Page 288 of Ruthless Knot

I gasp into his mouth as I feel him at my entrance—already hard, already positioned, already pushing inside with a stretch that borders on painful given how thoroughly used my body already is.

"Fuck," he mutters against my lips, the word vibrating between us. "Need to be quick. Already so fucking hard for you. Been watching all morning and it's been driving me insane."

His hips snap forward.

Burying himself completely in one brutal thrust.

I cry out—the sound muffled by his mouth still claiming mine, swallowed by the kiss that's more collision than caress. My hands scrabble for purchase, finding his shoulders, digging in with nails that are probably leaving marks.

Good.

Mark him.

Mark them all.

Claim them back.

The thought surfaces through the pleasure, through the overwhelm, through the particular kind of madness that comes from being thoroughly fucked by multiple Alphas in rapid succession.

Jett sets a rhythm that's nothing like Blaze's circus-skilled precision or Sage's tender intensity.

This is pure efficiency.

Fast.

Hard.

The rhythm of someone who's been waiting and watching and needs release now before he loses his mind completely.

His cock drives into me over and over, each thrust pushing me harder against the wall, the angle perfect for hitting that spot inside that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My body is exhausted—actually exhausted, muscles trembling and oversensitized—but apparently my Omega biology doesn't care about minor details like physical limitations.

I'm wet.

So wet.

The obscene sound of our bodies meeting fills the nest room, mixing with our combined breathing, the particular symphony of sex that I've become intimately familiar with over the past two weeks.

"That's it," Jett growls, his voice rough and strained. "Take it. Take all of me."

I moan into his mouth—can't help it, can't stop the sounds from escaping—and my legs wrap around his waist automatically, locking at the ankles, using what little leverage I have to meet his thrusts.

One-two-three-four.

One-two-three-four.

My internal counting continues beneath everything else—the baseline rhythm that keeps me tethered when pleasure threatens to scatter my thoughts completely.

The kiss breaks.

We're both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same space while our bodies work toward the inevitable conclusion.

"You're perfect," Jett murmurs, and the words shouldn't affect me as much as they do. "Fucking perfect. All of you. Every crazy, beautiful, deadly part."

Movement in my peripheral vision.

Blaze.

He's descended from the aerial ring, landing with practiced silence, moving toward us with that particular grace that comes from years of performance training.