Page 117 of Heat Clinic

“Never hurts to practice.” Marcus notches his head to my entrance and pushes inside, seating himself to the root. He covers me, his weight heavy in a way that’s comforting. It feels like safety. Protection. Here, in the safety of my nest with my pack and my alpha, I’m untouchable. Marcus grabs my legs and shifts them higher, fucking deeper as he fills me up. My clamps rub against him, and I don’t need to reach down between us as he moves, his hips rolling as he fucks me sweet and slow, because the metal tugs at me until I’m panting.

Tom lies beside us, one hand petting me and the other tangled in Sam’s unruly hair as it bobs over his length. He toys with my breast, palming its weight, then flicks my nipple. Teasing is his way of saying he cares.

Arching, I come, my walls fluttering on my alpha’s cock and then his knot as he plugs me tight and floods me with seed. Practicing. My belly bulges with him and his fountain of cum as he stoppers me full until I’m aching and satisfied, my thoughts no longer worried with things like dinner.

What’s one fancy dinner in the wake of a lifetime of these moments?

We’re going to make a baby soon.

Me and my pack.

All of us together.

ChapterThirty

MARCUS

I snapthe paper taut and scour the articles for the one I want. After a moment of searching, I find it. It’s been three days since Tom’s grand opening. “Here it is.”

“What’s it say?” Tom asks, looking up from his untouched breakfast. “Never mind.” He scowls down into his eggs. “I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “It’s good. They loved it.”

“Really? Let me see that.” Tom snatches the paper from me and reads it for himself.

Sam watches the whole thing with an amused grin when he’s not shoveling eggs and bacon and toast into his mouth.

“Slow down,” Emily says. “You’re gonna choke.” She sips her orange juice and nibbles on her slice of buttered toast and watches Tom read. “What’s it say?”

Tom clears his throat. “Mr. Orello’s collection of portraits and self portraits is a viscerally shocking experience that both tantalizes and amazes. Viewers enter the gallery as if they enter the nest with the lovers in this most intimate of displays. Thirty-four prints display both the harsh and sensual realities of bonding. Hands grasp and teeth rend, and there is no shying away from the hard, animalistic truth of the moment as blood and other fluids spill.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she says, eating the last of her toast. “Sounds like they really liked it.”

I nudge her untouched bowl of fruit closer and smile when she takes a grape and pops it into her mouth, chewing it.

“I can feed myself, you know.” She takes another despite her halfhearted protest.

“It’s better to get all the vitamins you need from food sources rather than pills. The doctor says they absorb more easily that way.”

She rolls her eyes, but takes a strawberry. “I’m not even pregnant yet.”

Not yet, but soon. I stroke her hair while she eats and Tom reads the article again, parsing through the words as if he’s looking to make sure it’s not a trick. Sam clears his plate, then grabs more bacon from the platter.

“How many have you sold?” I ask Tom.

“Four, and another is pending. Is it kind of weird that prints of our naked bodies are going to be hanging up in strangers’ houses for them to ogle?”

I laugh. “A little late to worry, don’t you think? And no, I don’t find it weird.” I think my entire pack rather likes the idea. Turns out we’re all unapologetic deviants and exhibitionists.

Emily’s phone makes acha-chingsound and we all watch her check it, her lips curling in a smile that makes her radiant even with her sleep-rumpled hair. Especially with her mussed hair since it was us that messed it up.

“Another sale? Your online shop is getting busy,” Tom says.

She taps on her phone.“Yeah, they really like the Prince of Orange cuttings. I can’t keep them stocked. As soon as I get one mature enough to ship it’s gone.” They share a lingering, sly look.

Sam stops eating long enough to join in,“I saw some pictures of a sweet set up someone has. It’s a wooden wall rack that holds a bunch of glass tubes and shit for your plant babies to grow. I was thinking it wouldn’t be too hard to make. It would help get the pots and glasses off the dining table. We could hang it on the wall and put up lights or whatever.”

One by one they all turn to look at me. I hide my smile behind the rim of my mug. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.

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