Page 165 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Me."

I turn my head.

Valek's close. Too close. The scar Ivy left on his head is lit up silver like his eyes in the blue glow of the clock. He's so fucking close I can count his light lashes.

He closes the slight distance between us, leaning down to kiss me.

Valek's mouth tastes faintly of the tea he'd been nursing all night. Bergamot and something darker and bitter, and he kisses the way he plays chess. Slow opening, testing my response, pressing only where I give ground.

I give ground.

I tell myself I'm giving ground on purpose.

Whiskey is still working me over like he's got something to prove, and maybe he does. His hands slide up my thighs, thumbs digging into the crease where my hips meet my legs, pinning me in place when my hips start bucking against him.

Whiskey pops off my cock with an obscene sound that has my ears flaring.

"Bed proper," he announces, like he's calling a play.

Before I can formulate a response that conveys the appropriate level of contempt, Valek's arm tightens around my waist and Whiskey's hands hook under my thighs and I am, to my absolute fucking horror, being moved. Like a piece of furniture two alphas have decided needs to be repositioned for optimal use.

"Put me down," I snarl.

"Okay," Whiskey says cheerfully, already dropping me onto the mattress. "Shirt off or on?"

"On," I mutter.

The last thing I need is his eyes all over the scar over my heart.

Or Valek's, now.

Fuck, this is a stupid fucking idea.

He's already back between my thighs.

Valek settles against the headboard beside me, one leg folded under him, the other stretched out along the mattress. He's still mostly dressed. Of course he is.

I glance sideways at him. "Are you planning to participate, or are you simply here to audit?"

His mouth curves. "I was waiting for an invitation."

I start, but Whiskey's mouth is back on me and the sentence dies somewhere between my throat and my teeth.

Whiskey is loud even when he's not talking. The wet sounds of his mouth on my cock and his low growls fill the quiet room, and every time his throat tightens around me he makes this satisfied rumble that travels up my spine.

Valek watches him work for a moment.

Then, because apparently he has decided to participate after all, he slides a hand into my hair and turns my face toward his thigh.

He unbuttons his pants one-handed.

Because his other hand is in my hair.

The smug efficiency of it is almost more offensive than the actual situation, and I file a mental note to resent him properly for it later. When I'm capable of resenting anything beyond the fact that Whiskey has just taken me to the base of his throat.

I gasp, then growl, mostly at myself.

"There," Valek murmurs, and I don't know if he's talking to me or to Whiskey or to himself, but he guides my head toward his lap with the pressure of someone who already knows he'll get what he wants.