Page 117 of Scrum Heat

We’re in my bedroom. The bed’s made, the lights are low, and there’s a faint trace of lavender in the air from whatever lotion Frankie uses. Rory sits beside me, elbows on his knees, back straight. He’s calm in that tightly-wound way that always makes people underestimate how much heat is hiding just under the surface. He hasn’t spoken since we came upstairs, but I know he’s ready.

So am I.

There’s a quiet knock at the door, then her voice, soft but certain.

“You’re sure you don’t mind doing this…together?”

I look at Rory. He doesn’t flinch—just nods once.

I rise, walk to the door, and open it.

Frankie’s standing there barefoot, wearing that floaty dress again. The one that’s soft and clingy in the right places and probably wasn’t designed to wreck two alphas at once, but is doing anexcellentjob of it anyway.

“I mean it,” she says, her big, brown eyes flicking between us. “If it’s weird, or too much—”

“It’s not,” I say quietly, stepping aside so she can enter. “It’sright.”

Rory stands and crosses the room. He doesn’t touch her yet, but his presence is enough.

“We talked about this,” he says. “We’re both here because we want to be.”

“And we wantyou,” I add, walking to her, reaching for her hand. “No pressure. No agenda. Just us.”

Frankie nods, her fingers lacing through mine. “Okay.”

I lead her to the bed, and she sits between us. Rory brushes her hair back from her face, slow and careful. I watch her shoulders relax like something inside her finally lets go.

The air is thick now. Not tense—justcharged.

And we’re all so aware of what’s coming next.

I tilt her chin up and kiss her, soft and slow. She melts into it, her lips parting under mine, her body shifting toward me like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have. When we break apart, she’s flushed and breathless.

Rory presses a kiss to her shoulder, then leans in close, mouth brushing her ear.

“You ready?”

Frankie nods, and her voice is barely above a whisper. “I want both of you.”

I guide her back gently onto the bed, one hand at her hip, the other stroking slow up her spine. Her dress rustles as she sinks into the pillows, hair fanned out, cheeks flushed, eyes wide—but steady. There’s no fear in her; just that hum of wanting and trust threaded through every breath.

Rory moves in behind her, slow and sure. I watch him with her; how careful he is, how quiet. His hand slides down her arm, his fingers pause at her waist, and then he presses in close—his chest to her back, anchoring her there between us.

She sighs, and her head tips back slightly, instinctively leaning into both of us.

My hands move beneath the hem of her dress, up the inside of her thighs. Her breath hitches, soft and needy. She’s warm under my palms. Open. Receptive.

Ours.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, kissing up her neck. “You feel that, don’t you? What this is?”

She nods, lips brushing mine. “Yeah. I feel you.”

Her legs part when I nudge between them, and I glance past her to Rory. His eyes meet mine over her shoulder before he presses a kiss to the back of her neck, and she shudders.

“You’re safe,” I murmur, voice thick. “You’reours.”

Rory starts to lift her dress, baring the curve of her ass, her waist, her lower back. He moves with the kind of restraint that speaks volumes—every touch purposeful, like he’s memorizing her.

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