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When I start to hang my head, Spencer’s fingers hook under my chin, angling my face back up. Black eyes smolder into mine.
“We like what we like, Miss Swanson,” he murmurs. “You can’t control the way you enjoy obeying any more than I can control the desire to direct you. It’s part of our biology.”
I’ve heard about an omega’s urge to please their alphas, but I’ve never experienced it like this.
It helps that Spencer is a true educator, through and through. Hearing him explain omega biology in his crisp, matter-of-fact way helps settle some of my guilt.
The truth is, I can’t imagine anyone not hanging on his every word. He has… power.
Just like the other Thorne, when Spencer speaks, I feel compelled to listen. But I also feel like I’m truly learning something. He’s so clearly brilliant—how could I not?
“I’ll show you,” he says, his tone brokering no argument. “Sit astride me, facing outward.”
The tweed fabric of his pants chafes against my thighs as I whirl around and lower myself onto his lap. I move carefully, but he still hisses when my ass settles over his groin. The hard twitch against my left butt cheek makes me gasp a little, too.
For a long moment, he stays still, breathing hard enough for me to feel his chest expanding and contracting behind me. I hear a hard swallow just before his hands find my wrists, guiding them back to the chair frame.
He wraps his fingers around mine and squeezes, showing me how to hold on. His voice takes on a harsher bite. “These will not move. Is that clear, Miss Swanson?”
I start to nod again, but one of his hands flies up, wrapping around my throat to halt the movement. He squeezes carefully, growling into my naked shoulder. “Say it.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Fuck.” The erection pressed into my backside swells. His other hand comes up to grip my hip. “Spread your legs. Hook your knees over mine.”
It’s a little tricky, rearranging my lower body without moving my hands for balance. They stay wrapped around the chair back, my fingers throbbing from my white-knuckle grip. My pussy echoes the pulse, pounding dully as I spread myself over Spencer’s lap.
The fingers at my throat give another squeeze—this one softer. Approving. “Very good.”
His touch ghosts over my hip, up to my waist. It tickles, and I start to rear up a bit, but he closes his palm over my windpipe. “Down.”
Oh my GOD.
Why do his one-word commands make me so wet?
My body pours slick into his lap, soaking the fabric between us. He rumbles his satisfaction, breathing deep while I will myself to relax, settling back against him. His chokehold loosens, his thumb skating over the wild pulse in my throat.
“You will stay still,” he tells me.
And—Lord help me—I believe him.
His free hand resumes its leisurely glide up my abdomen. He watches over my shoulder, gaze riveted to the way his fingertips dip into my navel and stroke up to the bottoms of my breasts.
Spencer reaches the scars branded along my ribs and stops. His eyes sharpen while he stares at the thick, raised lines and works on a swallow. “You said you got those when you tried to leave?”
A beat passes before he slowly raises his arm, holding the translucent skin close to my face. It’s faint, but I see what he means for me to see—a thin, silver-white line. Long and deep. A scar.
His voice drops to a murmur. “I tried to leave once, too.”
For a moment, my lungs forget how to expand. My heart shatters. His father really hurt him—so much deeper than any outer wounds.
He made Spencer feel hopeless. Had him believing there was no way out.
I should probably feel pity. Instead, relief bleeds across my mind while desperation claws through my body.
He gets it. He understands.
And, suddenly, I need him.
