Epilogue Coming Back For Me…Always
~SERAPHINE~
The world spins in a way that has nothing to do with the aerial ring and everything to do with the orgasm tearing through me like lightning, like fire, like every nerve ending in my body has been lit from the inside.
My fingers dig into Blaze's shoulders—too hard, probably bruising, definitely desperate—as my body convulses around him, suspended thirty feet above the plush nest floor in a position that should be impossible but somehow works when you've got circus-trained Alphas and a dancer's flexibility.
"Fuck," I gasp, the word barely audible over the sound of our combined breathing.
Blaze groans beneath me—or above me, depending on perspective when you're twisted around an aerial ring like some kind of erotic pretzel.
His cock pulses inside me as he reaches his own peak, fingers gripping my hips with bruising intensity, and the heat of his release sends another shudder through my already over sensitized system.
We hang there.
Literally.
Bodies intertwined in silk and steel, sweat making our skin slide together, both of us completely breathless and thoroughly satisfied.
The ring sways gently with our combined weight, creating a rocking motion that prolongs the aftershocks rippling through my core.
My thighs are shaking—actually trembling with the effort of maintaining this position—and there's a particular burn in my muscles that suggests tomorrow is going to be absolutely brutal.
Worth it, though.
Completely worth it.
"Well," Blaze says, voice rough and satisfied, "that's one way to stretch out sore muscles."
I huff.
The sound is half-laugh, half-complaint, emerging between gasps as I try to remember how breathing works.
"I'm going to be more sore," I manage, my head dropping forward to rest against his shoulder. "Not less. You realize that, right?"
His laugh vibrates through his chest, into mine, a shared earthquake of amusement.
"Yeah, but it's the fun kind of sore."
"Says the man who's not the one who had Sage rail me to the rim this morning."
"Details."
I want to argue, but my brain is still floating somewhere between the aerial ring and actual consciousness, too pleasure-drunk to form coherent protests.
The scent of him fills my lungs with every breath—ember smoke and citrus and cinnamon, mixing with my own cotton candy sweetness in a way that's become familiar over the past couple weeks.
Two weeks and three days since we left Ruthless.
Since Kai killed his father.
Since everything changed.
The nest room around us reflects that change—this massive space on the third floor of our new house, ten minutes from Juilliard, that the guys designated as mine the moment we moved in.
Shirts are everywhere. Sage's soft pinks and pastels draped over the back of the velvet couch.
Jett's dark teal folded neatly in a basket near the window.
Blaze's flame-colored tees scattered across the floor like he just shed them randomly.
And Kai's expensive button-downs hanging from hooks on the wall, arranged by color because even in my nest, some order needs to exist.
My dance costumes occupy an entire corner—the performance piece from the audition displayed on a mannequin like art, alongside newer acquisitions for upcoming showcases. Swords are mounted above the bed. My blades—the ones Kai used to kill his father—polished and gleaming and mine again.
This space is ours.
Safe.
Home.
The word still feels foreign.
"I hope that doesn't mean you don't got time for me."
Jett's voice rises from the floor below—quiet as always, but carrying enough weight that it cuts through my post-orgasm haze.
"Cause I've been patiently waiting for this."
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
The manic sound that means my brain is fully back online and processing the absurdity of my current situation.
I tilt my head to look down—which requires some creative neck positioning given how Blaze and I are currently tangled—and find Jett standing at the base of the aerial ring setup.
His storm-grey eyes are fixed upward, tracking the way our bodies fit together, and there's something hungry in his expression that sends a fresh wave of heat through my exhausted system.
"Well," I say, and my voice comes out breathier than intended, "I already got railed to the rim by Sage this morning." I tick off on my fingers—one-two—even though they're currently gripping Blaze's shoulders. "And now Blaze just thoroughly wrecked me up here."
Three partners.
Odd number.
Wrong.
My toe twitches—automatic response, seeking the ground that's thirty feet away.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Need to make it even.
Need to balance it out.
"So if I'm gonna ride you," I continue, working through the math, "that means I totally get to fuck Kai before my next class."
Four partners.
Even.
Safe.
Better.
Jett's lips curve—almost a smile, which is significant coming from him.
"Fair distribution," he observes.
Blaze laughs again, the sound rumbling through both our chests.
"Always with the counting," he murmurs against my hair. "Even when you're literally hanging from a sex swing."
"It's not a sex swing, it's an aerial ring."
"Potato, potato."
I want to argue the distinction—there is one, a very important one involving artistic intent versus purely recreational equipment—but my body chooses that moment to remind me that I've been suspended in an unnatural position for the better part of twenty minutes.
My muscles are screaming.
Actually screaming.
The pleasant ache of a good workout mixing with the sharper burn of overexertion, complicated by the fact that I'm still recovering from weeks of near-starvation at Ruthless.
"Help me down," I say, the words coming out more plea than command.
"You got it, firecracker."
Blaze shifts—careful, controlled, using the strength he's built from years of circus training to adjust our position without sending us spinning wildly. His hands find my waist, supporting my weight as he slowly extracts himself from inside me.
The sensation is overwhelming.
Too much.
I'm so oversensitized that the drag of his cock withdrawing makes me whimper, and I feel the wet slide of our combined release coating my inner thighs.
Messy.
We're both absolutely wrecked and messy and I don't care.
Can't care.
Too exhausted to care.
He maneuvers us with practiced efficiency—rotating the ring, adjusting his grip, keeping me secure while gravity tries to reclaim us. My hands find the silk wrapping, holding on even though I know Blaze won't drop me, muscle memory from years of aerial training taking over.
Down.
Slowly.
Inch by inch.
The ground approaches with agonizing slowness, and I can see Jett moving to help, positioning himself beneath us, ready to catch if needed.
My feet touch plush carpet.
Finally.
Solid ground.
My knees immediately try to buckle—the particular weakness that follows really good sex combined with aerial acrobatics—but Blaze's arm is around my waist, supporting me, keeping me upright while my body remembers how to function on a horizontal plane.
"Steady," he murmurs.
I nod.
Can't speak yet.
Still catching my breath, still feeling the aftershocks rippling through my core, still processing the fact that I've had three rounds of sex before noon and I'm apparently not done yet.
Jett is there.
Right there.
Close enough that I can smell the eucalyptus and cold rain scent of him, can see the desire burning in those grey eyes, can feel the heat radiating from his body even though we're not quite touching.
"Hi," I manage, the word coming out small and breathless.
His hand reaches up.
Cups my jaw.
Gentle.
Reverent.
Like I'm something precious instead of a sweaty, thoroughly-fucked mess.
"Hi," he echoes.
And then he's kissing me.
The kiss isn't gentle.
Nothing about Jett is gentle when he's finally claiming what he's been watching others take all morning, and his mouth crashes against mine with the kind of desperate intensity that makes my already-shaky knees completely give out.
Good thing he's ready for it.
His arm bands around my waist, supporting me, lifting me slightly as he walks us backward toward the nearest wall. My feet barely touch the ground—he's bearing most of my weight, moving with the controlled precision I've come to expect from him.
My back hits the wall.
Hard.
The impact drives the air from my lungs, but Jett doesn't give me time to recover. His hands are already moving, sliding down to grip my hips, then lower, finding the rumpled fabric of my skirt—when did I put that on? Oh right, after Sage, before Blaze—and shoving it up without ceremony.
No preamble.
No teasing.
Just need, raw and immediate and absolutely consuming.
I gasp into his mouth as I feel him at my entrance—already hard, already positioned, already pushing inside with a stretch that borders on painful given how thoroughly used my body already is.
"Fuck," he mutters against my lips, the word vibrating between us. "Need to be quick. Already so fucking hard for you. Been watching all morning and it's been driving me insane."
His hips snap forward.
Burying himself completely in one brutal thrust.
I cry out—the sound muffled by his mouth still claiming mine, swallowed by the kiss that's more collision than caress. My hands scrabble for purchase, finding his shoulders, digging in with nails that are probably leaving marks.
Good.
Mark him.
Mark them all.
Claim them back.
The thought surfaces through the pleasure, through the overwhelm, through the particular kind of madness that comes from being thoroughly fucked by multiple Alphas in rapid succession.
Jett sets a rhythm that's nothing like Blaze's circus-skilled precision or Sage's tender intensity.
This is pure efficiency.
Fast.
Hard.
The rhythm of someone who's been waiting and watching and needs release now before he loses his mind completely.