Page 165 of My Unhinged Alphas
“Tell me you like it,” he says.
“I like it,” she says immediately, and then seems startled she admitted it.
I slide my hand into her hair again and hold her gaze. “Do it again.”
She clenches around her own fingers. “I like it.”
“Better.”
Havoc’s hand slides over his cock, setting the pace rougher. “She likes being watched.”
“She likes being told what to do,” I say.
Lena’s hand slips on me, then tightens, and I know I’m right from the way her whole body reacts.
“Don’t stop,” I tell her.
She doesn’t.
The sound of her touching herself gets wetter. Faster. Her shoulders tense. Her lips shine with spit and she keeps looking up at us like she can’t decide which one of us she wants more attention from.
Maybe that’s what finally does it.
Maybe it’s just too much heat in too small a room.
Either way, she breaks with a low cry, still on her knees between us, coming hard while we jerk our cocks over her. Her head falls forward. Her hand between her thighs goes frantic for three more seconds before the orgasm catches her completely and turns the rest of her to trembling. Still trembling, body still shaking with the aftershocks of her own orgasm, she reaches her hands up to resume her stroking on both of our cocks.
I come first.
A hard, ugly groan tears out of me as she strokes me through it, spilling over her hand and my stomach. Havoc follows a second later with a rough curse, leaning one hand against the wall to stay upright while he comes over his own fist and her knuckles.
For a moment none of us moves.
Lena stays where she is, breathing hard, still shivering from her climax, her hands slick with both of us and herself.
Havoc laughs first. Low. Wrecked. “Well,” he says, “that’s one way to improve morale.”
My pulse is only just starting to come down. The room feels wrecked, overheated, too intimate, too raw.
Then my phone rings.
The sound cuts through everything.
For one second none of us moves. It rings again, ugly and insistent on the nightstand.
I grab it.
Vale.
Every bit of heat drops out of me.
I answer immediately. “Yeah.”
What comes through the line isn’t a greeting. It isn’t even a full sentence at first. Just breath. Rough, uneven, wrong. Then Vale’s voice, low and strained and distant in a way I’ve never heard from him. “Knox.”
I’m already moving. “What happened?”
There’s a noise on his end. Not traffic. Not normal street sound. Wind, maybe. Fabric dragging. He sounds like he’s trying to stay conscious through the effort of speaking. “I was attacked,” he finally rasps. And then the line goes dead.
