I pull back just enough to breathe, and her scent hits me full force. Honey and cinnamon, but hotter now, thick with the musk of her heat. It coats the back of my throat, and my cock jerks painfully against my zipper.
“Silas,” she whispers. My name in her mouth sounds different. Softer. Like she’s tasting it the same way I’m tasting her.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Words have left me. I dip my head and press my mouth to her throat, right where her pulse hammersbeneath the damp skin. She tastes like rainwater here, clean and cool against my lips, but the heat of her blood burns just below. I drag my tongue up to her jaw, and she makes a small, broken sound that goes straight to my groin.
Her shirt is still damp from the storm. I can feel it through mine, the thin fabric clinging to her skin. I pull back and look down at her. Her chest rises and falls in short, shallow breaths. The lace of her bra is visible through the wet cotton, the dark peaks of her nipples straining against it.
I lower my head and take one into my mouth through the fabric.
She bucks against me, a gasp tearing from her lips. Her hands fly to my hair, her fingers tangling in the strands and pulling. I don’t stop. I suck at her through the wet shirt and lace, the texture strange and maddening against my tongue. Her nipple hardens even more, pressing into my mouth like it’s seeking me out. I move to the other one, giving it the same attention, and she whimpers, her hips grinding down against my thigh.
“Please,” she says. “Silas, please.”
I lift my head. Her eyes are glazed, fever-bright. Her lips are swollen from my kiss, parted, wet.
“We can wait,” I tell her. My hands rest on her hips, stilling her movements. “If you want to wait, we can wait.”
She stares at me like I’ve spoken a language she doesn’t understand. Then her hands drop from my hair to my shirt, and she starts pulling at the buttons. Her fingers are shaking, clumsy, and she only manages to get two undone before she makes a frustrated sound and just tugs, sending one button skittering across the floor.
No. She doesn’t want to wait.
I help her. I shrug out of my shirt, and her palms flatten against my chest, her touch tentative, then bolder. She tracesthe lines of muscle, the scars I’ve collected over years of Council work. Her fingertips find a mark on my ribs—an old rune burn—and she pauses, but doesn’t ask. I’m grateful for that.
Then her hands move lower, to my belt. She fumbles with the buckle, and I reach down to help her, but she bats my hands away. She wants to do this. Her fingers work the leather free, then the button, then the zipper. She pushes the fabric down just enough to get her hand inside my boxers, and when her fingers wrap around my cock, I swear I see stars.
“Fuck,” I hiss through my teeth. Her hand is small and hot, and she strokes me once, twice, experimentally, like she’s learning the shape of me.
“You’re so hard,” she breathes.
“That’s what you do to me.” I don’t know where the words come from. I’ve never been one for dirty talk—sex has always been a physical release, efficient, controlled. But with her, everything I’ve kept locked down is spilling out. “You have no idea how good you smell right now. How badly I want to be inside you.”
She moans, her grip tightening. I can feel the base of my cock already swelling, the knot beginning to form. It’s too soon—I haven’t even touched her yet—but my body doesn’t care. My body has decided she’s mine.
I reach down and still her hand. “My turn.”
I lift her off my lap and set her on the couch beside me. Before she can protest, I’m on my knees on the floor, pulling her legs apart. Her pants are still on—too many layers, too many barriers. I make quick work of them, dragging her damp leggings and underwear down her legs in one motion. She kicks them off, and then she’s bare from the waist down, and the scent of her hits me like a drug.
Slick coats her inner thighs, glistening in the dim light. Her cunt is flushed and swollen, her folds slick and gleaming.I’ve read about this in Council training manuals—clinical descriptions of Omega physiology, diagrams and data points. I’ve fucked several Omegas before, but never one in heat.
None of it prepared me for the reality of her.
None of it prepared me for the way my mouth waters, the way my hands tremble as I grip her thighs and spread her wider.
I lean in and drag my tongue up her slit.
She cries out, her back arching off the cushions. Her taste floods my mouth. I lick into her again, deeper this time, and her hips jerk upward, chasing my mouth.
“Silas—oh fuck?—”
I don’t let up. I work my tongue against her, finding the bundle of nerves at the top and circling it. She’s making sounds I’ve never heard from a woman before—desperate, wrecked, like she’s falling apart and doesn’t know how to hold herself together. I slide one finger inside her, and she clenches around me so hard I groan against her flesh.
“You’re so wet,” I murmur against her clit. “So fucking wet for me. Is this all from the heat, or is this because you want my cock?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “Both. I don’t know. Just—please?—”
I add a second finger, curling them inside her, and her whole body shudders. I can feel her walls fluttering around me, the slick making it easy to move. I pump my fingers in and out as I suck on her clit, and she’s writhing now, her hands in my hair, her thighs trembling on either side of my head.
I pull my mouth away and bite down on the soft skin of her inner thigh. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark. I watch as the skin blooms pink where my teeth scraped it, the faint indentations rising to the surface. I bite again, higher up, and then again, creating a trail of marks up the inside of her thigh. Each one makes her whimper, her body jerking like she can’t decide whether to move toward me or away.
