Page 254 of Slashed Bonds

I can tell from the hips. Nikolai driving up to meet me. Killian sinking deeper, slower, then not slower. Cassian fucking my mouth in short, desperate thrusts that stop pretending to be careful.

Grunts. Moans. The bed answering.

My pussy quaking around Nikolai’s piercing, the orgasm sitting right under my ribs, and I hold it. Tip on it. Refuse it for one more second because I want to go when they go.

Cassian growls.

“You two better fucking be cumming.” His hand fists. He sinks deep. “Cause I’m gonna fill her up.”

“Fuck yes,” Killian curses, and buries himself, and I feel the first hot pulse in my ass.

Nikolai doesn’t get a word out. He growls, the sound breaking, hips snapping up, and cums inside me so hard the piercing drags the whole of it along a nerve I don’t have a name for.

I let go.

There. Then.

The equilibrium hits from everywhere at once.

Pussy, ass, throat. Locked up. A white-out behind the blindfold, my cuffed hands slipping on Nikolai’s chest, a sound around Cassian’s cock that isn’t a moan so much as a surrender. Pleasure rocking through me while I comprehend it, stupidly, gratefully: all three of them.

Filling me. Shots, thick and hot, Cassian spilling on my tongue and down my throat, Nikolai flooding me, Killian pulsing deep, and not one of them pulling out early.

To think this is what fate dragged me to.

Loved by the men a conference called monsters. Rejected the way I was rejected. A goalie. A wall. A captain who says grace. Not a window. Not a vial. A bed, and a blindfold I asked for, and a house that’s going to pretend it didn’t hear any of this.

I finally feel it.

Finally feel a sense of pure belonging.

CHAPTER 39

Cunningly Savage

~MORRIGAN~

“Pole dancing after a foursome should be criminal.”

I groan it into my own knee, because that’s where my face is, folded over a leg I’m trying to convince to stretch, and the leg has opinions.

Maddie chokes on her matcha.

A full choke, the green going down the wrong pipe, both hands flying up, and Viper, cross-legged on the mat beside her in black leggings and a black tank and black socks she’s going to have to take off, arches one eyebrow at me so slowly it’s practically a sentence.

Valerie laughs.

From the pole. She’s eight feet up it with her legs in a split that makes my hips hurt to look at, one hand on the chrome and the other loose at her side like she’s waiting for a bus, and she laughs down at me and shakes her head and the wine-red ponytail swings.

“Well, that’s what you get.” She lets go with her thighs and slides a foot, catches, hangs. “Thinking you can be frisky all night and then come to my class hoping I’ll go easy on you because it’s your first time.”

“I’m not hoping. I’m praying.”

“Pray harder.” Another foot down.

She means it. I’ve watched her teach through the glass twice this month, on mornings when I came for the ring and stayed for the view, and she teaches the way Halloran coaches, which is by assuming you’re capable and being disappointed in a way that makes you want to prove her wrong. Omegas come out of her Wednesday class walking like they’ve been in a car accident and book the next one from the stairwell. “You three are lucky I made this private. Otherwise you’d be dealing with the competitive pilates Omegas. Matching athletic sets. Cute grippy socks that areselesss in this room.” She drops the last four feet and lands on the balls of her feet without a sound. “They’d eat you alive before the warm-up.”

“The irony,” Viper says, in the voice of a woman who’d rather be dead.