Page 44

Lila

T wo weeks.

Two weeks since my heat broke, and I'm losing my goddamn mind.

I roll over in bed, burying my face in the pillow that still smells like Julian.

Bergamot and black tea and something purely him.

He left for work twenty minutes ago after pressing the most chaste kiss to my forehead, like I'm his sweet little omega who couldn't possibly want anything more than gentle affection and respectful distance.

If he only knew I've been fantasizing about dragging him back into this bed and showing him exactly what I want.

It's been two weeks and while we've settled into this beautiful domestic routine, taking turns staying over, morning coffee and evening dinners, comfortable intimacy that feels like coming home there's been exactly zero sexual contact beyond gentle kisses and cuddling.

At first, I thought they were giving me space to recover, being gentlemen about not pushing while I processed the emotional aftermath of my first heat with them.

Then I wondered if maybe they were uncertain about boundaries now that the heat-driven urgency was gone, if they needed time to figure out what we were without biology making the decisions.

But it's been two weeks, and I'm starting to wonder if I need to be more direct about what I want.

Because what I want is for one of them—any of them, all of them—to touch me the way they did during my heat.

Not with desperate urgency from biological need, but with deliberate intention.

Someone who wants me simply because I'm me.

Someone choosing to make me feel good because they want to, not because instinct demands it.

The problem is I have absolutely no idea how to ask for what I want without sounding needy or demanding. How do you tell three gorgeous alphas that you're going slightly crazy from sexual frustration when they're being so perfectly respectful?

Maybe I need to stop being subtle. Maybe I need to stop waiting for them to make the first move and start making some moves of my own.

The thought follows me downstairs, where I find Dean in my kitchen, still in his firefighter uniform from his overnight shift. He's at the stove making pancakes, his navy uniform shirt stretched across broad shoulders as he moves around my kitchen.

There's something incredibly appealing about seeing him like this, still in work clothes, hair slightly mussed from his helmet, the faint scent of smoke and duty clinging to him.

He got off shift at seven this morning and came straight here to make me breakfast, without even thinking about changing first.

From the living room comes intermittent hammering, punctuated by what sounds like muttered curses. Callum, working on that loose window trim he's been threatening to fix for the past week.

"Morning," I say, moving to the coffee pot. "How was your shift?"

"Quiet night," Dean says, glancing over his shoulder with that warm smile that never fails to make my heart flutter. "Just a couple minor calls. Figured I'd come make you breakfast before heading home to crash."

The thoughtfulness, coming here tired from work just to make sure I'm fed makes my chest tight with affection. "You didn't have to do that. You must be exhausted."

"Never too tired to take care of you," he says simply, and the casual way he says it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, makes my heart do silly things.

Another curse from the living room, this one definitely audible, makes Dean grin. "Callum's been fighting with that window trim for twenty minutes. The wood's old and stubborn."

"Maybe he needs some help," I say innocently, taking my coffee toward the living room.

I find Callum kneeling by the front window, toolbox open beside him and flannel shirt straining across broad shoulders as he works.

There's something incredibly appealing about watching him in his element.

Competent and focused, those capable hands wielding tools with the precision that comes from years of experience.

He's trying to nail a piece of trim back into place, but the old wood keeps splitting despite his careful efforts. I can see the frustration in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when the nail goes crooked again.

"You know," I say, settling onto the couch with my coffee for a perfect view, "I think you're holding your hammer wrong."

Callum pauses mid-swing, shoulders tensing. "Excuse me?"

"Your grip," I say with fake helpfulness. "It's all wrong. You're supposed to choke up more on the handle for better control."

He turns to look at me over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Lila, I've been using hammers since before you could walk."

"Hmm," I say thoughtfully. "Maybe that's the problem. Old habits die hard."

The look he gives me could melt steel, but he turns back to his work. Three more careful taps, and the trim piece splits again.

"See?" I say brightly. "Definitely the grip. You're putting too much force behind it instead of letting the weight of the hammer do the work."

"Lila." His voice carries a warning that sends heat curling through my stomach.

"I'm just trying to help," I say innocently. "Maybe if you adjusted your stance too? You're all hunched over. No wonder you can't get the right angle."

Callum sets the hammer down very carefully and turns to face me fully. There's something predatory in his movement, like a wolf who's finally had enough of being poked.

"You want to show me the proper technique?" he asks, voice deceptively calm.

"I couldn't," I say with false modesty. "I'm sure a big, strong man like you knows exactly what he's doing with his... tools ."

The way I say 'tools' makes his eyes darken, and I see the exact moment he realizes I'm not actually critiquing his carpentry skills.

"You think you're funny," he says, rising slowly to his feet.

"I think I'm helpful," I correct, setting my coffee down. "Though I suppose if you're too proud to accept constructive criticism..."

I don't get to finish because suddenly he's moving, crossing the room in three quick strides. Before I can react, his hands are braced on the couch on either side of me, caging me in with his broad frame.

"You want to critique my technique?" he asks, voice low and rough. "Fine. Let me show you exactly how I handle things."

His mouth crashes against mine with desperate hunger. The kiss is possessive, demanding, and absolutely perfect. His tongue sweeps into my mouth like he's claiming territory, and I can taste coffee and want and something purely Callum.

I grab the open edges of his flannel shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by gripping my waist and hauling me up from the couch. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me the few steps to the wall, pressing me against it.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, hands sliding up my sides. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this? How many times I've imagined having you against this wall?"

I can't form words because his thumbs are circling my nipples through the thin cotton of Dean's t-shirt, sending electricity straight to my core. All I can do is arch into his touch and make embarrassing whimpering sounds that seem to drive him wild.

"That's it," he murmurs, mouth moving to my throat. "Let me hear how much you want this."

From the kitchen, I'm dimly aware that Dean has moved to the doorway, drawn by the sounds we're making, but I'm too lost in Callum's hands and mouth to focus on anything else. One of his hands slides down my stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of my sleep shorts.

"Can I?" he asks, voice rough with restraint.

"Please," I gasp, and he doesn't need any more encouragement.

His hand slides beneath the elastic, and when his fingers find me wet and ready, he makes a sound like he's been punched. "Lila, sweetheart. You're soaked."

"For you," I manage, hips rolling against his hand. "Been thinking about this for days."

"Yeah?" His fingers trace through my slick, teasing. "What have you been thinking about?"

"Your hands," I admit breathlessly. "How they'd feel inside me. How you'd make me come apart."

The honesty seems to break something in him. His fingers find my clit, circling with exactly the right pressure, and I cry out sharply.

"She's okay," Callum says to Dean without taking his eyes off my face. "Aren't you, sweetheart? You're perfect."

I nod frantically, beyond caring that Dean is watching. Beyond caring about anything except the way Callum's fingers are moving against me with devastating precision.

"Tell Dean what you want," Callum commands. "Tell him what you've been thinking about."

"I—" I start, then gasp as he increases the pressure. "I've been thinking about all of you. How different you'd each be."

Dean's breathing is audible now, rough and uneven, and when I risk a glance at him, his eyes are dark with want.

"Different how?" Callum asks, sliding one finger inside me while his thumb continues its circles.

"Dean would be gentle," I manage, voice broken by pleasure. "Soft and sweet and careful. Julian would be intense, focused, like I'm a puzzle he needs to solve."

"And me?" Callum's voice is pure sin.

"You'd be possessive," I gasp as he adds a second finger. "Rough and demanding and—oh Callum, right there?—"

"Right here?" he asks, curling his fingers to hit that spot that makes me see stars. "Is this what you've been wanting?"

I can't answer because I'm too busy falling apart on his fingers.

The orgasm builds fast and hard, and I grip his shoulders desperately as pleasure crashes over me in waves.

I'm making sounds—probably embarrassing ones—but I can't bring myself to care when Callum is whispering praise against my ear and working me through every aftershock.

When I finally come back to myself, I'm slumped against Callum's chest, breathing hard and thoroughly debauched. He's holding me gently now, one hand stroking my hair.

"Better?" he asks softly, satisfaction and tenderness in his voice.