Page 73 of The Rust in Her Hair

Nico's powerful body, Owen's loving gaze, Mack's huge cock, Adrian's tender hands.

I press harder, my hips rolling, chasing my release.

The pressure builds tighter and tighter, an intense coil low in my gut, until it finally snaps, sending waves of pleasure through me. I cry out as I come, muffling the sound against my pillow, my body trembling with the force of it. At the same moment, a gush of wet heat erupts from me, slick soaking through my clothes and onto the blankets beneath me.

My eyes fly open, shocked.

Did all of that come out of me?

I've never produced this much slick before. At least not outside of my heat.

"Shit," I curse as I glance down at my body.

I need to clean this up. I need to strip the blankets and rinse the shorts before anyone gets home and smells what I've done in here.

I push up onto one elbow, and the small room swims.

The closet tilts to the left, the row of hanging shirts smearing sideways, and I have to drop back down onto the pillows before I tip over. My head goes light and swimmy, my limbs heavy and useless, like every ounce of strength I have poured out of me along with a gallon of slick.

Okay. Okay. Just give it a minute.

I press my cheek to the cool blanket and breathe, waiting for the walls to hold still.

They don't, not right away.

I let the pictures fall from my other hand and close my eyes, trying to collect myself.

And then, the shame slams into me right on schedule.

I lie there in the mess I made, breathing hard, staring up at the row of their shirts.

What the hell is wrong with me?

A month of living off their kindness and this is how I repay them, curled up in their closet getting off to their private photographs like some feral thing they took in off the street.

Flustered, I fling one arm over my face, blocking out the sight of their shirts hanging above me like witnesses.

"Cool," I announce to the empty closet. It’s going to take me forever to air out this room. "Agree to marry a monster, jump out a window, then get myself off in a stranger's laundry. Really turning things around, Lyra."

The row of shirts says nothing.

Which is exactly what I deserve.

A Seat at the Table

Lyra

"—and that," Mack says next to me, jabbing his fork across the card table at Owen, "is how I got myself banned from a Cracker Barrel in three separate counties."

Owen is laughing hard on the other side of the table, one hand flat on the table, his shoulders shaking. "How have I never heard this story?" the beta asks.

I giggle along with him at the end of the little table, my cheeks aching from smiling. I can't remember the last time my face hurt like this.

Dinner at my parents’ house was always silent, forks scraping on fine china while my mother tracked every bite I took. Here it's all noise and elbows, and laughing and talking.

I twirl the last bite onto my fork, eat it, then lay my fork and knife across my plate, parallel, angled to four o'clock. The way I was taught before I could even read.

Mack and Owen keep talking, but across the table, Adrian is watching me with a soft smile tugging at his mouth. His blue-gray eyes move over my face while I eat, almost like he’s admiring a precious painting.