Matteo's mouth works relentlessly between her legs, his tongue fucking her entrance deep while his fingers spread her folds wide, exposing her clit to the cool air before his lips seal over it, humming vibrations straight to her core. Her thighs quake around his head, slick gushing in rhythmic pulses onto his beard.
"Alphas," she pants, her body coiling tight, her free hand clutching the sheets. "Please... gonna..."
"Come for us," I order, twisting her nipple sharp.
She shatters, pussy convulsing, a fresh flood of slick coating Matteo's chin as he drinks her down with greedy swallows. Her screams echo, her body thrashing until we pin her gently, our strokes turning soothing.
We continue like this for hours, feeding her morsels between waves of pleasure. Slices of prosciutto draped over figs, the salty chew contrasting fruity pop. Warm pastries flaking buttery onto her tongue as Tomas hand-feeds them, crumbs dusting her chin for Matteo to lick away. I massage her shoulders, my thumbs digging into knots born of tension, her skin slick with sweat and oil under my hands, her rose scent peaking in sated blooms.
The sun climbs higher outside, casting golden pools across the bed.
Eventually, even her body surrenders its demands. Her breathing deepens, slow and even, her soft curves sinking heavy into the mattress.
Tomas draws the duvet around her, tucking it close at her shoulders with quiet authority, making sure she is warm, safe, and cared for.
Matteo curls in behind her, one arm banding her waist, his scent settling through the sheet.
I move into place at her back, my hand finding her hip as though it has always known the shape of her there.
In sleep, she shifts toward us, seeking warmth without waking. A small, contented sigh slips from her lips, and the sound moves through my chest like a current.
"You're perfect," I whisper, pressing my mouth to her temple.
We hold her as gently as a queen, because that's how she feels in our arms.
6
JENNIFER
“What?” I ask, thinking that someone is whispering in my ear again.
I remember that during the night, as I fell asleep, they would help me drift off by saying things I didn’t understand, but it made me feel like a princess, on top of the world. My ex certainly didn’t care when I was suffering from insomnia, which wasn’t often, but he didn’t care enough to try and help me through it. Why did I never see the warning signs?
They say love is blind, but sometimes I think it makes omegas deaf, dumb, and blind too, excusing every horrible thing that an alpha can do to you and calling it love.
But this weekend has been magical. I’ve been with three alphas the whole weekend.
I smile as I think about it and try to open my eyes against the light, lying there blinking at a ceiling that is very high and very white and has absolutely nothing helpful to offer me.
Then I try to get up, and this is where the morning really introduces itself.
Every muscle below my waist submits a formal complaint at the same time. I make it halfway to sitting before something in my lower back offers a firm counter-suggestion and I end uplisting sideways, grabbing the edge of the mattress with both hands and using it to haul myself upright in a maneuver that is several things, none of them graceful.
I sit on the edge of the bed breathing.
Get in shape, Jennifer. Some yoga. A walk around the block. Literally anything that might have prepared you for two full nights of advanced gymnastics with three men who clearly do not have this problem this morning, because they are not here, are they? They are somewhere else entirely, while I’m sitting on the edge of a very expensive bed in a gold-lit suite feeling like I ran a marathon I forgot to train for.
"Santos?"
My voice drops flat into the room and goes nowhere.
I look around.
The piano in the corner is silent, the bench neatly pushed in, warm and layered and achingly familiar, all three of us still present in the air like the room didn't get the memo that everyone left. That is the cruelest part. His scent is messing with my mind, making me say silly things liketherebefore my brain has to correct it, gentle and tired, like a parent explaining something difficult to a child who already almost understands.
That is when I see it.
On the nightstand. An envelope with my name on it in handwriting I don't recognize, and beside it, folded into a neat stack, a quantity of money that I do not count because I cannot look at it directly.