“Come on, Doll,” I whisper behind the lens. “Come out and make it quiet. You are the only thing that makes it quiet.”
The door opens.
“There you are.”
He walks out and every single thing that has been screaming in my head since six o’clock this morning goes silent. My cock twitches in my pants at the glorious sight of him, the Omega covered in tight black pants sitting so low on his hips the fabric is a dare. A cropped shirt ends just above his navel, a strip of pale stomach glowing in the late sun.
I want to drag my tongue across it slowly from one hip bone to the other. I want to taste the salt on his skin while he watches me do it. His makeup makes him even more gorgeous, the kind of work that takes a beautiful man and makes him catastrophic.
My shutter clicks, my hands perfectly, insultingly steady.
“Look at you, Doll.” My voice is barely a breath behind the camera. “God, look at what you do to me.”
He pauses at his car and shifts the bag to dig for his keys. The movement pulls the crop top higher, exposing the full line of his waist. Just above the waistband where the fabric clings tight, I can see the thin line of a thong cutting across his hipbone. A delicate thread against skin that I want to trace with my tongue. Then with my teeth. Then with my mouth. I want to press into the crease where his thigh meets his hip and breathe him in until honey is the only thing I can taste.
“Fuck, Doll.” My cock thickens against my thigh so fast my vision swims. “What are you wearing under there? Is that for me? Tell me that is for me.”
The shutter keeps clicking. My hands will not stop even though the rest of me is falling apart. He turns to unlock the car, the movement giving me his profile and then his back. The thin line of the thong shows clearly between his hips and disappears below the waistband. The way he moves is so fluidand unconscious that unlocking a car door looks like it was designed specifically to destroy me.
“You don’t even know, do you?” I talk to the image through my lens, my voice cracking on every word. “You don’t know what you look like right now. What I would do to get my mouth on you. What I would let you do to me, Doll.Anything. Anything you wanted.”
The admission makes my cock jerk hard in my pants because it is true. It is the truest thing I have said all day. Truer than “I am fine” and “my focus is fine” and “Friday works” and every other performance I have delivered.
What I would let him do to me. Not what I would do to him. What I would let him do. The wanting in that sentence points in a direction that Hollis Alphas are not supposed to want but my body does not care. My cock is so hard it hurts.
He bends to toss his bag into the backseat, his pants stretching tight across his ass. The crop top rides higher, showing off the full curve of his lower back, the two dimples at the base of his spine, and the thong disappearing between the perfect swell of his cheeks.
The fantasy builds perfectly of Mavi bent exactly like this over the edge of his bed while I kneel behind him. I spread him open with both hands. I press my mouth against him and taste the slick I have watched glisten on his thighs through the camera. I lick into him slow and thorough while he moans and rocks back against my face.
“That is it, Doll,” I breathe, my hips rocking forward against nothing. The pressure in my cock builds past the point of control. “Tell me I am good. Tell me I am doing it right. Tell me—”
A low groan pulls from my lips as I jerk forward, one hand falling to the steering wheel. I grip it tight enough thatthe leather creaks beneath my palm, heat settling low in my stomach.
“Mavi,” I whisper just as an orgasm fully hits me. My hips roll forward and I come hard in my pants. Thick ropes of cum pulse out of me in heavy waves, soaking through my boxers, coating my balls, and leaking down the inside of my thigh. My knot swells painfully against the wet fabric as I drop my free hand to my lap and grip it through the ruined material. I squeeze hard because the pressure is the only thing keeping me from making a sound loud enough to carry across the street.
“Oh fuck.” My forehead drops to the steering wheel. My hand is still squeezing my knot through the soaked fabric while the aftershocks roll through me, my breath coming in ragged bursts against the leather. “Fuck. Doll. Fuck.”
The camera has captured three more frames from where I knocked it sideways on the passenger seat. Shame crashes in a second later, the brief peace Mavi brought shattered by the newest realization.
A Hollis Alpha is control. Discipline. The perfectly hung frame on the perfectly measured wall.
I have never wanted to be a Hollis Alpha less than I do right now. I sit in the wreckage of what my Doll has made of me and the terrifying part is not the shame. The terrifying part is that underneath it, I do not want to stop. I want to be worse. I want to knock on his door. I want to kneel on his floor. I want to show him everything and hear him say good boy and mean it.
