Page 69 of Claimed By the Psychos

"Fuck," I gasp, my hands moving to her hips, but she catches my wrists and pins them above my head with surprising strength.

"No touching," she says, digging her nails into my wrists hard enough to leave marks. "You had your turn. Now it's mine."

She rolls her hips, sliding along my length with deliberate slowness. Every movement drags her clit against my cock, and I can feel how wet she still is, how swollen. The friction is incredible and not nearly enough, a special kind of hell designed specifically for me.

"You're such a pretty alpha," she murmurs, leaning down so her lips hover just inches from mine. Close enough that I can feel her breath, taste the ghost of her, but not close enough to kiss. "Makes me want to sink my teeth into you."

The words should sound wrong coming from an omega about an alpha, but everything about Juniper defies conventional dynamics. She's a predator in prey's clothing, a wolf who learned to walk among sheep.

She grinds harder, faster, her pussy sliding along my cock with a wet sound that's obscene in the best way. I can feel myself pressed against my lower abdomen, her pussy lips parted around my shaft as she uses me for her pleasure.

"Please," I hear myself beg, and I don't even know what I'm begging for. To be inside her? To come? To die from this exquisite torture? All seem equally likely.

"Please what?" She rolls her hips in a particularly devastating way that makes my vision white out for a second. "Use your words, Doctor. Aren't you supposed to be articulate?"

"I need—" The words stick in my throat as she does something with her hips that should be illegal. "Fuck, Juniper, I need to come."

"Already?" She clicks her tongue in mock disappointment. "And here I thought you had such impressive control."

She leans down further, her lips almost touching mine. The scent of winter flowers and sex fills my lungs with every desperate breath.

"Kiss me," she commands, and who am I to refuse?

Our lips crash together, and it's nothing like I imagined. It's violent and tender, desperate and controlled, everything and nothing all at once. She tastes like Felix and me and herself, a cocktail of scents and need that short-circuits my brain.

And that's when I lose it.

I come with a groan that she swallows, my cock pulsing between us as I paint my own stomach with rope after rope of come. The orgasm feels like it's being ripped from my soul, so intense I actually see stars. My hands are still pinned above my head, her nails digging crescents into my wrists that I hope scar.

She pulls back from the kiss, looking down at me with satisfaction written across her face. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches between us, swiping her fingers through the come that's pooled on my abdomen and caught on the outside of her pussy.

Then she brings those fingers to her mouth.

I watch, completely transfixed, as she sucks them clean with the kind of thoroughness I just showed her pussy. Her eyes flutter closed, and she makes a sound of appreciation that goes straight to my spent cock.

"You taste like wine," she says, opening her eyes to meet mine. "Sweet and biting. Dangerous if you have too much."

She climbs off me with feline grace, leaving me sprawled on the floor like a crime scene. My usual composure is completely shattered, my clothes ruined, my mind trying to process what the fuck just happened.

Before she walks away, she bends down and picks up her torn panties, tossing them at me with a smirk. "Clean yourself up with those. Seems only fair."

"Where are you going?" I manage to ask, though my voice sounds like I've been gargling gravel.

"Gonna need a shower after all," she says, and I watch her hips sway as she disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with the scent of sex and the taste of both omegas on my tongue.

I bring her panties to my nose, inhaling deeply like the pathetic creature I've become. The scent of her arousal mixed with Felix's come makes my cock twitch despite having just come harder than I have in my life.

These omegas are going to be the death of me.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

CARLISLE

The knife flips between my fingers with the kind of ease that comes from years of using it to puncture windpipes and slice femoral arteries. Flip, catch, flip, catch—a meditation in steel that keeps my hands busy while my mind dissects the problem sitting across from me in this fucking truck.

Elias Cole. Doctor. Healer. The man who's going to need those skills to put himself back in working order after he got to taste my little hellcat before I did.