Page 253 of Slashed Bonds

Being fucked by three horny Alphas with metal screaming in my ears, a blindfold soaked to my face, and my wrists cuffed in front of me so I can’t even pretend I’d run from this, is the fantasy every locked room I ever survived was trying and failing to describe. Dark romance could not get here. The books stop at the blindfold. They don’t put a drumline in your skull and a pierced cock under you and a defenseman in your ass and a captain down your throat at the same time, and then have the nerve to call it a scene.

This isn’t a scene.

This is me, living it, submissive in a way I would have bitten a man for suggesting eight weeks ago, riding Nikolai like the bed owes me money.

His piercing drags on every drop of my hips. I feel it. A small, mean, perfect catch inside me that turns the ride into a problem I don’t want solved. Killian’s behind me, chest to my back, one hand on my hip and the other spread over my stomach, taking my ass in slow, deep thrusts that meet Nikolai’s on the way out, so I’m never empty. Never. And my mouth is occupied with Cassian.

Long. Hard.

Far too hard for a man who came twenty minutes ago and said we weren’t done and then proved it. He’s kneeling up by the headboard, one hand in my hair, the other on the cuff chain so my bound wrists stay planted on Nikolai’s chest and don’t slide. I can’t see him. I can taste him. Salt and skin and the cedar that’s his, thick on my tongue every time he sinks.

He doesn’t watch them with each other. I’ve clocked that, even blind. The men-on-men thing between Nikolai and Killian is theirs, and he loves them, and he doesn’t need the picture. What he needs is this. The three of us being filthy. That’s what landed me here. Him, veiny and leaking and done pretending he could sit the next round out, desperate to fill some part of me, and the other two already agreeing before I’d finished saying the word handcuffs.

He’s groaning now. Loud. So are they.

The headphones are doing their job and I can still feel the sound in the mattress, in Killian’s chest, in the way Nikolai’s stomach jumps under my cuffed hands. We are going to wake the whole fucking house. Maddie. Knox. The walls. None of them give a flying fuck.

Neither, surprisingly, do I.

The pleasure is out of this world.

Hell. I’ve left the world.

Some other orbit, where the only job I have is breathing through my nose and praying I survive the orgasm that’s building under the other two I already had.

My senses are on fire in the places the blindfold and the music didn’t shut. Scent, mostly. All of it. Nikolai’s rink-ice and salt, gone sweet at the edges. Killian’s cold iron, warmed. Cassian’s cedar and old smoke and the faint thing under the roof of him. Mine, cherry and plum and jasmine, braided through all three until I couldn’t pull a thread free if I wanted to.

Blended so clean you’d bottle it and lie about the price.

I’m riddled in kisses. Neck. Shoulder. The corner of my mouth when Cassian pulls out an inch to let me breathe and puts himself back. Bruised by it. By devotion with teeth in it. I never knew it was supposed to be this good. Supposed to feel radiant.

A right pack. Not a schedule. Not a hallway.

Men who wanted the woman between them and weren’t keeping time.

Eight weeks.

After next week, the gala. Then the semis, a neutral sheet, twelve thousand seats, the benchmark everything else has been skating toward.

Not now.

All I care about is the wave.

Close. Mean. The kind that ruins.

The headphones slip.

Metal cuts out mid-scream. What replaces it is worse, and better. Nikolai under me, wrecked. Killian behind me, grunting on every thrust. Cassian above me, a low sound every time my throat takes him. And me. Sloppy. Moaning around his cock, panting through my nose, the wet sound of all three of them moving in me suddenly, horribly, perfectly audible.

“That’s it, baby.” Nikolai’s voice, shredded, hands on my waist helping the ride. “Let that pussy squeeze us tight.”

“Fuck.” Killian, against my shoulder, pace gone short. “Her ass feels too fucking good.”

“And she knows how to use that blessed fucking mouth of hers.” Cassian. Rough. Proud. His hand tightens in my hair.

My cuffed hands are barely managing Nikolai’s chest. The chain bites. I don’t care. I work Cassian the way he likes, tongue, suction, the hollow of my cheeks, until his grip stills me. Holds my head. Takes the pace. I submit to it. I don’t have a choice, and I don’t want one. He’s close. The pulse on my tongue says so. The way his thighs have locked says so.

All of them.