Page 52 of The Florist and Her Alphas

August’s honey scent curls around me, sweet and golden. “We should move your heat to the penthouse,” he says softly. “There’s more room. Everyone will be more comfortable. Better showers. Bigger bed.”

I hesitate. My apartment is the only place I’ve ever felt safe. These four walls, this creaky floor, the smell of the shop rising through the floorboards. It’s mine. It’s all I have.

“I don’t know. This was my only safe space for a long time.”

“We need to protect you,” Ezra says, his voice gentle but certain. “Silus knows where you are now. He’ll come back.”

The thought sends a cold spike through my chest.

“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t know if it’s the heat talking with the post-orgasmic haze, the knots still locked inside me, the cum leaking between my thighs, or if I really mean it.

Ezra’s arm tightens around me. August nuzzles closer. Julian’s hand finds mine and squeezes. Cole’s hand is on my leg, gently soothing me as I contemplate the idea of moving in with them for my heat.

Thirteen

COLE

Icarry Liana through the front door of the penthouse, and her head tips back against my chest. The white towel is barely holding on, stained with all of us.

Ezra’s cum leaks down her inner thigh, Julian and August’s cum mixing between her legs, my own semen drying on her neck where it spilled from her mouth. She smells like roses, sex, and exhaustion, and my cock is already hardening again.

“Wow,” she breathes, her eyes wide as she takes in the great room and the floor-to-ceiling windows. “This place is huge.”

“It’s home,” I say quietly, hoping she would stay here forever with us.

August has already disappeared down the hallway toward his room, muttering about needing to freshen up. Julian is stripping his shirt off by the kitchen island, his back gleaming under the pendant lights as he pours a drink. Ezra stands by the windows, phone to his ear, his gray eyes finding mine across the room for one second, nodding for me to take care of our omega.

Our omega.

Liana’s cleavage bounces against the towel as I adjust my grip under her ass. Her breasts are full, round, the tops flushed pink from heat and friction. The towel is soaked through in places, translucent, and I can see the dark auburn patch between her legs where her pussy hair curls wet against her skin.

“You’re covered in cum,” I tell her, because it’s true and because watching her blush is becoming something I look forward to.

Her face goes scarlet. She presses her lips together, looks down at the towel like she’s just now registering the extent of the mess, and a tiny, mortified sound escapes her throat.

“It feels good though,” she whispers, so low I almost miss it.

My chest tightens. “I hope we impregnated you.”

Her eyes snap to mine, wide and shocked, and the blush deepens until it’s crawling down her neck toward her collarbone. “Cole. It would be way too soon. We haven’t even—you know—gone on a date yet.”

The earnestness in her voice, the way she says it like dating is some sacred ritual we’ve skipped past, makes something warm and fond settle behind my sternum. I chuckle, low, and her head drops against my shoulder like she’s hiding.

“You’re so cute,” I murmur against her hair, and carry her toward the bathroom.

“But still, what would you do if I was pregnant?” she asks. “Aren’t you concerned?”

“Not at all,” I grin. “You’re our omega.”

I set her down on the edge of the tub, her bare feet against the cold tile, and kneel in front of her.

“Let me,” I say, and my fingers find the edge of the towel where it’s tucked between her breasts.

She doesn’t protest. Her eyes are on my face, watching, and I unwind the towel slowly, letting it fall open inch by inch until it pools around her hips and then, with one gentle tug, drops to the floor.

She’s naked. Flushed head to toe, sweat-damp hair clinging to her neck, her breasts full and heavy, her nipples hard and pink. My eyes drop to her pussy without permission, to the dark auburn curls there, thicker than I expected, glistening with slick and cum. My finger finds them, brushes through the hair, and she makes a small, sharp sound.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice rough.