She notices.
“You want me to ride you?” she asks, voice gone dreamy. Sarcastic. “Make it slow, hurt you a little?”
I almost lose it, right then.
Just from the idea.
But I hold on.
Barely.
“I want you to do whatever you want to me,” I say, and the purity of the statement is a surprise, even to me.
She giggles.
The sound is so bright it’s almost cruel.
“You’re so fucked in the head, Sage.”
She says my name like it’s something holy.
Like it’s a secret invocation designed to bring me to heel.
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess I am.”
There’s no shame in it.
Not when she’s the same.
She’s beautiful and broken and staring down at me with eyes that look like they’ve never been cold, not even when blood is drying beneath their lashes.
She leans in, bracing herself on my chest, her tits swinging forward until they almost brush my jaw.
She still hasn’t stopped stroking me.
Her grip alternates—tight, then barely-there. Fingertips tapping along my shaft, four beats at a time, always even, always ritual.
It’s almost clinical, the way she builds the tension.
But it’s not impersonal.
Every so often, she’ll twitch—shoulders jerk, eyebrow spasm, tongue dart out to lick the corner of her mouth. When there’s too much sensation, her foot starts tapping on the mattress, beating out a rhythm that matches the pulse thundering in my ears.
I want to catalog all of it.
To write a manual on how to worship someone so beautifully unstable.
But for now, I just let her work.
She watches the precum pool at my tip, fascination bright in her mismatched gaze. She dips down, closer, her hair brushing my stomach, and grins up at me from beneath her lashes.
“You ever have an Omega do this to you?” she asks, almost teasing.
I shake my head.
Never.
She hums.
