Page 168 of Slashed Bonds

He’s right; Killian is still on his knees, hands now bracing my thighs so wide the stretch burns, his mouth never once breaking contact. He’s not in a rush, not anymore—he drags his tongue in slow, wide arcs, letting me twitch and shudder through the aftershocks, chasing every ounce of pure, wild want out of my system only to breathe it back in, amplified. The sound now is less obscene, more devotional, and I realize I’m making noises, gasps and half-starts of words, like I’m auditioning for some performance I never trained for.

Nikolai’s hand leaves my ribs and moves up, bold with the claim, to my throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t even pressure. He just lays it there, the full length of his palm, so that every time I swallow or pant or try to gasp, I feel him first. I could shake him off—if I wanted—but I don’t. It’s a shock, how much I don’t.

I can feel my pulse banging against his thumb, can picture him cataloging it, tracking every acceleration and every faint. There is nothing clinical about it; it’s pure curiosity, pure experiment. He’s measuring how long Killian can keep me at the border of sense.

When Killian finally does slow, it’s not a mercy. It’s an escalation. He retreats just enough to let the cold air hit me, my own slick cooling too fast, and then he stands, so sudden I jerk in Nikolai’s arms. Killian’s hands are on my hips, then my waist, then my face, and he finds the blindfold and unties it, fast and with a twist, so the world sheets back in at full color and contrast.

He’s looking at me, direct, eyes blacked out with hunger and something older. He takes a beat to memorize what he’s done. His mouth is shiny; his jaw is red from friction and maybe my thighs, and there’s a bruise blooming on his neck I’m sure I didn’t put there.

He leans in and kisses me, harsh and deep, so I taste myself, the salt and ozone of it, and that should be the end but it’s not. He palms the side of my face, thumb rough against the corner of my lip, and his voice is barely more than a rasp:

“Did I say you could stop?”

I shake my head—can’t manage words, not yet. The room is rotating, but I have anchors: Killian’s hands, Nikolai’s arm, the solid wall behind me and the wet thunder of my own heart.

“Didn’t think so,” he says, then steps back. His hands drop to the waistband of his pants, and for a second he hesitates, gaze flicking to Nikolai, who grins wider and, without warning, lifts me, easy as a child, and deposits me onto the marble ledge beside the shower. My knees are open, legs dangling, and I’ve never felt more on display.

Nikolai’s hands slide up my thighs, glancing off the hypersensitive spots Killian left, and his mouth goes to my ear, voice a whisper that is anything but gentle: “You wanna taste him?”

It’s not a question that expects an answer. He guides my chin so I’m looking at Killian, who is already out of his jeans, hard and flushed and beautiful in a way that could only be accidental. For a second, Killian just stares, then walks forward and offers me his cock, resting it against my mouth like an invitation. I open, less out of compliance than a need to prove something, and every inch tastes of salt and the musk he’s been holding back since the start. I take him as deep as I can, let the stretch of it fill my mouth, let my tongue find the edge of the ridge, and when I pull back, there’s nothing in me that isn’t hungry for the next.

Nikolai watches, rapt. He kneels beside me, runs his hand through my hair, and murmurs, “Look at you, Monarch. Never seen an Omega take like you do. Not in all my fucking life.”

Killian’s hand rests light on my head, but it’s not guidance—just a presence, a benediction. For a moment, all three of us are locked there, heat and scent and the echo of every rule we ever broke just to get to this. I want to laugh, or maybe scream, but instead I hollow my cheeks and pull him deeper, until he shudders and draws back with a low curse.

He leans down, kisses me again, and this time it’s soft, almost reverent. Nikolai licks the edge of my jaw, then—like a dare—kisses Killian too, fast and biting. I can’t help it; I grin, and both of them smile back, for once not at my expense.

I’m about to say something, but Nikolai beats me to it. He stands, wipes his thumb across the mess Killian left at the corner of my mouth, and holds it up like a trophy. Then he slides it into his own mouth, savoring it, and the look on his face is so obscene it short-circuits my brain.

“Fuck, you’re a mess already,” he says, delighted.

Killian’s still standing, looming, all aggression and intent, but now there’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear and runs his knuckles down my jaw.

“Still with us?” he murmurs.

I nod. I am, maybe more than ever.

Nikolai’s hand is back in my hair, gentle this time, just fingers combing through the knots and wet. His other hand traces the line of my jaw, then, impossibly tender, brushes the bruise Killian left on my cheek.

He leans in, lips almost to my ear, and says, “You know, if you keep doing that, you’re gonna scent up the whole house. Bet even the neighbors can smell how bad you need it.”

I feel Nikolai’s hand in my hair, feather-light, as if he can’t decide whether to touch or just appreciate the view. His breath is on the back of my neck, and when he speaks, it’s so close to my ear I flinch:

“Now is Mommy bottling up that sweet scent of hers now?”

I want to argue, realizing maybe I’m getting too lost in my thoughts in this moment, but my mouth gets as far as “I’m not—” before he makes a low, wolfish sound and bites down, hard, just above the point where my neck meets my shoulder.

The sensation that ignites is almost an out-of-body experience, igniting prickles of pleasure that pulse through the spot and tingle all through my arms and my body, that it’s hard to not let me knees buckle and completely submit.

Then he sucks on the spot, and the moan that escapes my lips should be cinematic — as in the height of porn videos on the big screen to make the world uncomfortable.

My hands blindly seek any form of stability, finding Killian’s chest for leverage. My skin feels raw, exposed, but not in the way I was always warned about—this is the rawness of a thing being unwrapped, not violated.

I could be anyone in here. I could be no one.

I can’t help the way my body wants to move: into Killian, back against Nikolai, both at once.

I’m greedy.