Page 92 of The Knotheads Next Door
It's his turn, and we both know it. But where Theo approached with gentle care and Jasper with barely restrained hunger, Wells moves with calculated precision. This isn't an impulse or overwhelming need. This is pure strategy.
His careful control is finally giving way to the alpha need he's been restraining for hours, but even now, even lost to heat andwant, Wells is fundamentally himself. Organized. Methodical. Dominant.
"Sit up," he instructs, and the command in his voice makes my omega instincts purr with satisfaction. I scramble to comply, my body responding to his authority before my mind fully processes the words.
He kneels in front of me, fully clothed while I'm completely bare, and the power dynamic is immediately apparent. His eyes travel over my body with appreciation, noting every detail.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, but there's something almost scientific in his assessment. "Responsive. Look at you—already trembling and I haven't even touched you yet."
His observation makes me flush deeper, hyperaware of how desperate I must look. How obvious my need is.
"Please," I whisper, reaching for him again.
"Hands to yourself," he says sharply, and I freeze mid-reach. "I'm going to touch you exactly how I want to touch you. When I want to touch you. And you're going to let me."
The words send heat straight through me.
"Do you understand?" he asks, waiting for my response.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Yes, what?"
The additional demand makes my breath catch. He wants complete submission, complete acknowledgment of his authority in this moment.
"Yes, sir," I say, the title falling from my lips without conscious thought.
The satisfaction in his expression is immediate and devastating. "Good girl."
His approach is different from the others, methodical where Theo was gentle, controlled where Jasper was primal. He arranges me precisely how he wants me, positioning my bodywith careful attention to angles and access. Every movement is deliberate and purposeful.
"Lie back," he instructs. "Arms above your head. Don't move them unless I tell you to."
I comply immediately, settling back against the pillows with my arms stretched overhead. The position makes me feel exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy—and the knowledge that he could do anything he wants with me is intoxicating.
"Perfect," he says, his gaze traveling over my arranged form with obvious approval. "Now, let's see what we're working with."
His first touch is feather-light, barely there, tracing patterns on my skin that make me shiver and arch despite my orders to stay still.
"Sensitive here," he observes, noting my reaction as his finger ghosts over my collarbone. "And here." Another barely-there touch to the inside of my wrist that makes me gasp.
He's mapping my responses, cataloging what makes me react. It's absolutely maddening in the best possible way.
"Wells, please," I whimper as his exploratory touches continue without providing any real relief.
"Patience," he says calmly. "I'm gathering data."
Data. As if my desperate need is a research project to be analyzed and optimized. This is Wells—of course he's approaching this like a challenge to be mastered.
His fingers trail lower, ghosting over my breasts without actually touching where I need him to. The almost-contact is torture, making me arch and strain against his implicit command to stay still.
"Interesting," he murmurs when I can't stop myself from lifting into his touch. "You want more pressure here."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes, please."
"Since you asked so nicely." His palm finally covers my breast properly, thumb circling my nipple with just enough pressure to make me moan. "Better?"
"Yes, oh God, yes."
