The door opens with a soft click. You enter—tray in shaking hands, eyes downcast, cheeks flushed from exertion or embarrassment or the early whispers of heat that suppressants can't fully stop. The scent hits us simultaneously.
KADEEM:
My glass slips. Shatters. I don't notice.
The smell—wrong, thin, chemical—but beneath it, beneath it: honey and need and MINE. My cock swells so fast I gasp, hand gripping the table, vision tunneling. Thirty-four years. Thirty-four years of control, of waiting, of dismissing the bond as myth. And now—
He's soft. Round. Pale as moonlight, cheeks pink, uniform straining over a belly I want to grip, to hold, to fuck into submission. The suppressants are strong in him—too strong, dangerous, illegal levels—but not strong enough. Not for us.
"Stop," I command, my voice foreign even to me—rough, desperate, Arabic slipping into my English. He freezes. The tray trembles.
I stand, adjusting my jacket to hide the obscene bulge there—twenty-six inches already and swelling, the knot forming at the base, my body preparing to lock inside, to breed, to claim. Dae-hoon is rigid beside me, knuckles white on the table. Jules is—
Jules growls. Actually growls, the sound primal, possessive, hungry.
DAE-HOON:
I don't believe in fate. I believe in data. In control. In the supremacy of will over biology.
My cock is hard enough to hurt. Twenty-eight inches, straining my trousers, leaking steadily, the knot at the base already swelling to fist-size. I will rut. I will knot. I will breed. The thoughts are not mine—not the civilized me, the CEO, the strategist. They are older. Deeper. Alpha.
He's staring at us. Big eyes—brown, wet, terrified. His scent is wrong, masked, but I can taste the truth beneath it: omega. Fated. Ours.
"Suppressants," I manage, my voice clipped, cold, betraying nothing of the chaos inside. "Dangerous levels. Illegal." I should call security. Have him removed. Report him. Instead: "Close the door. Lock it."
He doesn't move. Can't move. The pull affects him too—weak, confused, his body recognizing what his mind doesn't understand. I see it in the way his hips twitch, the way he presses his thighs together, the way his pretty mouth opens on a silent gasp.
Jules moves first. Of course he does. He's always been the most feral of us.
JULES:
Mine. Mine. MINE.
The word is all I know. All I am. Thirty-six years of civilization stripped away by one scent, one sight, one omega.
He's perfect. Soft where we're hard. Pale where we're dark. Round and plump and ripe, his uniform buttons straining over a belly I want to mark with teeth, with seed, with ownership.
I growl. I can't stop it. The sound rips from my chest, vibrating through the room, and he drops the tray—glass shatters, champagne spills, and he looks up at us with those big wet eyes and I smell it: fear. Arousal. Recognition.
"The door," I rumble, my voice barely human. "Lock it. Now."
He stumbles back, hand finding the lock, clicking it shut. Trapping himself. Sealing his fate. The sound echoes in the silence of the conference room—just us, just him, forty floors above the city.
I step forward. My cock is a monster now—thirty inches, veined and black and leaking, the knot at the base swollen to the size of a grapefruit, my body readying to lock inside, to pump him full, to breed our fated mate until he can't walk, can't think, can't remember any name but ours.
"Suppressants don't work on fated bonds," I tell him, reaching out, my massive hand cupping his soft cheek. He whimpers. The sound goes straight to my knot. "You feel it. The pull. The heat starting." I lean down, my lips brushing his ear, my scent—musk and power and rut—enveloping him. "We feel it too. Times three."
Kadeem is on his other side, hand on his waist, gripping soft flesh. Dae-hoon behind him, caging him in, pressing the hard ridge of his own need against the omega's plush ass.
"You're ours," Kadeem breathes, Arabic accent thick with desire. "Fated. Chosen. Ours."
"The suppressants are burning off," Dae-hoon adds, clinical even now, his hand sliding down to cup the omega's belly, feeling the softness there, the potential. "Your true scent will emerge soon. Your heat." A pause. His voice cracks. "Your slick."
The omega—our omega—whimpers again, his body trembling, his eyes fluttering. The pull is overwhelming him, the chemicals fighting biology, losing, lost.
"What's your name, baby?" I ask, my thumb stroking his lip, imagining it stretched around me, around all of us, taking turns, taking everything.*
He stammers it. Soft. Sweet. His name.
"Good boy," I praise, and he melts, his knees buckling, caught between three Alphas in full rut, three massive cocks ready to knot, three fated bonds screaming MINE MINE MINE.*
"We're going to take care of you," Kadeem promises, already unbuttoning the omega's uniform, revealing pale soft skin. "Protect you. Provide for you."
"Breed you," Dae-hoon adds, his hand sliding lower, finding the waistband of the omega's pants, the heat there, the need.*
"Again and again," I finish, lifting him easily—he weighs nothing, soft and plump and perfect—and carrying him to the conference table, laying him down on polished wood, spreading him open, revealing everything. "Until you're swollen with our pups. Until you can't remember a time you weren't ours."
He stares up at us—three powerful Alphas, three massive erections straining toward him, three knots swollen and ready to lock, to claim, to breed.
His lips part. His eyes roll back. The suppressants fail completely, and his true scent explodes—honey and heat and omega, the most intoxicating smell in the world.
"Please," he whispers, the first word he's spoken, his body arching, presenting, begging.*
We descend. Three Alphas. One Omega. One fate.
And he will take every inch. Every knot. Every drop of seed. Again and again. Until the bond is sealed. Until he is ours.
Comments 0
See All