MARKED BY THE THREE ALPHAS
Hands. So many hands.
They're everywhere, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips, tangling in my hair. I can't see their faces, but I don't need to. I feel them. Three of them, surrounding me, claiming me. One behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot against my neck. Another in front, his mouth trailing fire down my throat. The third watching, waiting, his presence a dark promise.*
"You're ours," one of them growls, and the sound vibrates through my entire body.