Page 87 of The Knotheads Next Door
Theo appears beside him, a soft smile playing at his lips as he holds up one of his own t-shirts—also missing for weeks, also part of my secret collection. And behind them, Wells, his expression unreadable as he examines his favorite cardigan, the one I'd sometimes wrap around myself when alone in my room.
My face burns with mortification hotter than the heat itself. "I can explain," I start, but Jasper cuts me off with a sound that's half laugh, half growl.
"You've been scenting our clothes," he says, not a question but a statement filled with alpha satisfaction. "For how long?"
"Weeks," I admit, too far gone to lie. "Since the kitten incident. I didn't—I couldn't help it. Your scents... they calm my omega."
Something shifts in the atmosphere then—alpha pheromones surging with possessive pleasure. Theo's smile widens, tender and knowing. Jasper's eyes darken further, a primal satisfaction evident in his stance. Even Wells's careful composure slips, revealing a heated intensity I've rarely glimpsed.
"We'll add them to the nest," Theo decides, his voice rougher than usual. "Along with everything else we've gathered."
They finish quickly after that, transforming Jasper's bed into a true omega heat nest—piled with soft blankets, pillows arranged in a protective circle, bottles of water and protein bars within easy reach. And woven throughout, items carrying their scents—not just my stolen collection, but fresh additions. Jasper's favorite pillow. Theo's soft throw blanket. One of Wells's sleep shirts.
And throughout this preparation, practical matters are handled. I'm dimly aware of Theo texting on his phone, his voice clinical as he explains to someone—Lala, I think—about needing care for Gerald and food deliveries. The thought of my friends knowing exactly what's happening should embarrass me, but I'm beyond caring, lost in the growing need that's consuming me from the inside out.
When they finally return to the bed—my nest—I'm trembling with desperation, sweat-slicked and aching. My body has been ready for hours, slick and empty and needing to be filled.
"Who first?" Wells asks pragmatically, ever the planner even now.
My eyes find Theo through the haze of heat, drawn to his gentle steadiness like a beacon in the storm raging through my body. He's positioned at the edge of the nest, close enough to touch but giving me enough space to choose. The consideration in that simple gesture makes my chest tight.
"Please," I whisper, reaching for him with trembling fingers. The word comes out broken, desperate, but there's more in it than just heat-driven desire. There's trust, and want, and the bone-deep certainty that he'll take care of me.
He comes to me without hesitation, moving with that careful grace that's so Theo. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles beside me, and immediately his scent wraps around me—sandalwood and rain that makes my omega instincts purr with satisfaction.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice soft but certain. "We're going to take care of you, sweetheart."
His hands find my face first, cupping my cheeks with gentleness as he studies my flushed features. The tenderness in his touch makes me want to cry—when was the last time someone touched me like I was this precious?
"You're burning up," he observes, pressing his lips to my forehead.
"Theo, please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones, wiping away tears I didn't realize had fallen. "And we're going to give it to you. All of it."
His hands begin their exploration then, fingers tracing the fevered paths across my skin. Every touch is deliberate, purposeful—he maps my body like he's memorizing it, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch, what makes desperate little sounds spill from my lips.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along my jaw, following the line down to my neck. When he finds the sensitive spot behind my ear, I shiver violently, a needy whimper escaping me. "So perfect, Rowan. Look at you."
His praise washes over me, each word settling into my heat-addled brain and making the ache intensify. This is what I've been missing—not just touch, but this kind of attention. This focus. This worship.
Under his careful ministrations, my body responds with increasing urgency. My back arches when his fingers trail down my throat, across my collarbone, down to ghost over my breasts. The lightest touch has me gasping, hypersensitive and desperate for more.
"Please," I beg again, my hips shifting restlessly. "Theo, I need—"
"I know." His hand continues its path downward, over my ribs, across my stomach, leaving fire in its wake. "Let me take care of you."
When his fingers finally, finally dip lower, finding me already wet and ready, the first touch against my center pulls a desperate sound from my throat. The relief is instant and not nearly enough—my body clenches around nothing, demanding more.
"God, you're soaked," he breathes, circling slowly, teasingly. "Is this all for us? For your alphas?"
The possessive edge to his voice makes something deep in my omega brain sing with satisfaction. Yes, this is for them. This need, this desperate want—it's all theirs.
"Yes," I gasp, my hips bucking into his touch. "Only you. Only—oh God, right there."
He finds that perfect spot and focuses there, his knowledge evident in how precisely he touches me. He knows exactly how much pressure, exactly what rhythm will drive me wild. His fingers are clever and patient, building me up slowly, methodically.
"That's it," he encourages, watching my face intently as he works me higher. "Let go, Rowan. Stop thinking. Just feel."
