Page 102 of Heat Clinic

“Fuck, that was hot,” Sam says.

Tom grunts in agreement, his camera clicking again as he takes a few more photos. “I’m going to transfer these to my computer. Let’s have dinner while they rest.”

Sam and Tom both press a kiss to my cheek before slipping out of the nest and wandering downstairs.

I’m sorry,Marcus’s soul says through our bond. It doesn’t use words. In the bond, there’s no need for them. I hear him all the same.

Forgiven,mine answers.

He holds me tight and wraps his arms around me, and I’m happy beyond belief.

ChapterTwenty-Six

EMILY

Three days later,when we all emerge from our sticky, messy nest, we take a group shower, washing one another as we savor the intimacy of nonsexual touch. Even Tom manages to behave himself. His balls are spent, he says. Sam laughs and offers him a vitamin combination that can help increase semen production.

“Don’t worry,” I say, rinsing the shampoo out of my hair. “I’ve hit my dick quota for the week.”

Everything is chafed. I wash between my legs with a gentle swipe of a sudsy hand. After we’re clean, Sam massages me down there with a bottle of that healing oil he says he took from the clinic on his way out.

“I still have to send the photos to the printer, but do you guys want to see the ones I think are the best?” Tom asks.

I’m dying of curiosity. The pictures from Sam’s mating are gorgeous. They’re not just sensual and sexual—they’re visceral and raw. “Yes! Oh, that reminds me.” I turn to Marcus. “We never gave you your mating present. Everything got kind of crazy in there.”

“It shouldn’t be that bad next time, now that you’re mated,” Sam says. “You had three months of bonding chemicals bottled up and ready to explode.”

Marcus leans down and kisses me, then wraps me in my fluffy robe. “Is this the secret you were keeping from me?”

I belt the waist and nod, his smile making me weak in the knees.Nope, I tell my battered pussy when it gives a half-hearted attempt to boot and rally.We are closed for business for at least a week.Wet clumps of dark hair threaded with silver hang in his face, and he brushes them to the side, a bead of water rolling down his stubble.At least three days.

“I hid it in the office,” Tom says. “I’ll grab it.”

We all end up piled on the sofa in the living room while the nest bedding runs through the wash cycle. Marcus pops open the bottle of wine he’s been chilling in the fridge all week for this very moment and pours us all a glass. Tom comes back with a large leather album in his hands. The cover is stamped with black on black designs that swirl together. He hands it to Marcus, takes his glass, and joins us on the couch.

“You made this?” Marcus asks, trailing a finger down the edge of the leather-bound book.

“We all did,” Tom says.

He cracks it open, and the stiff spine creaks before giving. The title page is our family name embossed in shiny black on the matte black page, and my stomach swarms with butterflies as I realize that’s my name now too. He flips the page, and we see the first image. It’s a self portrait of the three of us lying in the nest, our limbs pretzeled together with the sheets twisted all around us. It’s more intimate than scandalous. Only knees and thighs and a foot are visible.

Marcus turns the page, flipping through the book. It’s a shot of my torso with Sam’s hands gripping my breasts like a bra as I ride him backward. The room is dark, the shape of us only lit in contrast with a white rim light that shows the curve of my breast and rib cage and the rough texture of his hands. He’s gotten callused while working on the bike.

The next one is a flash of Sam’s throat with Tom’s hand cupping his jaw and forcing his head up. Fingers dig into skin, pressing on the pulse point. Sam’s lips are wet and swollen from being kissed.

On the next page is the curve of my back and the top of my ass, a hand splayed across it so the pinky settles in the twin divots above my crack. The Venus dimples, Tom had said. I’m not even certain whose hand it is in the photo. It doesn’t matter.

In the next one I’m standing in front of the window wearing Tom’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up because they’re too long on me. The light shines through it, turning the fabric sheer. You can see the curve of my body, the dark thatch of hair between my legs, the jut of my nipples. I’ve piled my hair on my head, my fingers tangled in the locks as sun highlights the strands.

Sam reclines in bed in the next photo, his cock soft against his thigh. A trail of cum is splattered across his abs. On the next page, Tom takes Sam from behind, their hands tangled together on top of the desk and Sam’s mouth rounding as he comes. Sam kneels on the floor in the next one, his collar a stark contrast against his throat. A leash disappears out of view as its holder tugs his head up.

Marcus flips the page, and we see Tom leaning against the wall, his jacket and shirt unbuttoned and open and his pants gaping as he dips a hand inside. Only the trail of hair leading down is visible, but his hips pump into the air and the fabric is strained, the edge of his hard erection barely visible with the dark lighting.

The book gets more risque the deeper it goes. As if the viewer is being asked to join us. And they are, because this is a gift for Marcus’s eyes only. It’s a celebration of our love, our bond.

Our pack.

Marcus flips through it, studying each page with equal attention. There’s a closeup of my pussy wrapped around Sam’s girth, my lips shiny and stretched thin as my sex grips him as if it doesn’t want to ever let him go. Then Sam’s ass, red and striped from the lashing of a belt, his hole puffy and used with a trickle of cum that curves down its slope.

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