Page 39 of The Last Great Omegaverse

The fabric tears a little under her grip. I don’t care. I shove the ruined shirt off my shoulders and reach for hers, yanking it up and over her head in one rough motion. Her bra follows. The cool air of the cabin hits her bare skin and she shivers, but the heat rolling off both of us is already enough to chase the chill away. I cup her breasts hard, thumbs dragging over the tight nipples, and when I bring my mouth to one she arches against the shelves with a sharp, broken sound.

I suck like I’m starving for it, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, the soft flesh filling my mouth. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. The pain only feeds the wild thing clawing up my spine. I switch to the other breast, leaving the first one wet and marked by my mouth. The scent of her rising slick floods the narrow space between the books and the wall.

“Cal—”

“I’ve got you.” The words come out rough, almost a snarl. “I’m not letting go.”

I drop to my knees on the worn rug, yanking her jeans and underwear down in one hard pull. She steps out of them clumsily. The second she’s bare I push her thighs wider and put my mouth on her pussy without preamble. She’s already soaked, folds swollen and glistening, the sweet taste of her hitting my tongue like a brand. I lick a long, rough line from entrance to clit and she cries out, one hand slamming back against the bookshelf hard enough to rattle the spines.

I don’t ease her into it. I eat her like I’ve been denied this for decades. My tongue thrusting into her, nose pressed to her clit, two thick fingers shoving inside and pressing hard against her front wall. Her thighs shake against my ears. I suck her clit between my lips and pleasure her with my hand until she’s grinding against my face, chasing the friction with desperate little rolls of her hips.

She comes hard and fast, a sharp cry tearing from her throat, walls clamping down around my fingers in rhythmic pulses. I work her through it without slowing, drawing the orgasm out until she’s trembling and oversensitive and still somehow pushing closer. Only when her knees threaten to give do I stand, lick my lips, and free my cock from my jeans.

I’m thick and heavy and already leaking. The head is flushed dark, the vein along the underside standing out in sharp relief. She stares at it for half a second, eyes blown wide, then reaches for me. Her hand wraps around the shaft and strokes once, firmly, and the contact makes my hips buck with a growl.

“Against the wall,” I tell her, voice raw. “Hands on it. Face the wall.”

She obeys, turning and bracing her palms flat against the plaster beside the shelves. I step in close behind her, one hand settling on her hip, the other guiding my cock between her thighs. The moment the tip of me nudges against her entrance I push forward in one long, relentless thrust. The stretch of her around me is scorching, tight, still tight from the orgasm. She gasps, forehead dropping toward the wall, and I bottom out with a wet slap that echoes off the wood.

I don’t give her time to adjust.

I fuck her hard and deep from behind, every thrust driving her forward against the wall, the books rattling with the force of it. Her back arches. Her fingers dig into the plaster. The messy sound of my cock pounding into her is continuous, filthy, mixed with the sharp slap of skin and the broken sounds spilling from both our throats. Her scent spikes again—sweet, open, claiming every corner of the room—and my own rises to meet it, possessive and wild.

“This is real,” I snarl against the back of her neck, teeth scraping the sensitive join of neck and shoulder. “Feel how real it is. Feel how fucking deep I am inside you.”

She answers by clenching hard around me, deliberately, and the sensation rips a raw sound from my chest. I shift my grip, one hand sliding around to her lower belly to pull her tighter against me, changing the angle so every thrust drags the head of my cock over the special spot inside her that makes the Omega moan. The bookshelf creaks. A book tumbles to the floor. Neither of us cares.

I drive harder, hips snapping forward in forceful thrusts that elicit soft sounds from her throat. Her thighs tremble. I reach around and find her clit with two fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with every thrust, and the dual stimulation makes her push back to meet me harder.

She comes first with her back arching, a broken sob escapes her lips as she cries out my name while her cunt milks me in long, rhythmic waves. The pressure rips the orgasm from me in thick, endless pulses. Cum floods her until it leaks out around my cock. I hope it coats her thighs so everyone knows she belongs to us.

I keep her pinned against the wall, gasping like I’ve run miles, face buried in the curve of her neck. Every tiny aftershock that ripples through her body squeezes another small spurt of release from me. The room has heated up from our exertion. My Alpha musk coating her all over.

“Fuck, darlin’,” I rasp against her skin. “You take me so well. Like your pussy was made to hold me this tight. You’re so beautiful like this.”

She turns her head and I catch her mouth in a messy, open kiss, still shaking. I ease out of her, the evidence of my release glistening on her thighs, then guide her across the room to lower us onto the wide leather couch beneath the window. She relaxes against me, back to my chest, and my hands roam her body—her waist, her ass, the soft weight of her breasts—mapping every place I’ve wanted to touch for weeks.

We stay like that for a while, merely breathing, solely feeling. Every small shift of her hips keeps the residual heat alive between us. I rock against her in tiny, instinctive movements until she shivers and presses back for more.

“You’re amazing, little Omega,” I murmur against her temple, voice still rough, “I already want you again. Harder. Deeper. Until neither of us can remember what it felt like to hold back.”

She laughs, soft and wrecked, the sound brushing against my throat. “Then don’t hold back next time either.”

I keep her close, hands still moving, still claiming. The hunger under my skin hasn’t banked. But I don’t have to rush with her. This won’t be the only time I get to fuck her. I know there will be more times. If I have my way, there will be a lifetime of hearing her scream with pleasure.

“This is real,” I tell her quietly, the words sure now. “Whatever else might be tangled up in the soil or the seasons or the old stories. This part—my hands on you, your cunt soaked around me, the way you look at me when you come—is real. And I’m choosing it. Every time.”

She utters a gentle noise of assent. I hold her close, my body pressed against hers. I close my eyes and breathe her in. The thirty years of restraint are gone.

“I’m still scared,” she admits.

“Good.” I press my mouth to the top of her head. “Means you’re taking it seriously. I’d trust it less if you weren’t.”

“Are you scared?”

“Every day since you got off that bus.” I hold her closer, distance now abandoned. “Doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere. Just means the choosing costs something. Always has, with anything worth choosing.”

She doesn’t answer that, just breathes, slow and uneven. We lie there a long while, staring at the ceiling of a cabin I built specifically so nobody could ever get close enough to hurt me the way this already has, thinking that maybe thirty years of keeping my distance was never actually protecting me from anything at all. Just delaying it.