Page 68 of The Bright Omega

When I come again, it’s with his name on my lips and his mouth on mine. Finn follows right after, driving deep and going still, every muscle in him locking as he spills inside me. The groan he makes is deep and completely unguarded, saying my name like a prayer. We stay like that for a long time. Foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

“Miss James,” Finn says when he finally catches his breath.

“Yes, professor?”

His lips press firmly against mine. “You’re going to require additional tutoring.”

thirty-four

Camelia

I’m sitting on a shaded bench in the garden, surrounded by the soft scent of blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. I told myself I was coming out here to meditate on a marketing plan for the September shipment. We’re including a new line of omega-specific toilet paper that’s going to be hell to sell to a younger demographic.

Instead, I’ve been replaying last night in my head on an endless loop.

Beck’s low, filthy praise in my ear as I rode him. Finn kissing the back of my neck while I moved on his packmate. The moment I looked over my shoulder at Finn and whispered, “I want you inside me too.”

The stretch when he carefully worked his way into my ass while Beck stayed buried in my pussy. The overwhelming fullness of being taken by both of them at once. The way they moved together in slow, deep, perfectly in sync thrusts. Pulling orgasm after orgasm out of me until I was shaking and sobbing between them. They kept me wedged between their bodies for nearly half an hour, kissing every inch of skin they could reach, murmuring praise and sweet, dirty words.

My thighs press together at the memory. I’m getting wet thinking about it.

A shadow falls over me.

“Cammie,” Piers says, voice smooth and deep. “Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”

I blink up at him, startled out of my very explicit daydream. He’s standing a few feet away in a crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His nostrils flare. My scent must be thick right now.

Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry. I was… thinking.”

Piers’ dark eyes narrow slightly, like he knows exactly what kind of thinking I was doing. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Must have been quite the thought,” he murmurs.

He stands there in the dappled sunlight, looking unfairly handsome with the sun shining on that thin line of silver at his temples. “Will you come with me?” he asks. “There’s something I want to show you.”

“A surprise?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

His chuckle is warm. “Yes, a surprise. Just for you.”

He offers me his hand. I take it without hesitation, letting him pull me up from the bench. His fingers are warm and sure around mine as he leads me through the garden paths, back into the house, and down a wide hallway I haven’t explored much yet.

We step into a room clearly meant for entertaining. The space is massive, with soaring ceilings and a crystal chandelier that probably costs more than my entire apartment. The room is expensive, filled with deep leather sofas, polished wood tables, and heavy drapes. It’s all very elegant. And very, very neutral.

I'm doing my mental eye-roll at the monochrome perfection when my gaze lands on the far wall. A massive painting dominates the space.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Is that a Vivian Darcy painting?”

I rush over to it, grateful that my body is finally healed enough that I don’t have to hobble. This painting deserves a proper rush.

It’s oversized, like all of her work, bursting with vivid yellows, hot pinks, and calming blues. At first glance it looks like pure joyful mess, just beautiful color layered on color. But when you stop and let your eyes adjust, the scene reveals itself. This one depicts a sunny beach day, boats dotting the water, tiny specks of people sunbathing on the sand, colorful kites dancing in the sky. The title plate beneath it reads The Holiday.

I’m speechless.

Piers steps up behind me, placing a warm palm on my shoulder. “You know Vivian Darcy’s work?”

“She’s my favorite artist,” I say, still staring at the painting like it might disappear if I blink. “I have a book of her prints, but I could never afford the real thing. Not even close.”

I turn to look at him, eyes wide. “You got this for me?”