Page 169 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

I chuckle, the sound low and warm in the quiet room.

“Fuck no.”

As if I can ignore being balls deep when she’s naked and having beads of water dripping down her beautifully carved body.

I’m off the bed in one smooth motion, scooping her up against my chest the same way I’d carried her in earlier.

She lets out a startled laugh and loops her arms around my neck, her stomach still shiny with the evidence of what we’d just done. The bathroom is only a few steps down the hall.

The water will be hot, the tiles cool under my feet, and her body wet and slick against mine for the rest of the night if I have any say in it.

I kick the bedroom door shut behind us with one heel and carry our Sweet Apricot toward the only kind of cleansing either of us needs.

CHAPTER 33

The Other Fire Part Two

~SAWYER~

August’s cock is a beautiful, veiny thing—thick enough to stretch my jaw, hard enough that the head flushes deep when I drag my tongue along the underside.

I take him deeper, humming around the weight of him, and the sound that punches out of his chest is half curse, half prayer.

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been this frisky with another man.

Rust shows in the way my throat needs a second to remember the angle, the way my free hand has to relearn the exact pressure that makes an Alpha’s hips stutter.

I don’t mind the rust. It keeps me honest.

What I do mind—what I privately appreciate—is how tightly August has been holding himself back these past five years for the Omega who still owns the better part of his heart.

Loyalty like that is rare.

It tastes better than any release I’ve ever chased.

Now that the four of us are a pack, even the temporary federal kind, something permanent has started rooting under the surface.

This night is going to test every inch of it.

I can feel the test in the way August’s fingers tighten in my hair, in the way his scent—iris and pear blossom and the green bite of sage—has gone thick and dark with want. My own answers it:magnolia heavy as a southern night, cracked black pepper, the low caramel burn of aged bourbon.

The two of them braid together over the dying fire until the whole backyard smells like something that could last.

I stroke the base of him with a firm, steady hand, then tighten a deliberate ring of fingers just above the swelling knot. The extra pressure makes his thighs jump. He curses under his breath, low and broken.

“I guess I should reward you,” I murmur against the wet head, letting the words vibrate through him. “You’ve been using those listening skills of yours and taking action. I can commend that.”

Then I take him all the way to the back of my throat.

Deep. Slow. No half-measures.

My nose brushes the soft hair at the root; my throat works around the thickest part of him.

August’s hips jerk once before he forces himself still, one big hand braced against the stone bench so hard the knuckles go white. I swallow around him, once, twice, and the sound that rips out of him is pure surrender.

“Fuck—Sawyer?—”

He comes hard, pulsing against my tongue, flooding my mouth until I have to ease back just to keep from choking.