Page 250 of Slashed Bonds

There’s no going back. I’ve been starving. Not the dramatic kind. The kind you don’t notice until the first bite hits and your hands shake.

I eat her like the shake is the point.

In. Curl of the tongue. Out. Suck.

A groan of my own that I don’t bother to swallow, because the house is going to hear us and the house can cope.

Her thighs try to close. I press them wider with my shoulders and go deeper, nose against her, drinking, the wet sound of it obscene in a room that still has two men breathing on the far side of the bed. One of them shifts. The chain ticks once against the sheet. Neither wakes.

Or they wake and have the sense to stay where they are.

Her fingers tighten. The pull goes straight to my cock.

“I’m— Cap, I’m going to⁠—”

“I know.” I lick up through the center of her, slow, filthy, and seal my mouth where she needs it. “Give it to me.”

She cums into my mouth.

A pulse. Then another.

Then a rush, hot and sweet and generous, her hips lifting off the mattress and her hands fisting hard enough in my hair that my eyes water, and I stay on it. Take it. Lick her through the clench and the flood, groaning into her because the taste of her finishing is going to live in the back of my throat until the semis and probably after.

I don’t stop when the first wave breaks. I work the aftershocks. Slower. Cleaning. Slurping, there’s no cleaner word, taking what’s run down and what hasn’t, until she’s shaking and the beg has turned into a sound with no consonants in it.

I come up the length of her.

Hoodie rucked to her ribs. Mouth wet. I don’t wipe it. I kiss her with it, open, sloppy, indecent, the sound of it loud enough to carry into the hall, and I do not give a flying fuck.

Viper House can hear their captain fucking his Omega at eight in the morning. Maddie will turn the radio up. The two men cuffed on the other side of this bed will not tattle. There’s no one in this building I’d be ashamed to have at the door.

She kisses me back like she’s trying to climb into my mouth. Tastes herself. Moans at it. Her hands leave my hair and find my shoulders and haul.

I break it when both of us are failing at breathing.

Not far. Mouth at the corner of hers. Then lower. The side of her neck, under the ink, where the pulse is a drumline. I suck. Not a mark that’ll show under a jersey collar. One that’ll show if she turns her head in the kitchen. She tips to give it to me, and the trust in the tip does something worse to my chest than the pull in my hair did.

My hand slides to the back of her neck.

Slow. Palm first. Then one finger, tracing up into the hairline, to the scarred site. The place four men wrote on and then cut out. I don’t press. I trail. A test. One pass of a fingertip over the ruined mark, waiting for the flinch, the cold, the tunnel.

She moans into my mouth.

Not a flinch. A sound that goes through me and comes out the other side as a kiss I didn’t plan to make this hard. I take her mouth like I’m answering a question she didn’t ask out loud.

Past. Rejection. A boardroom and a window and men who treated a jewel like trash and called the breaking a schedule. Done. Behind her.

The finger stays on the scar, gentle, a contradiction to every hand that’s been there, and I kiss her until the moan turns into my name again.

You’re with us.

Obsessed isn’t a strong enough word and I’m using it anyway. We will love you with our hands and protect you with the rest, and every part of this body is going to spend the foreseeable future validating the only fact in the room that matters.

You are the prize. Not a chore. Not a line on a will. The prize.

We make out like the game isn’t in seven days.

Her legs around my hips. My cock, freed somewhere between the kiss and the neck, sliding through the mess I made of her, not in, not yet, the head catching on every pass until she’s lifting to chase it. I reach down. Fit myself. Look at her once, because I will not be a man who doesn’t look.