Page 67 of Prey It By Ear

“I see you have mastered your technique, my friend. I am impressed as well,” Rennie says as he strokes his chin, pretending to evaluate the quality of Fitz’s work. “This will do quite nicely for our plans.”

The elder tiger just stalks forward and kneels beside the bed, running a single finger down my shoulder to my elbow. My skin jumps under his touch, even though he’s barely pressing at all. His mouth twitches. “She’s shivering with anticipation,” he observes, then looks up at Fitz. “I agree with the others; you have pushed her right to the edge, brother. It’s perfect.”

“Still not the boss of me,” I croak, barely able to push the words through my lips but unable to let his smugness go.

“Oh, that’s the mate I know and love.” Chess tucks the towel under my hips, ever the caretaker. “Now, hydrate, Angel,” he says, holding the bottle up to my lips. I take a few sips, and the cold water is so sharp it almost makes me cry. He wipes my chin with the towel, and then gives Fitz a tiny smile.

The five of them stand around the bed, all looking down at me with varying degrees of adoration, lust, and pride. For a second, it’s overwhelming, but then I remember that I chose this, and that none of them are going to do anything I don’t want. It makes me feel safer than I ever thought possible—like I’m a treasure they all want to keep safe and also ruin a little, for fun.

I squint up at them and mutter, “You look very serious for men who are about to have a very good time.”

That finally breaks the tension. Felix grins, Aubrey snorts, and Renard leans down to brush my cheek with the back of his hand. “We are very serious, ma petite,” he says, voice low and thick with an accent that gets stronger when he’s aroused. “We take your pleasure extremely seriously.”

Chess nods, his arms folded over his chest. “We planned it out; it will be very organized.”

Aubrey rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. It’s not a schedule, it’s just an order of operations.”

“Same thing,” Chessie deadpans.

Fitz nudges my chin with his knuckle, eyes warm. “Ready for phase two, Baby Girl?”

I am beyond ready.

“Destroy me.”

Rennie laughs, deep and delicious, and the candles flicker as Fitz slides his hands under my back and lifts me just enough to get me comfortable, and I feel the bed dip as the others climb on around me.

My night is about to get even better and I can’t fucking wait.

Hung Up

Renard

I have been eager to do this again since the last time at Cappie, and Fitz has created the perfect moment.

To do this properly, I need exactly several lengths of rope and a subject willing to hold still for no less than fifteen minutes. I have four lengths of perfectly conditioned silk cord in my bathrobe pocket and a mate who, after Fitz’s expert manipulation, would probably hold still for a day if it meant she didn’t have to move a muscle.

I kneel at the foot of the bed as the others tease our mate with light touches. My hands are steady as I uncoil rope the color of dark plums, and let it slip through my fingers. The surface is warm already—Chester, in his infinite domestic wisdom, keeps the linens at a precise temperature that soothes any skin exposed to it. Lucky for me, he’s given me permission to store some of my favorite ‘fun time’ accessories in that warmer as well.

Our bunny’s room is drenched in a haze of cherry oil and the light from a dozen candles, their flames reflected a thousand times in the gold-threaded sheets. Above us, the ceiling hook I installed waits, its presence so subtle that unless you knew where to look, you’d think it was just part of the molding. Her beautiful room has given us plenty of nights where we all almost collapsed from exhaustion, but we haven’t used the hooks I installed here and in other rooms yet.

I enjoy the emotion of a reveal, so the others are my secret for now.

Across the bed, Fitz is already cross-legged and bouncing slightly, his hair a dark, curly mess that throws shadows across the far wall. He’s damn near vibrating, and I mean that in the most literal sense. He’s amped on the energy in the room, on what he knows I am about to do, and on the genuine possibility that he will be the first to stick his tongue somewhere forbidden. I glance up at him, one eyebrow raised.

He doesn’t disappoint. “My sexy family and Baby Girl, you’re about to witness world-class rope work by a real live French gargoyle who swears he doesn’t listen to sad music to make him seem more doubtful. Watch and be amazed as he restrains our very own cotton-tailed mate in under five minutes, without a single slip or tangled hair!”

For fuck’s sake, I didn’t ask him to pretend we’re in a goddamn circus.

I roll my eyes, but only because you can count on the crazy tiger for a lot of things, but none of them are predictability. But I let it go; the urge to tie someone has been gnawing at me since we got home, and he will not derail me. The last time I indulged, it was before the Fae attacked at the Games, so it’s been a while. Every pair of eyes is locked on the way I loop the silk over itself and let it fall with a slow, deliberate motion across Dolly’s left calf. Her skin jumps at the touch, as if every sense in her body is dialed up to maximum.

Dragging the cord up her shin, I tickle the hollow behind her knee, and then, using only my index and middle fingers, tease it along the back of her thigh until I reach her wrist. She is pliant—no, she is almost liquefied by the preceding worship. I take her right hand in mine, press her wrist into the bed, and wrap the rope around it in three perfect turns.

“Ma petite lapin,” I murmur, my mouth near her ear so only she and Fitz will hear it. “You will tell me if this is too tight. Tu te souviens de ta parole, n’est-ce pas⁠*?”

Her eyes do not open, her mouth does—a sly grin that splits her lips. “If you cut off my circulation, I will say it; I promise.”

Fitz frowns, his lips curled down in a pout. “Voulez-vous shit isn’t fair, Emo Boy! Only Baby Girl and the Caliente Chameleon can understand it all. I call foul! Someone weigh in here.”