Page 85 of Savage Surrender

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I press my mouth to his. “Please.”

Another tear slips toward my temple. He kisses it before it reaches my hair.

“I was so lonely,” I whisper, and my breath stutters when Weller begins moving again, even slower than before. His next stroke catches the rest. “I can’t bear to be separated again.”

His next breath shudders out of him. He pulls me flush and kisses me with the first hint of hunger he’s allowed himself.

Pleasure gathers quietly beneath the wreckage. Warmth spreads through exhausted muscles, and Weller’s hips lose their perfect rhythm. His cock grows thick inside me, the swelling at the base pressing against my tender entrance.

“Bianca.” My name fractures in his mouth.

I pull him closer. “Knot me.”

His eyes close.

“Please,” I whisper. “I want you to stay.”

He pushes deep and holds me as his knot swells, sealing him inside me. I whimper and his hand cups the back of my head, keeping our foreheads together as the pressure crests into a deep, pulsing ache. His release is warm and mine follows.

“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I love you... all of you.”

Freddie pulls the blankets over us, and Owen settles close enough behind me that his chest warms my back through them. Tristan mentions something about food and I hear the door open and close. Their breathing gradually slows while Weller rubs my back, the motion so soft and soothing my eyes grow heavy.

The sound of the surf erases everything beyond it.

18

TRISTAN

Weller has been reading the same condom box for five minutes, turning it now to dissect the fine print along the side.

“It’s not that complicated, is it?”

He looks at me like I’m an imbecile. “I’m checking the ingredients of a product that is going inside Bianca.”

Fair, but she’d agree we’re running out of options and can’t afford to be too picky here.

The tropical shirt belongs on a drunk retiree, not Weller, and I laugh every time it enters my peripheral vision.

I drop the box into our basket and add five more from the shelf.

“Tristan.”

“You did the math while she was threatening to remove our dicks. I was distracted.”

“We don’t need that many.”

“There are four of us, her heat could last several days, and Owen is surely going to break a few in his haste.”

Weller studies the basket. Three boxes remain on the shelf, so I take those too. He retrieves one long enough to trace the specifications with his thumb.

Sand has been grinding beneath my left heel since Bianca and I came back from our morning run. Every step drives it deeper into my shoe, easier to ignore than the scrape across my palm where bark caught it or the tender half-moons she bit into my shoulder when my knot swelled.

Before sunrise, her hand had closed around my bicep beneath the blankets and she’d whispered, Do you want to go for a run? One blue eye stayed on me over Owen’s arm while she waited for my answer. I followed her out before he could realize his arms were empty. I’d never willingly pass up alone time with her.