Seven Thursdays. He’s been showing up here every week for almost two months, just waiting for me. That realization hits me somewhere between creeped out and turned on, and my knees actually go a little weak.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, but my hips are pressing into him, my body grinding against his in tiny involuntary movements that make a liar of every word coming out of my mouth.
“I know your scent. I know what your body sounds like when it gets what it needs. I know what makes you come.” His mouth is near my ear, his breath warm through the mask. “I know you spent five months trying to convince yourself you didn’t need to come back here. I know you failed. I know you showed up tonight telling yourself any alpha would do, and I know what happened when you caught my scent.”
My face is on fire behind the mask. Thinking about what happened earlier—me on my knees in the entryway, everyone watching—makes me want to crawl under a table, but my body just gets off on it. My cock throbs against his thigh, slick everywhere, and his hand tightens on my hip.
“Everyone saw that,” he murmurs. “Every alpha on this floor watched you come from my scent. You know what that tells them?”
I shake my head against his chest.
“That you’re mine.” He says it the same way he said everything else — warm, easy, certain. Like he’s stating a fact he confirmed a long time ago and is just now sharing with the class. “Thatwhatever you told yourself in the parking lot, your body already made the decision. It made the decision five months ago.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, and it comes out broken and wanting and nothing like the insult I intended.
His hand tightens in my hair. Pulls my head back so I’m looking up at him and I can see his eyes through the mask, dark and focused and hungry but patient underneath the hunger. Patient the way he was last time. Patient the way someone is when they already know the outcome.
“I will,” he says. “But first I’m going to taste you. I’ve been thinking about it for five months and I’m done waiting.”
He starts walking me backward, hand on my hip, and I just go with it because my body’s not giving me a choice. My back hits the wall—cold concrete through my shirt—and his hands go straight for my belt.
We’re just out here, in the open. There’s an alcove ten feet away, but he doesn’t even look at it. He’s going to do this right here, against the wall, where anyone can see. The idea hits me so hard I actually get dizzy.
“Wait—” I start, because there are people, because an omega two platforms over is getting knotted and the alphas by the bar are watching the room and a beta with a water tray is passing six feet away.
“No.” Simple. Final. His fingers pop the button on my jeans. “I’ve waited long enough.”
He drags my jeans down and the air hits the mess between my legs and I squeeze my eyes shut behind the mask. I’m soaked. The fabric of my boxer briefs is transparent with slick, clinging to my cock, to the crease of my thighs. He peels them down and my cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and the cool air makes me hiss.
He drops to his knees.
Seeing him kneeling in front of me—this guy who tracked my heat cycle for seven weeks and just claimed me like it was nothing—my brain just short-circuits. He’s on his knees on the concrete, looking up at me through his mask, hands on my thighs, pushing them apart. I can feel his breath on my cock and I’m shaking so bad the wall behind me is rattling.
He doesn’t touch my cock. He bypasses it completely, his hands sliding around to grip my ass, and he pulls my hips forward and buries his face between my legs.
The first touch of his tongue on my hole tears a sound out of me that I hear bouncing off the ceiling. Hot and wet and firm, dragging flat over me, and my hands fly to his head and grab fistfuls of his hair through the mask because I need to hold onto something or I’m going to slide down this wall. He licks me again, slower, and makes a sound against me, a low hum of satisfaction that vibrates through my most sensitive skin.
“Fuck.” He breathes it against me. “You taste the same. Sweeter. Five months of making yourself come alone and saving all this up for me.” His thumbs spread me wider and his tongue drags up through the slick, slow and filthy, and the sound he makes is a groan that vibrates through my hole. “This pretty little hole. Been dreaming about it. Dreaming about how wet you get, how easy you open up, how your whole body just melts when someone puts their mouth here.”
Pretty. Of course he says it. That word hits every nerve I have and makes me want to crawl out of my skin. He said it five months ago and it’s been stuck in my head at three in the morning ever since. Now his mouth is right there and he’s calling me pretty again, and my cock is leaking all over the floor.
He pushes his tongue inside me and I stop thinking.
His tongue is thick and wet and insistent, licking into me while his hands hold my hips against the wall, fucking me with his mouth in slow deliberate strokes that make me clench aroundhim. I’m making sounds I can’t control, high gasping moans that I can hear mixing with the bass and the ambient noise of the floor. The beta with the water tray passes us without a glance. An alpha at the bar turns to watch, tilting his head, and the knowledge that I’m being observed — pants around my ankles, cock hard and dripping, an alpha’s face buried in my ass against a concrete wall — hits me like a drug. My cock jerks and precome drips down the shaft.
He goes down on me like he hasn’t eaten in days. Five months of just remembering my scent clearly wasn’t enough for him. His tongue is working in and out of me, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks. He pulls back, spits on my hole—so fucking filthy I actually moan—and then he’s back at it, licking through the mess and talking between licks, voice muffled against my skin.
“So fucking wet. You’re dripping for me, baby. Soaking my face.” His tongue circles my rim, pushes in, pulls out. “The sweetest omega on this floor and you’re all mine. Every drop.”
My legs buckle. He catches me, one arm hooked under my thigh, holding me up, holding me open, and keeps going. His tongue pushes deeper and his thumb finds my perineum and presses and a sound comes out of me that I’ve never made before, something between a wail and a whimper.
“Please—” The word is out before I can catch it. “Please, I can’t—”
He pulls back enough to speak and his voice is wrecked, rough and low, and his mouth and chin are shining with my slick. “You can. You’re going to.” He turns his head and bites the inside of my thigh, hard enough to leave a mark, and then soothes it with his tongue. “Look at these thighs. Shaking for me. Soaked for me. You’ve been dripping since you walked in, haven’t you? Wet through your jeans in the parking lot, wet on the floor, and now you’re dripping down my chin.” He bites again, higher, closer towhere I need him. “I want to lick every inch of you. I want to taste the slick on the back of your knees. I want my face between your legs until you can’t stand.”
He goes down on me again and that’s it. I’m done fighting, done pretending I have any control left. My head hits the wall and I stop even trying to keep quiet. I’m making noises I don’t recognize, loud enough that people are definitely looking, and I can feel their eyes on me like a spotlight.
He adds a finger alongside his tongue and I whine. Pushes it in deep and crooks it and my whole body seizes. My cock is untouched, bobbing against my stomach, leaking steadily, and my hole is clenching around his finger and his tongue and I’m close, I’m so close from just this.
