Page 48 of The Florist and Her Alphas

My skin is on fire. My pussy is throbbing, clenching on nothing, slick soaking the sheets beneath me in warm, thick pools. Every breath I take is rose-scented and desperate.

“Liana,” Ezra says, his voice low and rough. “Will you accept me and my brothers? To help you through your heat.”

I swallow. My throat clicks. My fingers are twisted so tight in the towel I can feel my nails digging into my palms.

I nod.

“I need to hear you say it.” His voice doesn’t bend. Doesn’t soften. It’s a command wrapped in velvet, and my inner omega fucking melts for it. “Verbal consent. Now.”

“Yes.” It comes out tiny. A whisper. Barely audible over the blood roaring in my ears. He nods with relief in his eyes.

This alpha.

He’s six-foot-four of controlled, lethal power wrapped in a charcoal suit.

His pale gray eyes hold mine, like he’s physically keeping me here with nothing but the weight of his gaze. The scar through his eyebrow catches the lamplight. His jaw is granite. His shoulders nearly fill the entire room.

He’s terrifying. He’s beautiful. And I want him to ruin me.

To knot me.

“First, we need to calm you,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You’re shaking really hard, sweetie.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my voice cracks on the word. He’s right. I didn’t even realize I was having a panic attack right here in front of them.

“Don’t apologize, hun,” he says as he pulls his tie first with a sharp yank. He undresses quickly as the fire in my belly burns.

His jacket hits the floor. His shirt buttons pop, one by one, and I watch the skin beneath appear inch by inch — olive, lightly tanned, the pack tattoo on his left ribcage a flash of evergreen wrapped in frost. His belt buckle clinks.

His trousers fall. His boxers follow.

Holy fuck.

His cock is thick and hard and veined, jutting out from a nest of dark hair, the head flushed dark red and already leaking. Nine inches of alpha dick that makes my pussy clench so hard I whimper.

He climbs onto the bed behind me.

The mattress dips under his weight.

His chest presses against my back, warm and solid, and his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him. His erection presses against the curve of my ass, separated only by the thin cloth of my towel, and I can feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him burning through the fabric.

Then he purrs.

It starts deep in his chest, a vibration that rolls through his body and into mine where we’re pressed together. Low. Resonant.

His dick vibrates against my ass with each rumble. The dual sensation of the purring and his hard cock makes my thighs shake. He’s making me even more horny.

August appears on my left. His chest is lean and toned, the pack tattoo a mirror of Ezra’s on his ribs. He climbs onto the bed, pressing against my side, his arm sliding under my shoulders.

Cole’s eyes are watchful, calm, as he pulls his black shirt off and tosses it to the floor. His chest is densely muscled, scarred in places I want to trace with my tongue. He settles against my other side, his arm draping over my waist, and the three of them form a cocoon around me, purring from three different chests in three different registers, and the vibration moves through me like a drug.

Eventually the shaking stops. Slowly. Muscle by muscle. My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. My breathing steadies.

“You’re so beautiful,” August whispers against my hair. “God, Liana, you’re gorgeous.”

“Perfect,” Cole murmurs, his thumb tracing slow circles on my hip. “Just like this.”

“Such a good girl,” purrs Ezra.