Page 16 of The Last Great Omegaverse

He doesn’t rush, though, not even then. He walks me backward toward the porch with one hand still tangled in my hair, mouth finding my jaw, my throat, unhurried even as the rain picks up around us again, like the walk itself is worth savoring.

We make it as far as the mudroom before my back hits the wall and his mouth is on mine, harder now, more certain, one hand braced flat beside my head while the other works the top button of my shirt with a patience that feels close to torture. Rain drips off both of us onto floorboards that have survived worse. Somewhere under the sound of the storm easing I can hear his breathing turned ragged, and under that, my own pulse, loud enough to feel in my throat.

He’s got me pressed against the wall, his mouth trailing from mine down along my jaw, my neck, and I tip my head back to give him better access without fully deciding to, some old instinct answering him before my mind’s caught up to wanting to. His hands are attentive even now, thumbs sweeping along my ribs like he’s asking permission with every inch of movement, and when I make a sound low in my throat at the drag of his mouth against my collarbone, he freezes for half a second, checking.

“Good?” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, thumb tracing my collarbone once the button gives.

“Coop.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, more command than answer. “You check in one more time, I’m going to start thinking you don’t trust me to say no.”

“I trust you fine.” His grin is audible even with his mouth against my skin. “I just like hearing you say yes.”

That startles a laugh out of me, breathless, and he uses the moment to peel the shirt the rest of the way off, his own following soon after, until it’s warm skin instead of wet cotton between us. Whatever part of me stays mindful, stays watching from a distance the way I watch everything, silences for the first time since I stepped off that bus.

He’s big everywhere, scorching everywhere, and when he finally lifts me against the wall, my legs coming around him on instinct, he pauses just long enough to look at me. Actually look.

“Hey.” Something soft cuts through the heat in his eyes. “You’re allowed to want this. Just you. Not fixing anything, not proving anything to anybody. Just wanting it.”

I don’t have an answer for that safe enough not to undo me more than the rest of it already has, so I kiss him instead and let that be the answer. For a while there’s nothing else in my head at all beyond his hands and his mouth and the low, wrecked sound of my own name breaking from his lips.

His mouth claims mine again, slower this time, deeper, and I taste rain and salt and the sharp edge of his restraint fraying. My fingers dig into the broad planes of his shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle under damp skin as he adjusts his hold, one arm banded firm under my ass to keep me pinned high against the wall.

The mudroom smells of wet earth and old wood and the faint metallic tang of the storm still dripping from the roof, but underneath it all is him, Alpha heat and clean sweat and something darker, richer, that makes my Omega instincts unfurl like a flower opening to the sun.

I roll my hips against him without meaning to, seeking friction, and the hard line of his cock presses thick and insistent against the seam of my jeans. A broken sound escapes me. He answers with a low growl that vibrates straight through my chest, and then his free hand is working the button of my jeans, the zipper, shoving the denim down just far enough that the cool air kisses the damp heat between my thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my throat, voice gone rough as gravel. “You’re soaked already.”

“I’ve been thinking about this,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can cage them. “Since the barn. Since you looked at me like—”

He cuts me off with another kiss, teeth catching my lower lip, and then his fingers slide beneath the edge of my underwear, finding the slick evidence of how badly I want him. Two thick fingers stroke through my folds, slow and deliberate, gathering wetness, and I arch hard against the wall, a sharp cry tearing free when he presses one inside.

The stretch is perfect, gentle, and he works me open with a patience that borders on cruelty, curling those fingers until he finds the spot that makes my vision white out at the edges. My head leans back against the plaster. Rainwater drips from my hair onto his wrist. Everything narrows to the drag of his knuckles, the wet sound of him fucking me with his hand, the way his thumb circles my clit in maddeningly light passes that leave me shaking.

“Coop—please—”

“I know.” He mouths the words against the hinge of my jaw, then lower, to the sensitive join of neck and shoulder where an Alpha’s claim would sit. His breath is hot. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers scissor gently inside me, and the burn blooms into something sweeter, deeper. My scent spikes, sweet and needy, flooding the small room until even I can smell how ready I am. His answering growl is pure Alpha, possessive and raw, and it vibrates straight down my spine to the place his fingers are working.

When he finally withdraws them, I make a sound of pure loss. He sets me down only long enough to shove my jeans and underwear the rest of the way off, kicking them aside into a sodden heap. His own belt comes next, the heavy buckle clinking against the floorboards, and then he’s free. His cock is thick, heavy, the flushed head already glistening. I reach for him without thinking, wrapping my hand around the hot length, and the way his whole body shudders under my touch is its own kind of power.

“Wren.” My name is both a plea and a warning. “If you keep that up I won’t last long enough to get inside you.”

I stroke him once more, slowly, feeling the pulse of veins under silk-smooth skin, the way he twitches against my palm. Then I let go and lift my arms. He understands instantly, lifts me again like I weigh nothing, eases me higher against the wall, and the blunt head of his cock notches against my entrance.

We both go rigid.

The only sound is the rain easing into a soft patter on the roof and the ragged pull of our breathing. His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and in them I see the same hunger I feel thrumming under my own skin.

“Yes,” I say, clear and sure, because he needs to hear it and because I need to say it. “Fuck me, Coop. Please.”

He pushes in slowly.

The stretch is immense. Alpha thick, filling me in a deliberate, relentless glide that steals the air from my lungs. I cling to his shoulders, nails biting crescents into muscle, and he holds perfectly rigid once he’s seated to the root, giving me time to adjust. The pressure is everywhere, deep and complete, and for a heartbeat I forget how to breathe.

Then he thrusts his hips, a tiny experimental shift, and pleasure sparks white-hot through my belly.

“Oh—”