Chapter eight
Knox
Her shirt comes off, and the world stops.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. The world actually stops, the city sounds beyond the window fade to nothing, the hum of the penthouse's climate system goes silent, even my own heartbeat seems to pause, because Willow is sitting in the center of the nest, bare from the waist up, and every single thought in my brain evaporates like mist in sunlight.
She's beautiful.
Not the polished, artificial beauty of the women I've known, the omega hires, the socialites, the boardroom arm candy who spend fortunes maintaining an image. Willow is beautiful, the way a sunrise is. The way the first warm day of spring is beautiful. Natural. Unconscious. Devastating.
Her skin is flush with warmth, a delicate pink spreading from her cheeks down her neck and across her collarbones.
Her breasts are full, heavy, soft, the perfect size to fill my hands, and her nipples are already hard, tightened to stiff peaks by the cool air and the weight of four gazes on her body.
Her stomach is soft, slightly rounded, and I want to press my mouth to it.
I want to trace the line of her ribs with my tongue.
I want to map every inch of her with my lips and commit it to memory.
And she's looking at me. At us. With those wide, gold-flecked eyes, nervous and brave and wanting.
"Willow," I say, and my voice comes out wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. I clear my throat. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sob, and her arms start to cross over her chest, instinctive, protective.
I reach out and gently catch her wrists. "Don't. Don't hide."
"Knox, "
"Don't hide from us." I pull her hands away from her body and hold them, my thumbs stroking the insides of her wrists. Her pulse is hammering, fast, frantic, a hummingbird's heartbeat. "You've been hiding your whole life. Not here. Not with us."
Her eyes search mine. She's looking for something, sincerity, maybe. Proof that I mean it. Proof that this isn't just dirty talk, isn't just an Alpha trying to get an omega out of her clothes.
I let her see it. All of it. The cocky facade stripped away, the grin gone, the bravado abandoned.
What's left is the kid from South Boston who grew up with nothing and never expected to find anything worth keeping.
The man who held her hand in a park today and felt, for the first time, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
She sees it. I watch her expression shift, watch the fear recede, watch the trust take its place.
"Okay," she whispers.
I release her wrists and reach for the hem of my own shirt. I pull it over my head and toss it aside. Her eyes drop to my chest, to the planes of muscle, the line of hair running down my abdomen, the V-cut that disappears below my waistband, and her scent spikes so hard I taste honey on my tongue.
"Like what you see?" I ask. The old Knox, the charming, filthy-mouthed Knox, surfaces automatically, because flirting is my armor, my defense, the thing I do when I'm too vulnerable to be sincere.
"Knox." JD's voice is a warning from the foot of the bed.
"It's a legitimate question," I say, not looking at him. My eyes are on Willow. "She's checking out my body. I want to know if she approves."
Willow laughs. A real, genuine laugh that breaks the tension like a wave breaking on rocks. "You're impossible."
"Impossible to resist?" I lean closer, and my mouth finds her ear. "Impossible to stop thinking about? Impossible to stop wanting?"
"All of the above," she breathes.
I grin. A real grin this time, not the predatory smirk from the kitchen, but something warmer. Something that hurts.
"Good," I murmur against her ear. "Because I've been impossible since the moment you walked in. And I'm about to get a whole lot worse."
Behind her, Deklan shifts. He's propped on one elbow, watching, his dark eyes tracking every movement with the quiet intensity of a man who processes the world through observation.
His hand rests on Willow's hip, barely touching, just his fingertips against the warm skin, and I can see the tension in his jaw. The restraint.
He's holding back. The Beta who knelt on the floor and put his mouth on her, who showed her she mattered - he's holding back because this isn't his show. It's mine. At least to start.
And JD. The Alpha stands at the foot of the bed, shirtless now, his massive frame backlit by the city glow.
His dark eyes are fixed on Willow with an intensity that should be terrifying.
His cock is straining against his pants, thick and visible, the base already swelling with the knot that's been threatening to inflate for three days. He hasn't moved. He's waiting.
This is the arrangement we discussed, silently, in the glances exchanged over breakfast, in the looks shared in the hallway while Willow was with Lily.
I go first. Because I am the one who's been pushing since the beginning.
Because I am the one who cornered her in the kitchen, whispered filth in her ear, and made her spill sugar on the counter.
Because I am the one she needs to feel safe with first, safe enough to let go, safe enough to surrender.
JD goes last. Because the Alpha claiming, the knot, the bond bite, the permanent biological link, has to come at the end.
It's the seal. The final lock clicking into place.
And it can only happen when she's already open, already overwhelmed, already so consumed by pleasure that her omega instincts override every fear and every doubt.
But first, me.
I reach for her.
My hands find her waist, and the contact is electric. Her skin is warm, impossibly warm, fever-hot, the scent-match cranking her body temperature higher with every passing second. I pull her toward me, shifting her in the nest until she's kneeling in front of me, her bare chest inches from mine.
"I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do," I say, my voice dropping to that low, rough register that I know affects her. "And you're going to tell me if you want it."
She nods. Her pupils are blowing wide.
"Words, Willow."
"I want it."
"Good girl." The phrase rolls off my tongue, and her scent floods the space between us, honey and vanilla, thick and sweet and drenched in arousal. "First, I'm going to take off your jeans. Slowly. I'm going to peel them down your legs and look at you. All of you."
Her breath catches.
"Then I'm going to lay you back in this nest, and I'm going to put my mouth on you. Not like the dream, better. Real. I'm going to taste every inch of you until you're shaking."
Her hips shift. Involuntary. Chasing friction that isn't there yet.
"And then I'm going to use my fingers. My hands. I'm going to open you up, prepare you, because JD is," I glance at the alpha, who is visibly throbbing against his waistband, "significantly endowed, and I need you ready for him."
Willow whimpers and the sound goes straight to my cock.
"And then," I murmur, my lips brushing her ear, "I'm going to watch while they take you.
Deklan's mouth on yours, my hands on your body, and JD inside you.
And when you come, when you're full of him, full of us, completely overwhelmed, I'm going to be right here.
Catching you. Holding you together while you fall apart. "
"Knox." Her voice is barely a thread. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please stop talking and touch me."
I smile. Slow. Hungry. "Since you asked so nicely."
I unbutton her jeans. The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, and I watch her face as I work, the anticipation building, her lips parting and her breath quickening. I hook my fingers through the waistband of her jeans and her underwear, then pull them down.
She lifts her hips to help me, and the movement pushes her breasts toward my face. I don't take them in my mouth, not yet. I'm torturing myself as much as her.
The jeans slide down her thighs. Her knees. Her calves. I pull them off along with her socks, and then she's bare. Completely bare. Kneeling in the nest in nothing but her skin.
I sit back on my heels and look at her.
She's... God, she's everything. The curve of her hips. The soft plane of her stomach. The smooth skin between her thighs, glistening with slick. Her inner thighs are wet, coated with it, the evidence of her arousal so blatant and so beautiful that my mouth waters.
"You're dripping," I say. The dirty talk isn't a strategy anymore. It's observation. It's wonder. "You're so wet, Willow. I can see it. I can smell it. And I haven't even touched you yet."
She makes a sound, embarrassed, aroused, desperate. Her thighs press together, and I reach out and gently part them.
"Don't," I say. "Don't close. Let me see."
She hesitates. Then, with a shuddering breath, she lets her knees fall open.
The scent that rises is overwhelming. Honey and vanilla and slick, the thick, sweet, omega-specific lubricant that her body is producing in floods.
Her outer lips are swollen, flushed pink, and between them, her inner folds glisten.
Her clit is swollen, peeking out from its hood, and her entrance is clenching.
Rhythmic. Involuntary. Her body begging for something to fill it.
"Lay back," I say. My voice is a growl now. Not the Alpha growl that JD produces, deeper, rougher, born from a different kind of instinct. The instinct to devour. "Lay back in the nest and let me taste you."
She does. Slowly, she lowers herself onto the pile of shirts and blankets, her head coming to rest on a pillow that smells like JD. Her dark hair spreads across the fabric like ink. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Her hands clutch the edges of the nest.
I settle between her thighs. Her legs fall open wider, an invitation, a surrender, and the heat radiating from her core is palpable against my face.
I press my mouth to her inner thigh. Left side first. A kiss, soft, closed-mouth, barely a touch and she shivers. I move to the right side. Another kiss. Higher this time and she gasps.