Page 39 of Omega’s Forward

He gives me both without being asked and keeps his eyes open the whole time, watching me take what I need with an expression that would frighten me if I had any fear left over.

“You should see yourself,” he says, hoarse.

“I don’t need to.” I roll my hips flat and watch his eyes lose focus.

“There,” I tell him, when I find it. “Right—” His hips punch up to meet me and the word breaks in half.

“There,” he agrees, low, and does it again.

It builds fast after that. Everything does, in heat. The wave stacks itself under whatever you’re doing and doubles it. I brace both hands on his chest and take us there, and when I clench down on him deliberately, just to hear what it drags out of him, the sound is so good I do it again.

“That’s it.” His voice has gone to gravel. “Take what you need. Come on my cock, let me feel it.”

I do. Without a hand on me, all over his stomach, shaking, his name in my mouth like it lives there now.

He follows me inside a dozen strokes, pulling me down by the back of the neck to groan into my hair, hips grinding up through the last of it, and the flood of him inside me gentles the wave the way nothing else does.

I stay where I am, sprawled on his chest, his heartbeat going hard under my ear, the pair of us glued together with sweat and worse. His hand moves up and down my spine in big slow passes. If I had a shred of self-respect left, I’d move.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I tell his collarbone.

“Course not,” he says, and pulls the blanket over us both.

We fuck again twice, fast and furious, and then the heat fades briefly, giving me a short respite.

He spends it being useful: water, the rest of the sandwich, and then, a bath I do not agree to right up until I’m in it.

“I’m fine,” I say, as he soaps my back. “I don’t need to be bathed.”

“Yeah, you do. You were all sticky.”

“Not my fault,” I reply.

“Fair.” He works shampoo into my hair with those enormous hands, and I abandon any arguing on the spot.

The bath is where the next wave finds me, because of course it is — warm water, his hands, his scent thick in the steam. I feel it coming and he smells it coming in the same moment. His hands go still in my hair.

“Bed,” he says.

“No.” I catch his wrist.

He rinses my hair first. Of course he does. Unhurried, thorough, tilting my head back with two fingers under my chin while I sit there in heat, wanting him, letting him finish the job — and by the time he lifts me out of the water I’m shaking again.

Slow, it turns out, is worse, but exactly what the heat needs to satisfy it, at least momentarily.

Slow is him laying me out on the clean side of the bed and starting at my ankle. Mouth, hands, the scrape of stubble on the inside of my knee. By the time he gets anywhere useful, I’m babbling.

“Brody. Brody, I swear to God—”

“Mm.” Against my hip. Infuriating. “I like slow.”

“You are driving me—” His tongue drags up the crease of my thigh, straight through the slick there, and my spine comes off the bed. “—insane.”

“Noted.” He does not go faster.

When he finally slides into me it’s one long unbroken push, both of us watching where we’re joined, and then his forehead comes down to mine and he moves the way the slow want asked for — deep and unhurried, each stroke rolling through me from the inside out. Nobody has ever taken me apart like this.

Nobody has ever bothered. I hold onto his shoulders and let it happen, and if my eyes sting somewhere in the middle of it, the sweat covers for me.