“You don’t have to show me, little mouse,” he murmurs softly. “Your thoughts are your own.”
I blink my eyes open in relief and crash straight into a black molten gaze. A glossy, coffee-black pair of irises bore into me. I don’t look away, though I’m pretty sure I should. I can’t because there are so many good things flickering in the shadows, whispering quiet secrets and inviting me in.
“Besides.” The lord’s face cracks into a cocky grin that makes light bounce off his teeth. “You don’t need to. I saw what you want at breakfast this morning.”
The heat in my body turns pink and then red, flushing my skin from head to toe.
Dark orbs flood with concern. “Am I making you uncomfortable, little mouse? Because that isn’t my intentio—”
“No! God no. Of course not.” There’s no way I can allow a man this handsome to know he’s unnerved me. There’s no way at all. It goes against the very grain of who I am. I need to set him at ease, and fast. “I know what you’re suggesting is purely for sport, and frankly, Ilovethat for me. I’m horny as hell. And that’s not specific to you, by the way. It’s specific to me. I’ve spent most of my life trying to get that side of myself under wraps, so it’s a bit of an adjustment getting used to being offered whatever I want, no strings. That’s all it is. You know what life’s like, things are much better for omegas now that we have our suppressants and all that, but there’s still the old lingering shame and mistrust of casual sex. I just need a moment to work through…”
He eyes me dubiously, concern drawing a line between his brows. “Perhaps you should go to bed,” he suggests.
“Absolutely not.”
I can’t back down now, not after everything I’ve said. Funnily enough, I actually do mean most of what I said. I think it’s shitty that some people have to live in shame and permanently hide the things they want because of their designation, when others get to revel in their exploits. It’s unfair. It’s an inequality, and I can’t stand it. I won’t have it, and until I can find a way to change the world, I’ll have to settle for not being part of the problem.
The lord releases me and takes a couple of steps back, giving me a different vantage of him. He’s wearing pajama pants and no shirt, and despite that, he looks like a nice person from here. A good man with a good sense of humor. A friend who likes to feel useful. A friend who looks distinctly like a man who sucks cock like a fiend.
There’s a quake in my bones, but when I speak, my voice rings true and clear. “On your knees, Casanova.”
The way the man kneels should be studied for science. There’s nothing, and I really do meannothingsubmissive about it. He keeps his hands at his sides and sinks down, bearing his own weight in a slow, controlled way until his knees touch the ground. He rocks back, resting on his heels, causing unspeakable things to happen to his abs.
I’ve been plagued by a low level of arousal all day, and being chased definitely didn’t help things, but what happens in my body at the sight of this man, this alpha, on his knees in front of me is hard to describe. Torrents of arousal crash into me, knocking things like self-consciousness and embarrassment clean out of me. What’s left without those things is a naked soul. A pulse. An ache. A rock-solid rod of meat. A hard, tight shaft flooded with blood.
It’s me at my core, with all of my bullshit stripped away.
I attempt to unfasten the drawstring of my pants, but my hands are shaking so much that the lord bats them away, taking over for me. He tugs at the string firmly, hard enough to make my waistband pinch my skin. The slight roughness of the action makes lust roar through my veins.
He pushes my pants down, sweeping big hands down my thighs as he looks up at me and smiles. When I met him, I said he was one of the two or three best-looking people I’d ever met, but I was wrong.
He’s the single best-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
It’s more than his looks though. It’s the way he smiles. His eyes go so glossy when it happens that it almost looks like he’s going to cry. It looks like he feels every smile deeply, like it costs him somehow. Like he means it more than other people do.
“This is very pretty,” he says, and for a second I think he means me, but when I look down I see that he’s talking about my erection.
He wraps his hand around my length and strokes a few times. I gasp the first time, hiss the second. I groan from the exquisite perfection of the pressure he uses the third and fourth time.
He looks up at me, eyes meeting mine before tracking slowly downward. They pause on my lips, my jaw, my throat, and finally, my chest. It takes a moment, but I quickly realize what he’s doing. He’s reading me. He’s reading my eyes for desire. My jaw for signs of tension. My throat for the speed of my pulse and my chest for uneven breathing.
All of it means something to him. All of it tells him a story. The story of me, and the things I want. The story of me, and the things that make me feel good.
He strokes my dick firmly, and when he gets to the head, he releases it, curling his fingers and stroking the underside of my shaft with the back of his hand.
It’s an infuriatingly light touch.
An infuriatingly perfect touch.
A touch that’s designed to separate my mind from my body. Or maybe it’s a touch that’s designed to make my mind and body merge to become one.
That hand, the one that just stroked me, reaches down and fondles my balls, tugging them gently, forcing me to take the half-step required to make my dick come into contact with his lips.
I know what’s going to happen, and I brace for impact, but it doesn’t help because the lord swallows me down whole, tip to root. His mouth is like a furnace. A hot, molten chamber made for my dick. His tongue is soft and surprisingly sweet. His lips are too. They work in concert to drench me in pleasure.
Like last night, the pleasure he dispenses is other. It’s unusual. There’s no fumbling, no testing, no trying things out. There’s only a base innate knowing of what makes my toes curl and a liberal application of it.
He pulls back and sinks down.
