Page 7 of Knot Baked Out For This
But I know it won’t last.
Nothing sweet ever does, not for me.
Not for the bakery girl everyone called defective.
Still, for this moment? I have it all.
And I want more….
I lose myself, over and over.
At one point, I think I black out. Maybe just for a second, maybe longer.
When I surface, my whole body is trembling, sweat-slick and grit-sticky from flour and sugar and the mess three Alphas can make in a kitchen.
Rowan’s chest is beneath me, a furnace. Levi’s laughter sparkles in my ear, sweet and a little wild, and Luca’s hands are still holding me together—one palm at my nape, the other anchored at my hip. I could almost believe I’m safe.
Might even believe I’m happy.
But the pleasure isn’t over. Not even close.
Every thrust. Every slam of hips, every slow, sucking slide of cock inside me, ratchets the pleasure higher—spikes the need until I can’t even think in words, just sensation.
My tongue stutters on their names.
Rowan, Rowan, Rowan—then Levi, sweet and hurting, then Luca, all knifepoint need. Over and over, like a chant, a spell, an invocation.
They keep chanting, too.
How good I am, how perfect, how they need me, want me, can’t let me go.
I believe them. Maybe just for tonight.
My scent explodes with every climax—pumpkin cream and maple, blitzed out with honeyed cinnamon and the dark, burnt snap of caramel. It’s dizzying. I can tell it drives them wild. Their own scents rise to meet mine: Rowan’s fire and sugar, Levi’s vanilla chai, Luca’s bittersweet chocolate and rum. The air is so thick I could drink it.
My body goes rigid. Then liquid.
My thighs shake—I don’t know if I’m riding or being ridden anymore, just that every slam brings another white-hot crackof orgasm. I see stars. I taste whipped cream and Alpha on my tongue.
Levi drags his mouth up my neck, bites down, and I shatter.Fuck, I shatter.The world whites out. Pleasure rips me apart at the seams. I scream, voice raw, throat burning with it.
Luca follows, hands clamping my hips so hard I know I’ll wear bruises tomorrow. He grinds in, knot swelling, and the stretch just…wrecks me. I gush slick, legs giving out, head lolling to the side.
Rowan’s hand finds my breast, squeezes, thumb flicking the nipple as he kisses the corner of my mouth. Sweet, gentle. Real.
For a moment, I float.
No pain, no shame, no past.
Just me. Just them. Just heat, and sugar, and the ache of being filled, over and over, until the loneliness is scrubbed out for good.
But the memories creep in anyway.
Heats alone were always a joke—like pulling a blanket over your head and pretending the monsters weren’t real. Sometimes, when it was just me, I’d bake through the pain. Try to drown myself in cinnamon and carbs. Didn’t work. The emptiness crawled under my skin, never let me rest. Even when I let someone help, it was wrong. Their hands were too rough, their scent made my stomach turn, the pleasure never clicked into place. Always felt like being broken. Always.
This? This is nothing like that.
This is being seen.
