Page 37 of Omega’s Forward

“I know.”

Pride is the only thing holding his spine straight, and the next part still comes out steady, which is the bravest thing I’ve ever watched a man do in a blanket. “I need help. Brody. I need help. I’m asking.”

The last thing holding me together lets go.

I get a hand in his wet hair and kiss him the way I’ve been wanting to kiss for a week. He opens for me on a moan, and the blanket stops being relevant very fast.

He’s naked and damp and burning underneath it — the cold gone the second the want has somewhere to go — and when I finally get skin on skin our two scents hit each other and rise, orange and woodsmoke gone thick together, and we both groan at it.

“Tell me what you need,” I say against his jaw. “Fast or slow.”

“Fast.” His nails are already in my back. “You can show me slow when I don’t feel like I’m dying.”

I sit back and strip my shirt off, and his eyes go over me the way they did at the office.

“Off,” he says, at my waistband, imperial as ever.

I have never obeyed an order faster in my life.

He kicks the comforter away, and there he is. Flushed everywhere. Cock hard against his stomach and leaking. Slick to the backs of his knees, hips already moving, and shameless about all of it now, one leg falling open, watching me watch him.

“You’re going to have to be patient with me,” I say, coming down over him, one arm caged over his head. “I spent all night imagining this about a thousand different ways.”

“A thousand?” Even wrecked, the eyebrow still works. “Which stops you talking?”

He’s snarky but he doesn’t seem to hate me right now. Or at least he’s not looking at me like I’m some kind of rabid dog that might bite at any moment. That makes a change.

I go down his body. He’s loud the moment my mouth touches him and when I swallow his cock down he nearly comes off the bed, hands flying to my hair, babbling something with my name in it.

I pull off before he tips over. Not yet. That’s not what he needs. Not in a heat.

When I put my mouth lower, where the slick is — where he’s soaked, sweet, unbelievable — the sound he makes stops being language, and I stay there until he’s grinding down against my tongue with both hands locked in my hair.

“Now,” he says. “Now, now — Brody—”

Two fingers slide into him with no resistance at all. He takes them with a full-body shudder and rides my hand, greedy about it, and I watch his face the whole time so I don’t miss one second of what it does to him. “More.” “I know.” “Then—” “I know, Everett.”

When I finally line up, blunt against him, we both stop breathing. His hands find my shoulders. My forehead comes down to his.

“Yes,” he says, to the question I didn’t get to ask. “Yes.”

I push in slow, and the world drops away.

He’s tight and molten and shaking, his body pulling me in. I bottom out and hold there, buried in him, shaking with the effort of staying still. He wraps all his limbs around me.

And that’s all I need. Fuck being a gentleman. I’m going to fuck him instead.

I give to him deep and hard and relentless, his knee hooked over my arm, the headboard keeping time against the wall. He meets every stroke and demands the next one, louder than I’ve ever heard him.

I want the whole league to hear it and I want nobody on earth to ever hear it but me. When I shift the angle he seizes up and sobs — an actual sob, wrecked and furious about it — so I do it again, and again.

“That’s it.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “I’ve got you. Take it. There you go.”

He comes the moment I get a hand around his cock — comes shouting, clamped down around me so hard my vision whites out at the edges — and it hauls me over with him.

I bury myself deep and spill into him, groaning something that might be his name. The wave of his scent right then is the single best thing that has ever happened to me, every game I’ve ever won included.

And in the middle of it, his throat is right there. The gland, swollen with heat, right under my mouth, and every instinct I own leans toward it with my full weight behind it. Bite. Claim.