Page 27 of Shared Omega

Speaking of cavemen, Dog lets out a deep grunt. At first I mistake it for the sound of exertion. He’s super strong, though, and he’s carrying me as if I’m weightless.

That’s when I realize that with my behind bent over his shoulder like this, my heat-scent must be hitting him full force. I wonder what kind of effect that is having on his Alpha physiology.

As he climbs the creaking steps up onto the porch, I dip my face and allow myself a quick sniff of his bare skin.

His scent is deep, penetrating, and overwhelmingly masculine—musk and wood smoke and well-tended leather.

The effect it has on my body is incredible and totally involuntary.

My nipples stiffen instantly, becoming as hard as glass beads beneath my tank top. Something clenches hard between my legs, and tingling sensations ripple outward from my core.

But worst of all is the soft orgasmic whimper that issues from my lips.

Dog slides me from his shoulder and stands me on the porch in front of him. He towers over me like a giant.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head silently, forcing myself to drag my eyes away from his muscled torso.

“We need to be careful,” Dog cautions. “There could be other Alphas hiding in here.”

The downstairs windows have all been boarded up years before, presumably at the time of the big Cataclysm. The thin pieces of particle board and two-by-fours would have provided little defense against feral Alphas, however.

I test the front door. Even though it was once barricaded too, those barricades have been long since broken, and the door groans open, revealing the dank, shadowy interior.

“Careful,” Dog hisses again.

He steps past me and leans his face inside the doorway. The sounds of his snuffling nose come from inside.

“What do you smell?” I whisper.

He shakes his head.

“Alphas have definitely been here,” he says, “but they aren’t here now. The scent is too weak.” He sniffs again. “It’s strange. It doesn’t smell like a Farlander Alpha, but it doesn’t match the Alphas who dwell in the city ruins either. It’s like…something in between.”

“Do you think it’s safe?”

Dog thinks for a silent moment, staring into the darkness of the interior.

Another low moaning howl breaks the silence.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Dog says at last. “We have to get you indoors. We’ll just have to hope we don’t have any unexpected guests during the night.”

I follow him inside.

With the windows barricaded, the downstairs is pitch black. The air is dank and perfumed with the smells of old dust and rotting upholstery. I take out the flashlight that we salvaged from the ship and turn it on. The beam stabs into the velvety darkness.

I pan around the rooms, licking the light over busted furniture scalloped with tree fungus and wallpaper peeling away in ragged strips to reveal the crumbling, mildew-blackened plaster beneath. The floor is furred with a lumpy green carpet of moss. Pale mushrooms sprout in the corners.

“Is it safe to breathe the air in here?” I ask.

“For a normal human, definitely not,” Rampart answers. “But our mutated immune systems should be resistant to the mold.”

“That’s comforting,” I mutter.

I’m less worried about the mold. I’m still struggling to cope with the fact that I’m a mutant now. An omega. Strange impulses are taking control of me. I’ve never been scared of walking into a dangerous situation before, and I’m not afraid now. But at the same time, I feel an unaccountable urge to stick close to Dog.

In fact, I find myself wanting to press myself against him like a cat.