Page 64 of In Too Deep

My arms finally decide to join the party, and I reach up to grab Eli’s throat and shoulders, pulling him to my chest and rolling him over onto his back. I pause for a heartbeat, eyes locking with Eli’s so I can see his nod of consent before I slant my lips over his. The kiss is hungry, a clash of teeth and tongues as we battle for dominance. But as I squeeze my hand around the thick column of his muscled neck, he relents and relaxes into the bed.

We work together to remove the last layers of fabric separating us, and I groan into our kiss as I wrap my hand around Eli’s shaft for the first time. I’d seen it before, and it was impressive to behold, but touching it, really feeling the heft and girth of his member, makes me dizzy. I’ve never bottomed, but I might have to for him, just to see how much of him I could take before I begged for mercy.

Eli’s hand goes to his mouth and gathers a glob of saliva before returning to my cock, spreading the moisture and creating the most magnificent glide. Pulling away for a moment to spit in my own hand, I return and match my pumps to Eli’s. Soon our hips are rolling together, and I gasp as the tips of our cocks brush.

“Grind against me,spaderknekt. Take both our cocks in that huge hand of yours, just like that,” Eli instructs, releasing his grip to help me wrap my fingers around us.

We both moan as our cocks rub together, the friction incredible, especially when we move closer and our knots press against each other. Eli adds more and more saliva as I stroke, our breathing turning to pants as we find a rhythm. I bite my lower lip to keep from moaning too loud, which becomes increasingly difficult as I approach my release.

“When we get home, I’m going to have your cock in my ass for real. Maybe Tori can join us. I’ll put my cock in her pussy so you can fuck us both at the same time.”

Eli’s dirty talk is unrivaled, conjuring the image behind my closed eyes. Tori on her back in that gorgeous nest we built for her, with Eli and I above her, and Oli in her mouth. It’s too much, and I gasp out my linemate’s name as my balls draw up. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me as I spray Eli’s bare chest with my cum, and he’s right there with me, painting my skin with his release.

The room is silent for several long heartbeats after we climax, the air drenched in the scent of berries and sex and metallic ozone. I wait for the post-nut clarity to come, but there’s no embarrassment. If anything, the only regret I’m feeling is over the fact that we haven’t done that sooner.

Eli moves first, padding to the bathroom and giving me a great view of his ass. He returns with a damp washcloth, which he uses to clean me up and then himself. Well, he cleans up only after he gathers up a hefty serving of my cum from his abs on his fingers and brings it to his lips.

“Mmm…that’s nice. Like an after-dinner mint,” he says, wiping away the rest.

I let out a bark of laughter so loud that I’m sure it wakes our neighbors. We settle back into bed, Eli playing the part of thebig spoon this time with me tucked into his side. He drops off almost instantly, but as I stretch, I realize he missed a spot near my nipple. Checking to see if he’s really asleep, I drag my finger across my skin, gathering up the viscous fluid on my finger before popping it in my mouth.

Tart like fresh cranberry juice. Just like my dreams.

1. Translation (Swedish): Fuck

2. Translation (Swedish): BlackJack [lit – jack of spades]

“We’re doing a lotof back-office work and player assessments. And with so many players out of town, it’s hard to know who’s going to be in or out at this point in time,” Shelly, the event coordinator for the Saints, says hesitantly, her boredom clear even through the headset I’m wearing to take this call.

I resist the urge to scream into one of the many throw pillows that line the outside of my nest, head aching from the pointlessness of this call. Instead, I pull up my intrusive thoughts doc.

YOUR QUARTERBACK HAS BEEN POSTING SELFIES IN HIS PAJAMAS FOR A MONTH! YOU ARE JUST LAZY AND DON’T WANT TO DO YOUR JOB, YOU ABSOLUTE CUNTAPUS!

“Well, we need a finalized list of players by Friday, or else we’re not going to be able to fit them on the floats. And we’ll just have to fill their slots with guys and girls from other teams. I’ll send out some feelers, just in case you can’t get that locked down,” Dee says. He sounds so casual that I can’t help but smirk.

“No!” Shelly shouts, making me wince. “I mean, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m sure we’ll be able to fill all the spots you need and then some.”

That’s fucking right, you will. Because riding on a Mardi Gras float is the highlight of the year for these guys, and especially their kids and families that get to join the festivities. Thankfully, the conversation shifts to the ball, and I’m able to relax. I’m not required to speak on this call, which is why I’m taking it from the comfort of my nest. Dee is still acting like he’s in charge as he presents my graphics for the upcoming edition of Mardi Gras magazine, reading off the points I wrote for him. We still have to pretend that he’s running the department for the time being, even though he’s doing less and less work every day, allowing me to pick up the slack.

There’s no set plan in place for when he’s going to announce his retirement, but it’s definitely not going to happen before Mardi Gras. We’ve talked about doing a press conference after the trade deadline, but that’s not even remotely set in stone. And I haven’t been pushing, because the trade deadline is already stressing me out enough.

I glance at the clock I installed this morning in the rafters of my nest, my favorite shells from the Christmas trip glued to its plastic frame, the gentle ticking easy to tune out. Oli left to pick up the others from the arena a while ago, and they should be almost ready to head home, if there weren’t any delays in landing. I check my phone for any new messages, and Logan’s text letting me know that they landed is still the latest news. Butthere’s always a chance they got caught in traffic heading back to the arena.

Tuning back into the call, I push my anxieties to the back of my mind. Even if they walked through the door right now, I won’t be able to do anything until this call is over. It’s my last one of the day, but I’m already mentally clocked out. I have to force myself to focus and not jump at every creak of the house or loud engine that passes by.

Finally, we all sign off, and I shut my laptop with a snap before falling backward into the mound of blankets and pillows. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the scents of my alphas surround me and soothe my nerves. I had another appointment with my omega doctor earlier today to review the results from my most recent blood work. My hormone levels are high, which I could have called even before the lab tested them. I’ve been out of my mind, the only things able to calm me down being my alphas. I miss them constantly, and going this long without their touch has my skin crawling. My doctor is over the moon, excited to treat something she’d only ever read about. Apparently, all of this is due to an unusually high level of compatibility, my instincts recognizing the guys as uniquely suited mates, which in turn makes my body pump out bonding hormones like they’re going out of style. I call it more whack-ass omega shit, hating and loving it at the same time. I was perfectly fine for years, and then four Adonis-shaped hockey doofuses crash into my life. And suddenly I’m a puppy, whining for my masters like I’ll never see them again.

But more than that, the level of hormones in my system is an early warning sign for an impending heat. And now that I’m well and truly off my blockers, the next one is going to be a doozy. Even without my doctor’s warning against trying to delay or deny my cycle, I know I won’t be able to go through this alone.And I owe it to my alphas to warn them of the impending sex fest that could consume us within the next month or two.

I roll out of my nest, shuffling down the stairs and heading toward the kitchen to start on dinner. I’m not the best cook in the group by any stretch of the imagination, but it doesn’t take a Michelin star chef to boil pasta and bake chicken breasts. And I need to do something with my hands while my mind tries to formulate a plan.

I check the diet sheet attached to the front of the fridge as I prep the ingredients, sticking to their prescribed macros. I don’t want to fuck up their diets when we’re doing this well. We added two wins and a loss to our stats during this road trip, which officially puts the Mystic in the hunt for a playoff slot, and not just the wild card either. A bonified division win. It would be our first since I started working for the team, even though we prep our media packets and promotions and fan events every year, just in case. In an ideal world, my heat would come before the end of the regular season, so the guys could fully focus on the playoffs. But I shouldn’t rely on luck. We need to have a plan in place, which will be easier to do once we announce our pack publicly.

I’m pulled from my thoughts as the garage door grinds open, and I smile to myself. My boys are home, and dinner is almost done. I’m just waiting for the chicken to broil before I can plate up. But then there’s a pause, and I strain my ears for the sounds of car doors or even voices. But when silence is the only thing that answers back, my shoulders slump and I sigh, going back to cooking. I must have imagined that, a product of my wishful thinking.

But then, less than a minute later, the door leading down to the garage slams open, making me jump so suddenly that I almost drop the tray of chicken as I’m pulling it from the oven.

“Lucy, I’m home!” Eli yells in his best Desi Arnez accent.

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