Page 179 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Got it," Luca says, and the zipper slides down.
All the way down.
To the base of my spine.
The dress starts to slip, and I grab the bodice, holding it up while my entire back is exposed to the two Alphas who've gone very, very still.
"You're not wearing a bra," Levi observes helpfully.
"The dress has built-in support!"
"Good dress," Luca murmurs, and his fingers brush my spine, just barely, making me shiver.
"We should—" I start.
"Fix the zipper," Levi finishes, but his hand is on my hip now, steady and warm. "Can't have you stuck in here."
"Right. Stuck would be bad."
"Terrible," Luca agrees, pushing my hair over my shoulder, exposing my neck.
"The worst," Levi adds, and is he getting closer?
The changing room is tiny and hot and filled with the scent of honey and gingerbread and my own arousal that's spiking embarrassingly fast.
"You look like trouble in this dress," Levi whispers against my ear.
"Good trouble," Luca corrects, and his lips brush my neck, just where it meets my shoulder, not quite a kiss but definitely not accidental.
"The best trouble," Levi agrees, and his thumb is tracing circles on my hip that should be illegal.
This is how I die. In a thrift store changing room. Surrounded by vintage fabric and bad decisions.
"We should—" My voice breaks. "The zipper?—"
"Right," Luca says, but he doesn't move. If anything, he presses closer, chest against my back, and I can feel his heartbeat racing to match mine.
"The zipper," Levi echoes, but his free hand is playing with the hem of the skirt now, fingers brushing my thigh.
My scent floods the small space—vanilla and cinnamon and obvious arousal—and both Alphas growl softly, harmonizing in a way that makes my knees weak.
"Hazel," Luca's voice is rough. "If you don't want?—"
"I want," I interrupt, then immediately panic. "I mean—the zipper—fixing?—"
"Oh, I can't fucking think right now," Levi grunts, and the next second his hand is braced firmly at the base of my throat, his palm almost cradling me, tilting my chin up and back untilI'm arching against him, half off-balance, all sensation. He doesn't hesitate: his mouth is on mine, urgent and immediate, gluttonous and greedy like I’m the last glass of water in a drought. The zipper is already forgotten, the dress too, because all I am is heat and pulse and Levi's taste, the insistent slide of his tongue and the press of his chest against my bare back.
Luca lets out a low, reflexive noise—almost a warning, more likely a plea—and suddenly he’s gripping my waist with one hand as if to anchor me, the other sliding up to tangle in my hair and expose more of my neck to his hungry mouth. There’s nothing careful about it now. His stubble scrapes my skin, the faintest nip at my pulse point, and it triggers something oxygen-starved in my bones. My knees buckle; I would’ve gone straight down if the two of them weren’t holding me up in this ridiculous, tiny, badly lit cubicle of a dressing room.
Levi pulls away just long enough to huff out a laugh, his forehead pressed to mine. "Fuck, you taste like trouble. You always did." He bites my bottom lip, not quite enough to hurt, and I moan, because of course I do. I’m trapped between them, dress half-undone, scent blooming and wild, and every cell in my body is screaming YES to all of it. Luca’s hands are everywhere, steady and possessive, and his breath is hot in my ear as he mutters, "You make everything impossible, Hazel. Impossible to wait."
I can't even argue.
I can't think at all.
All I want is more—more teeth, more tongue, more hands, more of this reckless, greedy pack dynamic that scares the hell out of me and yet feels safer than anything ever has. I twist in their hold, desperate and pawing, and the tiny, forbidden space amplifies everything: the scrape of denim against my thigh, the drift of my own scent flooding their nostrils, the sound of my name in Luca’s rough voice.
Even the warbled mirror reflection makes me dizzy with how right it looks.
