Chapter 17
BIANCA
Iwalk ahead of them up the boardwalk, resisting the urge to run, sand gritting between my toes, dress plastered to my thighs, and I let four sets of footsteps bunch closer and closer behind me.
At the double doors, I stop so suddenly Freddie walks into my back.
“None of you are getting in my nest like this.”
Four pairs of eyes drop to my wet dress, then lower. Sand has dried in streaks along my calves. More falls from the hem every time the fabric knocks against my legs, leaving a trail across the floor that offends me on a deeply territorial level.
I spent half the afternoon arranging those blankets.
Owen catches my hips and presses close behind me. He’s hot even through two layers of wet clothing, his mouth already finding the side of my neck and skirting the cut from the tracker. “We can clean it later.”
“I think not.”
His teeth stop against my skin.
“Showers,” I tell all of them. “And not with me.”
The protest moves through the hallway without anyone managing to put words to it. Tristan checks the outdoor shower, then me, already hunting for a loophole. Weller alone avoids looking personally betrayed, although the hand braced on the wall tightens.
I peel Owen’s hand from my hip and turn around. Four tragically handsome and hilariously dressed alphas stare back at me. Nobody mentions that I called it my nest or points out that I built it this afternoon in a house I only learned existed yesterday.
I claimed a nest. Out loud.
All mine.
The house. The nest. The impatient men blocking the hallway.
And I can’t lie. I’m eager to enjoy them without an audience that’s logging data points.
“Go.”
Owen looks down at the front of his shorts, his erection pointed right at me. “This is cruel and unusual, Princess.”
“I can be crueler.”
I slip inside the bathroom attached to the room I’ve claimed as mine.
It’s enormous, with large skylights and a tub in the corner large enough for several questionable decisions.
Reds and pinks fill the sky overhead. This place carries none of Emerald Hills’ memories, none of the refuge’s familiar emptiness.
The shower takes less time than getting out of the dress.
Wet fabric clings everywhere and requires several undignified twists before I can kick it into the corner.
Sand collects around my feet, rinses from my hair and breasts, then disappears down the drain with the last traces of salt while the water turns my skin pink.
I wash properly because I meant what I said about getting the nest dirty, at least from the outdoors. I wash quickly because there are limits to my principles.
My body isn’t calming down and the beach keeps intruding: Weller’s cock punching inside me, and the four scents burned into my brain since I was thirteen.
The towel makes it around me for the walk down the hall. It doesn’t make it inside the room.
It’s dim and cool, with the balcony doors open to the surf.
Naked, goosebumps rising everywhere the air touches, I climb into the middle and settle back against the blankets. My heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest. I let my knees fall apart as my hand travels down my still-damp stomach.
Much better.
I start with one hand between my legs and the other flat on my stomach. My fingers slide over my clit. The first circle pulls a sound from me; the second brings Weller’s warning back in his voice.
Slow.
He isn’t here yet, so I speed up.
“I knew you’d cheat.”
Tristan leans against the open doorway with a towel low around his hips. His hair is dripping, leaving thin trails down his chest, and the look on his face makes getting caught feel like what I was actually waiting for.
“It’s not cheating. There weren’t any rules.”
“That was a catastrophic oversight on our part.”
I spread my knees wider.
He comes inside without approaching the mattress, leaving the door open as he settles against the wall.
I circle my clit again. “Are you just going to stand there?”
“Perfect view from here.”
“Give me something to look at and I can make it even better for you.”
Tristan untucks the towel and lets it fall.
He is so fucking pretty. Water runs over the sharp cut of his hips and catches in the hair below his stomach before his cock drops from his body, thick and heavy, the flushed head shining when he runs his thumb over it.
Of course even his hand is elegant, long fingers circling himself while the tendons in his wrist shift beneath wet skin.
He’s mine.
“You’re dripping on my floor.”
“Water will be the least concerning thing to drip on your floors.”
“Tristan. Clean it up.”
He moves the towel around with his foot, his fist dragging slowly from base to tip. “Put your fingers inside.”
“I was doing fine before you got here.”
“Then stop being selfish and let me see.”
I push two fingers inside and curl them, watching his hand tighten around his cock. I pump them slowly and he bites his lip.
“Two looks lonely. I think you can take three.”
“Can I?” I give the words enough breath to make them a performance as I push the third inside. “It’s tight.”
His attention lifts to my face. “Spread them apart and get yourself ready for us.”
“Bossy.”
“You invited me to supervise, and supervisors give instructions. Open them.”
The stretch pulls a slow breath from me, and Tristan watches with rapt attention, his fist picking up pace when I spread them as much as I can and whimper.
“Like this?”
His fist tightens. “Tell me how it feels.”
“It would feel better if they were your fingers.”
“Such a slutty little omega for us. They’re going to be upset they missed you stretching your cunt open for all the cock you’re taking tonight.”
Fuck.
I pump them deeper and spread them farther apart. My thighs tense around my hand, the pressure filling me until my eyes close.
“Look at me.”
I do. His mouth curves, but his grip has gone brutal around his cock.
“I would tell you you’re a good girl, but we both know you’re not.”
Owen appears in the doorway wearing a white towel around his hips. Tristan shifts against the wall to let him through, still stroking himself, and Owen comes to a dead stop when his eyes lock between my legs.
He has dark circles beneath his eyes.
His hands close at his sides before he walks to the nearest chair. He catches his weight with his left hand when he sits, then spreads his legs, the towel tented obscenely between them. He says nothing, but the chair arms creak under his grip.
My fingers slip on the next circle as I pinch my nipple. Their scents crowd the ocean air, desire pulling at the bond like a chain around my neck.
“Careful. You’ll make him come on himself again,” Tristan drawls.
Owen’s stare never leaves my hand. “Shut the fuck up.”
Freddie arrives before Tristan can stir the pot further. He’s changed into another pair of colorful shorts from the beach shop, and damp curls cling around his face as he steps through the door.
Too fucking cute.
His attention moves from my face to my breasts, down my stomach, and catches on my hand. His lips part. The honey in his scent thickens until the room tastes warm with it.
“Hi, Freddie.”
He comes closer instead of answering, one slow step and then another. Tristan watches him and Owen shifts in the chair, but Freddie seems to have forgotten either of them exists.
There’s still water gathered in the hollow beneath his throat. One drop slips between his pecs as he reaches the mattress, close enough now that I can see his pulse beating at the base of his neck.
He sinks to his knees, and his hand lifts, hovers beside my knee, then falls back to his thigh.
“Can I kiss you?”
I nod.
Freddie climbs onto the mattress and fits himself beside me, careful of the blankets, careful of my open legs, careful right up until his mouth touches mine.
One hand slides into my wet hair and cups the back of my head.
His mouth opens, tongue sweeping across mine, and the sound he makes when my fingers speed up vibrates through both of us.
I catch his lower lip between my teeth. He follows when I pull, leaning over me until his bare chest brushes my breast and the hard line of his cock presses against my hip through his shorts.
Against the wall, Tristan’s fist loses its lazy rhythm. Owen hasn’t said a word.
Freddie kisses down my jaw and finds the place beneath my ear that makes my thighs draw tighter around my hand. “Fuck, Bianca.”
When his mouth returns to mine, his thumb drags across my lower lip, and then my eyes snap to his when he pushes two fingers into my mouth.
Freddie watches my lips close around him. The soft green of his eyes has almost disappeared, his attention narrowed to my mouth as he presses down against my tongue.
A whimper slips around his fingers.
“Suck.”
I should make him ask nicely.
But I don’t. I suck.
His shoulders lock above me, the hand in my hair closing hard enough to hold me still while his fingers slide deeper over my tongue. My hips lift as if the command reached every part of me.
Freddie’s mouth parts. He draws his fingers almost free, and I follow before he can tell me to.
He looks up, startled enough to show the green again.
He pushes them back into my mouth, slower this time, watching my mouth take them.
“Well, well, Frederick,” Tristan says from the wall.
Freddie doesn’t look away from me.
Footsteps cross the hall, and Weller stops just inside the doorway.
He takes in Freddie’s fingers in my mouth, my hand between my legs, then Owen and Tristan.
Did he do laundry? His black pants are clean, his white shirt buttoned, and he’s fastening one cuff as he walks inside. His hair is still damp at the temples.
It’s unnerving, him fully dressed while I’m... like this.
I look him over slowly and joke softly, “Only Weller would show up to a gang bang in his business best.”
His fingers pause at his cuff and Tristan’s mouth curves.
Weller finishes the button. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it slowly. Nobody crowds her. Nobody’s impatient. Nobody treats this like a competition.” He looks pointedly at Freddie, Tristan, and Owen.