Page 78 of Knot Just for Show

The sensation startled me at first, mostly because I hadn’t even considered it to be a possibility—but as soon as my brain caught hold of what was happening, I scrambled back to my side of the couch with a casual laugh, worried that I’d start sporting my own raging boner at the realization that I not only had enjoyed that sensation…but that I was keenly aware of how much I wanted to get on top of Lysander; exploring with lips and tongues and hands—furiously dry humping like teenagers trying something new for the first time—the rest of our spectating pack be damned.

After that, every time I made a deposit at the spank bank while thinking of Ursula—there were increasingly more players involved in my fantasies. Yes, even more baffling—I have slowly but surely been adding other members of the pack to those fantasies—whether I mean to or not.

Hell, Just a few hours ago, I’d had the weirdest experience when Mavren caught sight of Ursula’s ass in the tasty outfit she’s wearing tonight. When he made that expression—somewhere between a moan and a look as if he might actually be in pain—his hands moving slightly in the still air, his desire to reach out and grab that perfect ass nearly palpable; I instantly had an overpowering urge to watch him fucking Ursula, cumming, knot-deep inside her.

Like, what the fuck was that? Who the hell even AM I anymore?

A little voice inside me asks: ‘What does it matter? Who cares what anyone else thinks? Do what you want to do, fuck who you want to fuck—love who you want to love.’

Whether that voice is the sangria talking, or the rare indulgence in weed speaking through the magical speech of the crossfade—I decide to listen, my hands reaching for Ursula—my body fitting against hers as the music swells.

My face drifts down toward hers—my lips find Ursulas and my heart pounds furiously against my ribs as her little velvet tongue curls around mine.

I want her—right there on the hard floor, just like in her dream. I can tell she feels my rock hard want against her as we grind to the music; her lips parting against mine in the tiniest hitch of breath. I’m about to suck on her full bottom lip, not caring about how much of her supposedly-non-smudge-lipstick is inevitably all over my face right now—but her face turns away.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes—Lysander, his delicate chess player’s hands at the white curve of Ursula’s jaw as he turns her mouth to his.

I watch greedily as the two of them kiss—feeling her body respond to him as she’s pressed against me.

One of Ursula’s hands raises to Lysander’s knife sharp cheekbones—caressing his face gently as she turns back to me, her other hand cupping the nape of my neck—urging me back toward her.

Again our lips and tongues meld together—Ursula’s clever canines nipping at my lower lip before she pulls back—kissing Lysander once more.

We go on like this—I’m not sure how long, until—through her casual, gentle witchcraft—Lysander and I are the ones kissing over the round of Ursula’s shoulder; one of my hands fistedin his beautiful chocolate curls—the other cupping a cheek of Ursula’s ass—holding her tight against me.

Lysander lets out a soft moan into my mouth, and I have to break the kiss—or else I really will be tempted to get obscene with the two of them right in the middle of the crowded dance floor.

My throbbing erection doesn’t seem to see the problem with that, but thankfully my thinky-brain remembers that we’d get in trouble for indecent exposure—so I rock back onto my heel and, continuing the dance, desperate to catch my breath.

As soon as the song ended, Lysander and I—both too petrified to talk directly about what had just happened—opted to hit the bar and get absolutely shit faced.

Seriously, I don’t think I’ve been as drunk as I was last night since I was under twenty-one and much more practiced with regular binge drinking.

We were both so wasted that we ended up passing out on the outer reaches of the nest bed—too intoxicated to participate in the evening’s sleeping spot straw pull.

I woke up, mouth dry as a desert, and dragged myself up to the kitchen. I was contemplating calling in some breakfast—but Ronan had apparently beaten me to it, a small form already filled out for a breakfast order beside him—a newspaper in his hands and a glass of iced coffee dripping with condensation.

“Someone’s an early bird.” I yawn, stretching a bit before dropping onto the stool beside him at the oversized kitchen island.

“Besides you?” He raises a fiery brow, glancing at me over the top of his newspaper. “You drank enough to fell an ox last night, and yet you’re up bright and early—and you don’t even look that hungover,” he laughs.

I wince a little, my headache taking issue with his assessment.

“I think it’s just my charm and good looks that have you fooled—it’s taking all my willpower not to steal your coffee and chug it down right now.”

Ronan shrugs and slides the glass toward me, watching me carefully.

“Bless you.” I don’t second guess the offer, I just grab the glass and slug down some of the blessedly cold and wet caffeine—hoping it, along with some much needed breakfast, might soak the vestiges of last night’s drinking from my system, so I’m in tip top shape for my date with Ursula today.

I set the empty glass down on the stone counter with a quiet pinging noise—Ronan’s intense quartz eyes fix on me with a questioning look.

“Uh…do I have something on my face?” I run a hand over my mouth—just in case I’ve dribbled ice coffee all over myself, but I feel nothing.

“No,” Ronan answers casually, that gaze still locked on me.

“So…why are you giving me the scanner-beam-stare then, dude?” I laugh, trying to shrug off my growing discomfort.

“Have you talked to Lysander about last night yet?” he asks without pretense.

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