Oops! I Have Four Mates

SORREN “F*ck, I don’t think I can take three of you at once,” I screamed out hard. But they didn’t stop. Heat clung to every inch of me. Sheets twisted damp around my thighs. Air pressed thick against bare shoulders. That deep pull under my ribs was not just want. It was a hook. His. My mate’s. I felt him before I saw him. Heat rolled off his skin. “I’ve waited for so long. I can’t hold back anymore.” His mouth crashed onto mine slow and deliberate. Tongue slid in like he already owned the taste. One hand fisted the back of my hair. The other slipped under the sheet. Palm dragged hot over my hip. Fingers traced lower until two of them pushed inside me. “F*ck, you’re so tight.” Slow. Deep. Stretching. My breath hitching against his lips was all the invitation he needed. He kissed harder. Possessive. Claiming. Chest pressed firm and warm against me until I sank into the mattress. His fingers kept working, curling, f*cking me open while his tongue claimed every sound I tried to make. Then colder heat slid in on the other side. No hesitation. Mouth found the corner of my lips first. Then took over completely. “Look at you. Already dripping for us.” He whispered in my ears Firmer. Slower. Tongue stroked mine in a steady rhythm while cool hands gripped my ribs and held me still between them. The first one’s mouth left mine only long enough to drop to my chest. He sucked one n****e into his mouth hard. Tongue flicked. Teeth scraped just enough to make my back arch. Two bodies. Two hungers. Me trapped in the middle. Burning. Fingers still pumping inside me. I did not even register the third until his mouth was on my skin just beneath my ribs. Watching for a second like he was deciding exactly how he wanted me. Then he claimed my mouth too. “So soft. So ready. We’re going to ruin you.” He said as he bit my lips till it bled and licked it up Slower than the others. Considering. One hand slid down between my legs to join the first. Another finger pushed in beside the others. Stretching me wider. Filling me. The second man’s mouth stayed locked on my breast. Sucking. Biting. Working the sensitive peak until my whole body shook. Hands everywhere. One cradling my face so I could not turn away while I gasped between kisses. Another sliding under the twisted sheets to rub the small of my back. A third smoothing up my collarbone then lower again to squeeze the other breast. I was passed from mouth to mouth. Kiss one. Get handed off to the next. The hands never stopped. Fingers kept f*cking me deep and steady while mouths and tongues and teeth mapped every inch of me. Bodies tight against both sides of me now. Warm and insistent. None of them leaving my skin. Someone’s mouth left mine only long enough to drag down my throat. Two more hands tipped my face up so another pair of lips could take its place. The third watched for half a heartbeat before leaning in again. All three of them working me at once. Kissing. Sucking. Finger-f*cking me until the stretch and the heat and the pressure became everything. A sound tore out of me that was not quite a moan. Something deeper. It swelled under my ribs. Rolled outward. Burned through my blood until I was nothing but three mouths. Six hands. And the raw certainty that they were making me theirs. I woke with a sharp gasp. Sheets clinging wet to my legs. Heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to get back to them. My room is dark and unremarkable. The clock on the nightstand stares at me, its digits showing 5:42 am. My skin still feels too warm. The phantom weight beneath my chest has vanished, yet something else remains, a hollow ache settled deep in my bones. I sit up, brush my hair from my face, and force myself to breathe slower. It was only a dream. A strange, vivid, utterly unhinged dream. I'm seventeen. I don't have mates. I don't even know what that word means outside trashy romance novels. Heat doesn't happen to ordinary people in ordinary bedrooms before the sun comes up. I tell myself that as I jump into the shower, pull on the same black hoodie I've worn three days running, and snatch a half-eaten granola bar from my backpack before slipping out the door ahead of either parent asking what I think about anything. It isn't far. I arrive before the hallways fill up. People watch as I pass. They always do. Conversations halt. Sophomores scatter from the vending machines. A girl from history snaps her head up, spots me, and turns the other way. No one asks how I am. No one smiles. They make room just the same. Quiet respect that has nothing to do with being nice and everything to do with the number of days I have served for putting people on the floor. I keep my gaze forward, shoulders loose. Reputation is useful until it is not. It keeps most people from picking a fight. Brandon is waiting by my locker like he has been practicing the pose for three weeks. His hand smacks my shoulder hard enough to swing my backpack. “Watch it, Ashwood.” I turn. The hallway is filling with the usual chatter, lockers slamming, someone laughing too hard, a teacher somewhere demanding quiet no one intends to obey. Brandon stands a little too close, chin tilted up the way he does when people listen. Two of his friends linger behind him, ready to watch. I have been ignoring him for three weeks. That was the deal after the last suspension. Keep my head down. Do not rise to the bait. Walk away. He reaches for the strap of my bag again. I move it out of reach. “If you touch me one more time, we are going to have a problem.” His mouth stretches into something like a smirk. “You already are the problem. Everyone knows it.” A couple of people slow. The air shifts the way a hallway does just before something interesting happens. My pulse quickens. I tell myself to keep walking. My feet stay planted. Brandon leans in. “Your dad still picks you up after every little meltdown, or has he just given up yet?” Heat crawls up the back of my neck. My hands fist at my sides before I notice. “Say that again.” He does. Louder. “I said, has your dad finally realized you are not worth his trouble?” Something tightens in my chest. I see the exact second he registers the reaction. His eyes light up. He likes that. He always has. I shove him. Not hard, but enough. His back hits the lockers with a dull metal sound. People nearest stop. Someone mutters, “Here we go.” Brandon bounces back, seizes my jacket front, and hurls me into the far lockers, hard enough to jolt my shoulders. My skull cracks against a metal bar. Stars burst. The hallway tilts, then steadies. I drive up a knee. He swivels, so it lands on his thigh instead of somewhere useful. His hold tightens. Cheap body spray and mint gum thicken the air between us. His face hovers inches away, flushed, mouth shaping an insult I never hear because I'm already swinging. My fist lands on the side of his jaw. It isn't the sound bone should make on bone. It's deeper, heavier — like something else gave way. His head whips sideways. His body follows. His feet leave the floor. He smashes through the wall in a blizzard of white powder and drywall. The whole section caves inward with a roar that silences every conversation at once. I stand there, hand still up, knuckles stinging. I lower it. My fingers twitch once, then go still. Just ordinary pain. Nothing new to me. A girl at the fountain claps a hand to her mouth, staring at me, not the gaping hole. She seems ready to bolt. I take a step forward. “Brandon?” No answer. One friend kneels and starts pulling plaster off him, swearing under his breath. The other shouts for a teacher. My mind scrambles for explanations that make sense. Weak wall. Old building. Missing structural support. Adrenaline. Bad angle. People get thrown harder than they expect all the time. That is it. That has to be it. But the hole is the size of a person. The plaster around the edges is shattered outward, not inward the way it should have been if someone had simply fallen through. I look at my hand. Skin across the knuckles is red. Nothing torn or bleeding that could justify the hole behind him. Mrs. Keller from English rounds the corner at a run, phone already in hand. She sees the hole and Brandon’s legs sticking out the other side. Color drains from her face so fast I think she might faint. “Sorren,” she says, voice thin. “What did you do?” I open my mouth. Nothing but lies comes out. Crowds gather. Phones flash. Someone is recording. The girl by the fountain still has not moved. Brandon makes a strangled sound from the rubble while his friend keeps repeating his name. Mrs. Keller kneels and starts barking orders in a voice that does not sound like hers. I stay where I am, backpack half-unzipped over one shoulder. A notebook falls out. I kneel, pick it up, and stand again because I do not know what else to do. Principal Reeves arrives already furious. He takes it all in with one glance and fixes me with a stare. “Office. Now.” I do not argue. There is no point. I know the drill. As I turn to follow, the girl by the fountain finally speaks. Barely above a whisper, but loud enough in the hush. “She threw him through the wall.” Nobody corrects her. I keep walking. My knuckles ache in a normal way. The rest of me feels like I am floating above the ground, looking down on everything that is happening. Behind us, someone already has a phone to their ear, calling for an ambulance. Reeves’ heels click against the linoleum. He does not look at me again until we reach the main office door. He pauses with one hand on the handle. “This is different,” he says, voice tired. “Is it not, Sorren?” I meet his eyes for the first time in all the years he has called my parents. For once he does not look like he has seen something interesting. I do not answer. I do not know how.