Page 63 of Reckless: Collision

Except I do care, and it’s pissing me off.

The basement stairs offer blessed solitude as I descend, each step a countdown to privacy I desperately need. My sports bra clings like a second skin, uncomfortable in ways that have nothing to do with physical exertion. The moment I hit the bottom step, I start stripping—propriety abandoned in favor of relief.

The bra goes flying across the room in a perfect arc that would make a basketball player proud. My breasts feel heavy, nipples pebbled in the cool air. I could blame the temperature, but that would be another lie in a morning full of them.

This is pure, unadulterated arousal. For Pack Locke.

For their alpha who pins me down during training like he owns me. For their fractured warrior who teaches me to fly across rooftops. For their brilliant beta who watches with knowing eyes. For their omega who moves like sin given form.

“Fuck all of you,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes with enough force to nearly take out the empty TV mount. My leggings and panties join the growing pile of discarded clothing—evidence of my surrender to baser needs.

My nude reflection catches in a distant window, and I barely recognize myself. Flushed skin, wild hair, eyes dark with want. I look like someone else. Someone who might actually belong in a pack.

That thought sends me stumbling toward the bed rather than the shower I desperately need. I sprawl across the expensive sheets, my body a live wire of conflicting impulses. Every brush of fabric against my skin feels like too much and not enough.

My mind wages war with itself. I like them. God help me, I actually like them. It’s like some cosmic joke—dropping me into the lap of four men who push every single one of my buttons. Even my traitorous body hums with recognition, with want, with need.

But touching myself feels like crossing a line. Like admitting something I’m not ready to face.

Then again, when have I ever been good at respecting boundaries?

I close my eyes, already breathing deeply as my clit pulses with a need that borders on pain. A toy would make this easier—something mechanical and impersonal to get the job done. Pure biology, no emotions attached. But my hands are all I have, and they carry the memory of every touch, every almost-moment with these men who are rapidly becoming my beautiful disaster.

I’m afraid to check how wet I am, knowing it would rival any omega in heat. Another reminder that my beta body doesn’t play by society’s rules. Just like everything else about me.

The memory of sparring with Ryker floods back unbidden—the perfect fit of his cock against me through our clothes, the controlled roll of his hips hitting exactly where I needed him. My entire body comes alive at the thought, nerve endings firing like overclocked processors.

My hands find my breasts, and even that gentle massage sends shockwaves through my system. I’m so wound up that the slightest brush across my nipples has me arching off the bed with a moan that echoes through the basement.

I don’t try to stifle it. Let them hear. Let them know exactly what they’ve done to me with their teasing and their training and their goddamn pheromones. How dare they work me up like this and leave me to deal with the aftermath alone?

I pinch my nipples harder, my back bowing as my legs fall open. The position leaves me exposed to anyone who might come down those stairs, and fuck—when did I develop an exhibitionist streak? But there’s something intoxicating about the possibility of being caught, of one of them finding me spread out on their sheets, getting myself off to thoughts of them.

The door’s right there.

Anyone could walk in and see me like this—desperate and wanting and so fucking wet. Would they watch? Join in? Or just stand there wrestling with their own control while I shatter mine?

My fingers roll and tug at my nipples until my pussy clenches around nothing, desperate for something to fill the ache they’ve created. I could come just from this, from the toy of my breasts and the fantasy of being watched. But whose face do I picture?

There are four to choose from, each offering a different flavor of destruction. Ryker with his tactical precision, Jinx with hisbeautiful chaos, Finn with his analytical thoroughness, Theo with his artistic passion. I could have any of them in my mind.

All of them.

“Fuck,” the word escapes on a long moan as my hips pump against air, seeking friction that isn’t there. My body hums like a live wire, every cell vibrating with need.

The reckless part of me—the part that jumps between buildings and hacks secure systems—wants to march upstairs and demand they take responsibility for what they’ve done to me. Make them worship every inch of my beta body until I forget why I ever thought I couldn’t belong to a pack.

But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? I don’t want to belong. Can’t belong. Not when Sterling Labs is hunting me, not when I have secrets that could get us all killed.

So instead, I arch into my own touch, letting my imagination paint pictures of what could be. Ryker’s hands holding me down. Jinx’s teeth at my throat. Finn’s clever fingers taking me apart. Theo’s omega grace teaching me submission.

My clit throbs in time with my pulse, begging for attention I can no longer deny.

My right hand finally slides down my stomach, mapping a path of fire across my skin, when a sharp inhale freezes me in place.

“Don’t stop.”

The words drift through the room like smoke—low, melodic, barely above a whisper yet somehow filling every corner of the space. My muscles freeze mid-motion not from fear but from something more primal. That voice—Theo’s voice—resonates at a frequency that bypasses conscious thought, vibrating directly against my bones and settling in my marrow. The omega timbre shouldn’t affect me—shouldn’t make my skin prickle with goosebumps or my breath catch in my throat or my fingers tremble against my skin—but my beta body responds anyway,nervous system hijacked by sound waves that seem to physically caress me from across the room.

---