Page 115 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

“What do you want, Amber?” he asked, voice low and serious. “Tell me. No guessing. No performing. Just what you want.”

Heat flooded my face again, but I refused to hide.

I had spent too many years swallowing my own desires. With Sawyer it felt different—safe to reach. I spread my legs slowly, revealing the glistening folds already slick with need, and pointed.

“I want you to crawl to me,” I said, voice steadier than I expected, “and eat me out like a good Alpha.”

His smirk was slow and devastating.

“Yes, Omega.” Sawyer held my gaze as he began to move, lowering himself onto his hands and knees at the foot of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, creaking softly in the quiet cottage.

He crawled forward with deliberate slowness, each shift of muscle rippling across his shoulders and arms. Seductive didn’t begin to cover it. His dark eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide with hunger that made my breath catch.

No rush. No performance.

Just raw, focused want aimed entirely at me.

His scent rolled ahead of him like a tide—magnolia blooming thick and heady, black pepper cutting sharp through the sweetness, bourbon warmth deepening until the air felt drunk with it.

The combination bathed my bare skin, sinking into every pore. It pulled at something low and needy in my belly, far more attractive than it had any right to be at this hour.

He looks like he could devour me and thank me for the privilege.

When he settled between my spread thighs, his broad shoulders nudged my legs wider. Warm breath ghosted over my inner thighs first.

Then his tongue—slow, thorough—traced the trails of slick that had already dripped down my skin. He licked them clean with appreciative hums that vibrated straight through me.

“Smelling your arousal for me is so fucking sexy,” he murmured against my thigh, voice rough. “Makes me far too thirsty to be patient, Blooming Apricot. I have to get a taste.”

I shivered, fingers twisting in the quilt.

“Then stop teasing and?—”

He cut me off with a soft laugh.

“Apologies in advance. I can’t take this part slow at all.”

No further warning.

He dove in.

His tongue slid between my wet folds in one long, firm stroke, parting me open.

I moaned loud enough that the sound bounced off the low ceiling, raw and unrestrained. He answered with a growl of approval, burying his face deeper. The man knew exactly what he was doing. He ate me like he couldn’t afford to leave a single crumb—broad, hungry licks followed by precise flicks against my clit, then slow circles that had my hips jerking off the bed.

“Easy,” he murmured into my pussy, the words muffled but clear. One big hand splayed across my lower belly, holding me steady. “Let me work, sweetheart. You’ve been waiting long enough.”

I tried to form a retort, something about his ego or his timing, but another deep lick stole the words.

He switched tactics, sliding two fingers along my entrance while his mouth focused on my clit. The stretch felt perfect, curling just right inside me. He pumped them slowly at first, building rhythm, thumb occasionally brushing where his tongue had been.

“Talk to me,” he said between licks, eyes flicking up to meet mine. His chin glistened. “Tell me what feels best. I want to learn every sound you make.”

“Deeper,” I gasped, cheeks burning. “The fingers—curl them more. Yes, like that.”

He obeyed instantly, adjusting the angle until stars burst behind my eyelids.

The back-and-forth became a conversation of moans and praises, his low encouragements mixing with my broken directions. Every time I twitched or sighed louder, he doubled down, reading my body like sheet music.