Page 68 of Glitterati Omega

Fertility drugs were worse than heat, Rupert decided on the fifth day since he’d started the course of treatment. He felt both wretched—his mood had been scattered all over the map, as though he were off his other meds altogether; he was bloated beyond belief, worse than endometriosis had ever done to him—and, at the same time, randier than he could ever remember being in his entire life. He felt a bit like a dog, or maybe he finally understood all those scenes in movies where the omega went into heat and just lost their bloody mind.

“Perhaps we should cancel our appearance,” Winston suggested the following Friday as he practically peeled Rupert off him in the hallway by the elevator, waiting for Moose to tell them he’d brought the car around.

“Why?” Rupert asked, nuzzling in close again. “We have time right now, you could get me off, and I’m sure I could drag you into a closet or to the loo if we absolutely had to—”

“And that is why maybe we should just stay home,” Winston said; he gripped Rupert by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “Hm?”

“Wouldn’t that make us look like terrible people? Canceling some … charity thing or another?”

Winston lifted his brows. “You don’t even remember what we’re doing.”

“Oh, what does it matter! It’s all the same in the end, just—”

“I think it would be more embarrassing for you to go out in this state,” Winston said, plucking his phone out of his pocket. “Let’s stay in. I will say we have food poisoning—no one will want us there anyway.”

“Oh,” Rupert grumbled, trying to dig his heels as Winston pushed him and started walking him backward into the penthouse. “Fine. I don’t feel well anyway, this dress is driving me mad.”

He tugged at the bodice. “I feel like I weigh a hundred stone more.”

“A hundred,” Winston scoffed.

“Nn,” Rupert agreed. “It’s clingy. I don’t like it. I feel pudgy. Does it make me look that way?”

Winston rolled his eyes. “Now you’re fishing for compliments, poppet.”

“I am not; I want your honest opinion—you agree, don’t you? That’s why you didn’t say anything. Ugh, Iknewit, I—”

Winston laid a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go take it off, if it’s upsetting you that much?”

Rupert glowered at him. “What makes you think I’ll be more comfortable in my skivvies?”

The alpha chuckled, then kissed his cheek. “I didn’t say you had to run around in your underthings, sweetheart. You could put on something more comfortable.”

“The only thing more comfortable would be joggers—then you won’t find me hardly attractive at all and—”

Winston shook his head. “Impossible,” he said. “Now go change. The only thing that’s not attractive about you is that you’re clearly not comfortable.”

Rupert flushed hot. “Come with me,” he said, tugging on the alpha’s hand.

“In a minute, love. I’m going to call in the donation.”

“Now.” He gave a mighty tug on the alpha’s arm, and Winston practically stumbled into him. “The donation can wait.”

Winston shook his head, patted Rupert’s cheek. “Go get changed. I’ll finish up this and ring for dinner. Would you like some wine?”

“I would like you to come with me, and we’ll forget about dinner and forget about the wine, because—”

Winston laid his fingers on his lips. “Hush. We’ll get there.”

Rupert gave the alpha’s finger a lick, letting a devilish grin take over his face when the alpha startled. “Good heavens,” Winston murmured. “Naughty thing.”

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Rupert said, then withdrew, hands already reaching back to release the zip of the dress, sighing as the fabric relaxed around him.

It didn’t help him feel any less pudgy, of course, nor did the bright red lines down his abdomen from where the dress had been digging into him. He pulled on his nightgown instead, forgoing underwear, because the band wanted to settle right in that most uncomfortable spot between his navel and his half-hard cock, which pushed and rubbed against the fabric of the panties, and he squirmed, then whipped the panties off and started touching himself, trying to relieve the pressure of desire.

He didn’t think he’d have made it through the last week if Winston hadn’t encouraged him to masturbate at every given opportunity, if he was still the creature he’d been when he was married to Thomas, scared of his own flesh. This morning, he’d woken up to an empty bed—because Winston had gone to the office early—so he’d had a wank then, and he’d had two more since, because he was deliriously horny.

He pulled his fingers away, sticky, and dropped the hem of his nightgown, catching his own gaze in the mirror. He was flushed and he hated the way he looked—belly protruding, nipples the only pert part of his chest—but that did nothing to quell the seasick sense of want curling through him.