Page 57 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“Pretty little asshole,” he says, his voice gone dark and rough. “So pink. So tight. I’m going to take such good care of you here too, baby. One day I’m going to claim you right here, when you’re ready.”

His oiled fingers massage between my cheeks, working the oil into the soft skin there, and I shiver, my asshole clenching at his touch. The razor follows, each stroke slow and careful, and his finger never stops rubbing slow, wet circles around my tight pucker, sometimes pressing gently against the rim but not going inside.

I’m gasping. Trembling.

Slick drips down my thighs with every stroke of the razor so near my asshole. I can feel slick seeping from my anus as well as my pussy, an embarrassing superpower that we omegas can do so that anal knotting doesn’t hurt.

His thumb teases my asshole the entire time.

“You have the prettiest little hole I’ve ever seen,” he growls. “Can’t wait to claim you there. Stretch you open. Make you take my cock in this tight ass while someone else fucks your pussy.”

“Oh,” I whine, high and desperate, and push back against his finger. My asshole clenches around nothing, hungry and empty, and Cole laughs softly against the curve of my ass. “Are you done yet?”

“Not yet, baby. I’m still working.”

His other hand drifts down from my ass cheek, between my thighs from behind, and his fingers find my pussy. He spreads my labia open with two fingers, exposing my swollen pink folds to the cool air, and I gasp.

He plays with my pussy lips between his fingers while he continues to shave my ass. Pinching gently. Rolling my clit. Pulling my pussy lips lightly, spreading me wider, and every touch sends electric shocks through my overheated body. My slick is dripping from my pussy in warm rivulets, and Cole’s fingers are slick with it, working my lips, teasing my entrance.

“Your pussy is the most beautiful thing ever,” he whispers. Then he suddenly leans down and presses one big, wet kiss directly to my asshole.

I come undone. I never expected him to kiss my asshole while playing with my pussy.

My knees nearly give out.

I’m trembling, wet, a mess of slick and empty hunger. Cole sets the razor aside with a soft clink against the marble.

He wipes me clean with a cloth everywhere. He wipes me between my thighs, around my ass, over my freshly shaved pussy, and then pours warm water over me from a pitcher, rinsing the oil away. The water runs clear between my legs, and I’m still shaking, still dripping slick, my pussy throbbing and clenching.

Cole turns me gently to face him. Both his palms find my freshly shaved mound, his fingertips tracing slow, reverent paths over the smooth skin, between my thighs, just feeling me.

“Perfect,” he says, his eyes dark and hungry on mine. “You’re perfect, Liana.”

I am shaking. Barely standing. Slick is still trickling down my inner thigh in a warm, steady stream, and my pussy is pulsing, empty, desperate for a cock, for a knot, for anything to fill the hollow ache inside me.

But Cole doesn’t take me.

“You need food first,” he says, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “I’m not going to let you get weak between knots. You need strength.”

He helps me step out of the tub, water sluicing off my body, and wraps me in an enormous heated towel. It’s soft, plush, enveloping me in warmth, and he presses kisses to my shoulders as he dries me off.

He sits me on the marble bench beside the tub and takes another towel to my hair, drying it carefully, squeezing the water with his gentle hands. His fingers comb through the tangles, working them loose with a patience that makes my chest ache.

“Are you tired?” I ask, my voice small.

He looks at me, and something soft moves behind his slate-blue eyes. “I’m never tired of taking care of my omega.”

His omega.

Warmth floods my chest, fuzzy and golden, and for a second I let myself believe that I could be his, that he could be mine, that the four of them could want me and keep me and never hurt me.

But the fear is still there, curled tight under my ribs. Six years of running. Trust doesn’t come easy. Not for me.

Cole pulls a small jar of unscented lotion from the cabinet and warms it between his palms. Then his hands are on my shoulders first, working the lotion into the tense muscles there, his thumbs finding the knots and easing them loose as the towel falls open. My arms next, each one, his fingers tracing the scars on my forearm with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.

He kneels in front of me on the marble floor, spreading my thighs apart with firm hands, and works the lotion into my calves, my ankles, the arches of my feet.

“I always want your legs open,” he says, his eyes fixed on my pussy where it’s visible between my spread thighs. “At all times. So I can monitor your heat.”