and every sound he makes travels along it and lands directly between my legs.
My hand slides down my stomach before I can stop it.
Don't.
My fingers slip under the waistband of my underwear.
Don't.
I'm soaked. Completely, obscenely soaked. My fingers glide through the slick that's pooled between my folds, and the contact, finally, finally, makes my back arch off the mattress. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but a small, breathless sound escapes anyway.
Through the wall, the groaning stops and I freeze.
Did he hear me? Can he hear me? The walls aren't that thin, are they? But the shower is running, and maybe the water is loud enough to cover it.
The groan comes again. Louder. Rougher. And then another sound, something hitting tile. A fist, maybe. A palm slammed against the wall.
And it's the wall we share.
Oh God. Oh God, he's right there. Inches away. On the other side of this drywall, in that shower, with his hand around his cock, and I'm on this side with my fingers buried in my slick, and there is nothing, nothing, but six inches of plaster between his body and mine.
I stroke faster.
Two fingers sliding through my wetness, pressing against my entrance, teasing but not pushing in.
My thumb finds my clit, and I rub in tight, desperate circles, my hips rolling against my own hand.
I imagine it's him. I imagine JD's large, calloused hand replacing mine.
I imagine his fingers, thick and insistent, sliding inside me, curling against that spot that would make me see stars.
Please, Alpha.
The words form in my mind unbidden, and they're so desperate, so needy, that tears prick my eyes. I've never called anyone "Alpha" during sex. I've never felt the pull to. But with JD, with all three of them, the word feels right. Natural. Like it's been waiting in my mouth my whole life.
Through the wall, I hear him roar.
It's not a groan. It's not a moan. It's a roar, primal, guttural, and so loud it shakes the picture frame on my nightstand. The sound of an Alpha coming. The sound of a knot releasing. And it pushes me over the edge so hard and so fast that I don't even have time to muffle my scream.
I bury my face in the pillow and shatter.
The orgasm rips through me in waves, my inner walls clenching around nothing, my slick gushing over my fingers, my thighs trembling violently.
I ride it out with my hand pressed hard against my sex, grinding against my own palm, but it's not enough.
It's not enough. The climax crests and breaks, but the ache doesn't ease.
The hollow, desperate need doesn't fade.
If anything, the orgasm just makes it worse, my body has tasted relief, and it wants more. Wants them.
I lie there in the aftermath, chest heaving, fingers still slick, and stare at the ceiling.
The shower next door cuts off, and silence follows.
He heard me. I know he did. And I should be mortified, I am mortified, but underneath the embarrassment is something darker. Something that thrills at the thought of him listening. Something that wishes the wall wasn't there at all.
I withdraw my hand, wipe it on the sheet - God, I've ruined these sheets - and roll onto my side, pulling the covers up to my chin like a child. My body is still humming, still aching, still producing slick, but exhaustion is pulling at me now, heavy and insistent.
My eyelids droop.
The scent of cedar wraps around me, Deklan's scent, steady and grounding, and despite everything, despite the heat and the shame and the impossible situation I've walked into, I feel my muscles slowly unknitting.
The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is the soft creak of a floorboard in the hallway. Someone pausing outside my door. Someone breathing. Then nothing.
The dream starts the way all dreams do, formless, shifting, without logic or reason. One moment I'm in my childhood bedroom in Millbrook, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The next, I'm somewhere else. Somewhere warm and dark, with walls that aren't quite solid and air that moves like water.
And I'm not alone.
JD stands behind me. I can't see him, but I feel him, the massive heat of his body pressed against my back, his hands gripping my hips, his breath hot against the curve of my neck.
He's naked. I know because I can feel the hard, sculpted planes of his chest against my shoulder blades, the ridges of his abdomen against my lower back, and lower, thick, hard, and insistent, his cock pressing against the curve of my ass.
He's big. Impossibly big. The thick length of him slides between my thighs, not entering, just resting there, hot and heavy, and I can feel the swell of his knot at the base, a dense, throbbing lump that rubs against my entrance with every micro-movement.
"Willow." His voice is a rumble against my ear, so deep it vibrates through my bones. "You feel what you do to me?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"This is yours." He rolls his hips, and his cock slides through my slick. When did I get this wet? I'm drenched, dripping, my thighs slick with it, and the friction against my clit makes my knees buckle. "Every inch. Every drop. All yours."
I try to turn around. I want to see him, want to see the face that goes with the voice, the body that goes with the heat. But his hands tighten on my hips, holding me in place.
"Not yet," he murmurs. "You don't get to look yet. You get to feel."
His hand slides from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying wide, pressing me back against him.
Then lower. His fingertips trace the line of my underwear, am I wearing underwear in this dream?
I was. But now the fabric dissolves, melting away like smoke, and his hand is there, right there, cupping my sex.
I gasp.
"So wet," he says, and his voice is dark silk and gravel. "So ready. Your body knows, Willow. It knows who it belongs to."