Page 170 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

I don’t swallow.

I hold it, let the thick, salty heat pool on my tongue while I release his cock with a wet slide. My hand stays busy, massagingthe swollen knot in slow, firm circles that draw another full-body shiver out of him.

I rise up over him, one knee between his spread thighs, both hands planted on the cool stone on either side of his head.

The kiss I give him is pure chaos—tongue, teeth, the messy transfer of his own release spilling between our mouths until it coats both our chins. It’s filthy. It’s perfect.

For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I struggle to keep the leash on myself with another man. The struggle is exciting. I refuse to say the word out loud, but every cell in my body knows it.

We stay like that until neither of us can breathe without gasping. When I finally pull back, a thin string of spit and semen connects our lower lips for a second before it breaks.

“Are we going to go see what our Omega is up to?” I whisper against his mouth.

August groans, low and wrecked.

“Fuck yeah.”

We put the fire out together—water from the garden hose, a few careful stirs of the embers until the last orange glow dies.

Clothes get sorted with the same unhurried efficiency we bring to every other disaster. Shirt half-buttoned, jeans still open at the fly, hair a lost cause. Neither of us pretends it’s a big deal.

The yard is empty except for the frogs and the distant slap of marsh water.

Nobody’s watching but the stars.

Inside the house, the air is warmer, scented with cedar and apricot and the faint leftover smoke we tracked in on our boots.

Amber’s giggle floats down the hallway from the master bedroom, bright and unguarded. Beckett’s deeper rumble answers it. The sound of them settles something restless in my chest.

We push the door open without knocking.

Amber is cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wrapped in a soft gray robe that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Beckett stands at the edge of the mattress holding a wide-tooth comb in one hand and a paddle brush in the other, frowning at both like they’ve personally offended him.

“It shouldn’t make a difference,” he’s saying, completely serious. “Hair is hair. You drag something through it, and it gets less tangled. Why are there two tools for the same job?”

Amber loses it.

The laugh that bursts out of her is full-body, the kind that makes her tip sideways onto the pillows and clutch her stomach. Tears sparkle at the corners of her eyes.

“You’re—oh my God—you’re actually debating this.”

August and I stop in the doorway. I arch one eyebrow. August does the same, arms folded, still looking deliciously wrecked from the yard.

“What in heaven’s name is that man gonna do with your hair?” I ask.

Amber sits back up, still giggling, and points an accusing finger at Beckett.

“He wants to brush it. But he doesn’t know the difference between a comb and a brush. And I like watching him struggle.”

August shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Beckett, what’s gonna happen if we’re a girl dad? You’re fucked.”

Beckett actually laughs—rare, warm, the kind that softens every hard line of his face.

“Well, our daughter’s coming to y’all, because she’d cry the second I fucked up her hair. You two can be the ones who fix the pigtails. I’ll stick to teaching her how to swing a hammer.”

I step fully into the room and wave a hand.