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Dutch’s pants puddle on the office rug.
He never had a shirt.
None of them ever have a fucking shirt.
He’s bigger than Bish. Much more dominant.
But he’s the one being rocked.
With every precision thrust of Bishop’s cock, Dutch moans my name like cotton sugar. “Solly.”
Thump.
“Solly.”
Thump.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck. Sol. Bish. Shit. Unh~”
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
They don’t…seem to realize I’m here?
Feral omega is never going to happen if it doesn’t happen now.
If I were the real Serafina, the wild sex would pump my pheromones harder than Bishop is pumping Dutch.
Gamma instincts work in reverse.
Because I’m me, and I do my best not to kill unless I really mean to murder, I reflexively reel in my scent. My muscles lock, from my tight jaw to my curled baby toes.
I don’t breathe or twitch or leak perfume.
And they…
Keep going.
Bishop.
Holy fucking shit.
King Bish.
He fucks in his belted bathrobe and doesn’t show a lick of skin.
Neat. Controlled. Fierce.
His complexion of freckle-dusted porcelain isn’t even flushed.
Just focused.
Brutally pinning his packmate’s bouncing hips, Bish pounds so fast and hits so deep, he sheathes every stroke before I can catch a flash of the skin I’ve only imagined in my dreams.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
I never imagined Bish palming Dutch’s skull, grinding the bigger alpha’s face into his hardwood desk.
Bish growls, ragged and silky. “You want me to fuck you while you fuck your mate? Or fuck her between us?”
