Page 61 of Rut Bar

And with the way his old van rumbles, I’m already halfway there. A little more than halfway there. My thighs clench and the pressure on my swollen pussy and the vibrations of the rumbly van set me off. A shallow, empty orgasm washes through me and leaves me breathing hard.

Jamie drives closer and closer to the beach until he turns away from the pier and heads down the side street into a historic neighborhood. The multi-million-dollar mini-mansions fade into tiny beachfront cottages and shacks that still probably cost a cool million or more. He turns into the short driveway of a cute little yellow shack and then he hits his garage remote and we idle as the door rolls up enough so he can pull in and park.

Holy shit.

My alpha dancer lives in a million-dollar historic beach house. So what the fuck is he doing working at Rut?

The distraction and orgasm are enough for me to find a lull. The roiling need simmers below my surface once more. A warning that my chokehold on my self-control is nearly spent. Next time won’t be so easy.

“I’ll get your bag,” Jamie says as he hops out and slides my door open. He grabs it from my feet and drags it up his shoulder while the garage door rolls back down.

“I want to look at your hand,” I tell Anthony. I turn to Jamie and ask him, “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, it’s in the bathroom.” Jamie leads the way and we follow.

My head swivels as he leads us through the house to a guest bathroom off the hallway. My gut clenches with longing at the soaked in scents layered in this house. Anthony comes over often. His smell is almost as embedded in this home as Jamie’s is, and the tension coiled between my legs eases.

Pack.

This house smells like pack. Like safety. Affection and comfort. Cozy spring mornings full of sunshine and our mingled scents as we make love in that huge bed and an ocean breeze makes the sheer white curtains flutter.

All three of us pile into the tiled bathroom even though it’s a tight fit. Jamie digs in the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a white first aid kit with a red cross printed on it. He pops the lid open and I take a moment to appreciate how well stocked it is.

“All right, let’s get that off,” I say, pointing to Anthony’s bandage. The EMT slapped a white dressing over it, but the edges are already peeling up from him using his hand and flexing it.

“You gonna nurse me back to health, baby?” Anthony asks, his tone teasing as he grins. He rips the bandage off with no delicacy at all and the wound on his middle knuckle re-opens. It beads red with blood as the scab pulls off with the dressing.

I ignore his antics and point at the lidded toilet. “Sit. And try not to open every single one of your wounds. Do you think you can manage to behave for two fucking seconds?”

He sits and drapes his busted hand over the white countertop, and I turn the tap on so the water can warm up while I pour some hydrogen peroxide onto some clean gauze and lay it over the open skin on his knuckles. “This will probably sting,” I tell him while I’m already doing it.

Anthony doesn’t so much as flinch. He watches me wet another piece of gauze, then wipe the trickling blood off his hand and clean his skin. After the peroxide has cleaned his wounds, I peel the gauze away to check that it looks clean and it’s stopped bleeding.

“Think it’ll scar?” he asks.

The edge of the rose tattoo on his hand might be affected, since one of the flower leaves extends to his knuckles. “Maybe.” He might have to go back to his artist when it’s healed and get the ink touched up.

“Good.” His other arm curls around me, his hand sliding down to cup my ass. He grabs a handful and squeezes.

“Good?” I toss the pink-tinged gauze into the trash and grab the bacitracin. “Your tattoo might be fucked up.”

He shrugs and tilts his head so he can watch me squeeze the antiseptic ointment over his broken skin. “I’ll wear the scar proudly, because it means I kept you safe. Nothing else matters. You’re worth a few scars, Vee. You’re worth a whole damn lot of them.”

My heart squeezes in my chest, even when his hand begins to grope and fondle. He’s trying to distract me and it’s nearly working, but I’m not done gently scolding him. I pop the wrapper on a roll of stretchy gauze fabric and wrap it around his hand. “You got in the way of me protecting my bar, Anthony. I don’t mind taking orders in the bedroom—that’s playtime—but when it comes to the rest of my life, I’m the one in control of it. If you can’t handle that…”

“No.”

I stop winding the gauze around his hand and try to pull back, but his grip on my ass tightens to keep me trapped between his knees. “No?” I ask.

“I know you’re the boss. I don’t care if you wear the pants at work so long as you let me tug them down so I can fuck you sometimes. But when it comes to your safety, we will never let you put yourself in harm's way. Not when one of us could be your shield instead. I know you don’t think you need or want protection, but you’ve got us. Whether you like it or not. Get used to it, Vee. We’re not fucking going anywhere.”

An intense longing I haven’t felt in years rips through me and leaves me feeling breathless and shaky. Deep down, I’m scared. Afraid that I’ll open myself up, let my defenses down, need them, and then they’ll leave. I haven’t needed anyone in years. But now I sort of want to, and that’s frightening.

Because loving them would be so easy. But sooner or later, everyone leaves me. They’ll get disappointed when I can’t give them whatever it is they want from me. They always do. But I’m tired of being good and saying no. Of denying myself. It’s the heat making my self-control weak, or the sight of his battle-torn skin and the knowledge that he got hurt forme, but my omega instincts are clamoring for me to claim them both. My sweet, trustworthy alpha and my hard, dependable beta.

If they want to set themselves on fire, then we’ll all burn.

I finish wrapping the gauze roll around his hand and tie it in place, winching it down harder than is strictly necessary. Still, he doesn’t flinch. His groping hand kneads my ass, then moves to pass teasing strokes in the dip between my cheeks. He can’t quite touch my pussy unless he goes under my skirt, but he tries.

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