Page 24 of The Last Great Omegaverse

“Good. Feel something. See how it goes.”

We sit there a while longer, the cold settling in around us both. At some point her head ends up against my shoulder and I let myself have it without turning it into a bigger moment than it needs to be, without reaching for a joke to fill the space the way I usually would.

“Just so you know,” I say eventually, “you’re the first person in a long while who’s looked at me and asked what’s underneath, instead of just enjoying what’s on top.”

“Maybe start letting people see what’s underneath more often. It might surprise you that what they find is worth sticking around for.”

“That requires me being sincere in public. A terrifying prospect.”

“You survived it just now.”

“Barely.” I press a kiss to the top of her head and feel her relax further against me rather than pull away. Her scent’s glowing and cozy against the cold now, settled in a way that makes my Alpha pleased. Something in my chest, some old, tired part of me that’s spent years pretending lightness because it seemed safer than asking to be taken seriously, hushes for the first time in longer than I can remember.

“Thank you,” I say, “for the question. Nobody’s asked it in a while. I forgot how much I wanted somebody to.”

“Ask me something back sometime. Seems only fair.”

“Careful. I might take you up on that.” I tip my head, resting it against hers, watching the dark fields ease into full night around us both. “Might turn out I’m better at the sincere thing than either of us expects.”

“I’d like to find out.”

We stay there a long while, the two of us, silence that doesn’t need filling. When I finally move to go, she catches two fingers in my sleeve before I’ve made it past the second step.

“Stay,” she says, more vulnerable than anything else she’s said to me tonight. “Not because you need fixing, or because I need rescuing. Just—stay. I want you to.”

I could turn that into a joke. God knows I’ve got a dozen ready, reflexive as breathing. I let all of them go instead, and follow her back inside.

She leads me to the couch, the same one I spent a night keeping watch from a couple weeks back. When she pulls me down onto it with her, there’s none of the desperate, cider-soaked urgency of that first night on the porch. This is slower. More real. Like she’s decided to take her time with something she’s already sure of, instead of something she’s afraid might vanish if she blinks.

“You smell different tonight,” she says, mouth against my jaw, working her way down the line of my throat like she’s cataloguing it. “Cedar. Woodsmoke.”

“Fair warning. Keep talking like that and I’m going to start thinking you’ve been paying attention.”

“I’ve been paying attention since the bar.” She pulls back far enough to look at me properly, something unguarded in her face that undoes me faster than anything her hands are currently doing. “You’re not interchangeable, Asher. I don’t care what any old legend says about packs and land. This—” she flattens a palm over my chest, right where my heart’s working overtime, “—is specific. It’s you. I’d know your scent in a room with a hundred other Alphas in it.”

I don’t have a joke ready for that. For once in my life, I don’t want one.

I kiss her instead, slow, deliberate, nothing like the desperate, half-drunk thing on the porch that first night. My hands find the hem of her shirt and she lifts her arms to help me pull it over her head. I take my time studying her—throat, collarbone, the soft skin below her navel—every unhurried second its own small lesson.

The living room is quiet except for the low tick of the old clock on the mantel and the soft sound of our breathing. Firelight from the banked coals in the hearth paints her skin in gold and shadow. I trace the line of her collarbone with my mouth, then lower, lingering over the gentle rise of her breasts until her breath catches and her fingers tighten in my hair.

I cup her boobs tenderly in both hands, feeling the soft weight sink against my palms, the way her nipples tighten under the slow drag of my thumbs. I circle them once, then again, watching the way her back arches just slightly off the cushions, the quiet shiver that runs through her when I pinch the peaks between finger and thumb with the lightest pressure.

Lowering my head, I take one into my mouth, sucking gently, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip while my hand keeps the same unhurried rhythm on the other. She tastes honeyed, clean, faintly salty, and the soft sound she makes when I switch sides—half sigh, half plea—sinks deep in my chest. I stay there a long while, alternating between the two, learning the exact pressure that makes her fingers tighten harder in my hair, the exact pace that has her breathing faster against the quiet of the room, never rushing.

When I finally move between her thighs, I do it like I have all the time in the world. I kiss the soft skin of her inner thighs first, slow and open-mouthed, breathing her in. She still smells like rain, but now also of radiant skin and the faint sweetness that is simply Wren. I lick a stripe through her folds and she arches with a soft, surprised sound, hips lifting toward my mouth. I stay there a while, deliberate, unrushed—long, thorough strokes of my tongue interspersed with gentle suction over her clit—until my name’s on her lips.

I slide two fingers into her while I suck on her clit gently, curling them with the same unhurried care, and the way she tightens around them makes my dick even harder. When she comes it’s with my name still on her lips, thighs trembling against my ears, and the quiet, broken sound of it is the most honest thing I’ve heard in years. Satisfaction rolls through me that’s got nothing to do with charm and everything to do with being wanted for exactly who I am.

I move up her body, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. She pulls me down against her, skin to skin. For a moment we just breathe together. Then her hands find the button of my jeans, the zipper, pushing the denim down far enough that I can kick them the rest of the way off. My cock is hard against her hip, aching, but neither of us rushes. She wraps her fingers around me and strokes once, slow, thumb brushing over the head, and the simple contact makes my breath stutter.

“Inside,” she says softly, looking up at me with that same unguarded expression. “I want to feel you inside me.”

I settle between her thighs again, bracing most of my weight on my forearms so I don’t crush her into the old cushions. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance, already slick from her own arousal. I push in slow—inch by unhurried inch—watching her face the entire time. The heat of her closing around me is perfect, soft and tight and welcoming. When I’m fully seated I don’t move, forehead resting against hers, just feeling the way she flutters around me, the way her breath warms my mouth.

“Good?” I ask, voice smaller than usual.

“Very good.” She rolls her hips in a tiny, deliberate circle that makes both of us exhale. “Move, Asher. Please.”