Plague #3
Whiskey, meanwhile, is sucking increasingly hard. His hands have moved to my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows there, anchoring me in place so I can't buck into his mouth the way my body keeps trying to.
It is, I realize with the distant detachment of a man watching his own house burn down, a genuinely coordinated effort.
Whiskey is pacing me.
He slows when Valek's fingers tighten in my hair.
Speeds up when Valek's breathing goes shallow.
He's reading Valek reading me and adjusting accordingly, like this is a fucking relay race and he's the anchor leg, and for a creature I have spent years dismissing as operating purely on cheeseburgers and energy drinks, his sudden awareness is almost insulting.
My hand finds Valek's thigh. The fabric of his pants is still bunched where he couldn't be bothered to push them lower. My fingers dig in.
"Plague," he pants.
I take him deeper.
His hips twitch once, a small involuntary thrust, and then he forces himself still.
I feel the effort in the tremor of his thigh under my palm. I pull back just enough to swirl my tongue around the head, the way that drove me insane earlier when Whiskey did it to me.
Valek makes a choked sound. His thumb strokes along my temple, an absurdly gentle gesture for what my mouth is currently doing.
CLICK.
What the fuck was that?
A camera shutter sound?
I jerk back. Valek's hand tightens in my hair just enough to keep me in place, and when I look up with absolute murder in my eyes, he's holding his phone at arm's length, angled down at us with a wolfish grin splitting his face.
He took a fucking selfie.
Of the three of us in a cock sucking chain.
"The little lady wanted a picture," Valek says casually, as if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. "I could take another if you don't like the angle?"
I glower at him.
He sends it.
Ivy's reply flashes across the top of his screen.
IVY
tell him he looks pretty
"She says you look pretty," Valek reports.
I am going to burn this house to the ground.
Then Whiskey does something with the flat of his tongue that short-circuits every burning flame of indignant rage inside me because I have a fucking humiliation fetish, apparently.
I come.
Not gracefully. I let out a strangled growling cry with Valek's cock still stuffed in my mouth and Whiskey's name somewhere in the back of my throat, and my fingers twisted white-knuckled in sheets I will have to strip and burn.
Whiskey doesn't pull off. He swallows, and keeps swallowing, and only when I stop shaking does he finally let me slip from his mouth with a low chuckle, licking his lips.
"Godsdamn," he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist.
I can't respond to that even if I knew what to say.
My jaw is otherwise occupied.
Valek's fingers tighten in my hair. I look up at him—as much as I can from this angle, with his cock still in my mouth and my lungs still reassembling themselves—and his silver eyes are blown wide and fixed on my face with an intensity that is, frankly, disturbing.
I hold his gaze and take him to the root.
His whole body locks. His thighs tense under my hands. His fingers go rigid in my hair and then deliberately loosen, like he's forcing himself not to grip, not to thrust, not to take anything I haven't given him.
His head thunks back against the headboard.
"Fuck," he breathes, his accent thickening. "Plague…"
He hasn't finished saying my name before it blurs into a snarl as he comes in my mouth, his salt searing down my throat.
I swallow because I don't have another option, and because there's a petty satisfaction in sucking while he watches, my eyes locked on his in challenge even as his white lashes flutter shut.
And because my body has gone liquid and ungovernable and doing anything else feels like too much effort.
Valek sags against the headboard. His hand drops from my hair to my shoulder, squeezes once, and slides down my arm in a long, slow drag that feels suspiciously like tenderness and I growl at him for that too, pulling back from his cock.
Whiskey hauls himself up the bed.
He's still dressed from the waist up, red plaid flannel gaping open, a bruise already darkening on the pale skin of his throat from where my fingers must have gripped at some point I don't remember. His jeans are open but not off. His cock is out and hard and flushed dark.
"You didn't…"
"Nah." He grins down at me. "Watched the show. That was plenty. You can make it up to me later."
I glower at him. "This wasn't for fun, it was…"
"Data, data." He waves me off. "Yeah, yeah. Don't ruin it. C'mere."
He tugs me up his body until my head is on his broad chest, his arm a dead weight across my shoulders, his heartbeat a solid thud against my ear. My face is pressed against his warm sternum because I still can't move.
"So," Whiskey says after a long moment, his voice lazy and fucked-out. "That happened."
"Shut up, Whiskey."
Valek exhales through his nose. "Thank you," he purrs, caressing my cheek with the backs of his knuckles as he curls lazily around my back like a giant cat. "For the warm welcome."
"Fuck off," I mutter.
These fucking alphas are going to be the death of me.