Page 40 of Omega’s Forward

“Look at me,” he says, when I turn my face away. I don’t obey.

The finish takes an age arriving.

I come with him buried deep and his hand wrapped around me, wrung out in long slow pulses, and he follows with his mouth pressed to my jaw.

Evening brings a meaner wave, and a discovery: I want him in my mouth more than I have ever wanted anything that wasn’t directly about survival.

He’s half asleep when I go down on him, and fully awake roughly two seconds later.

The size of him is absurd — jaw-aching, eye-watering absurd — but the heat doesn’t care. I take him deeper than sense allows and moan around him like the taste of him is something I’ve been rationed my whole life.

“Everett—fuck—” His hand hovers at my hair, asking. I take his wrist and put it there myself.

He watches me the whole time. I know because I look up, once, and the sight of him propped on one elbow, wrecked, reverent, that huge chest heaving, nearly finishes me without a touch.

He swears low and continuous, and when he tries to pull me off with a warning I stay exactly where I am and take it deeper.

“Come here.” He hauls me up the moment I let him, kisses me deep enough to taste himself, and flips me under him in one motion. “Your turn.”

His mouth on my cock is devastating and he knows it — slow and thorough where I’m frantic, one big forearm pinning my hips flat. When he adds two fingers into me, crooked exactly right, I come down his throat with a shout they probably heard at the arena.

I lie there panting.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smug beyond all decency, and goes to refill my water like nothing happened.

Five minutes later, it rises again and he is hauling me astride him, inside me on the next breath, both of us gasping, furious, neither of us stopping.

At some point, I sleep, waking already begging. It’s fully dark, I’m on my front, slick through the sheets again, and the words are out of me before I consider my dignity.

“Please. Need you. Now.”

He’s there before I finish the sentence, a wall of heat down my back, one arm sliding under my hips to haul me up.

“Like this?” His mouth at my ear, his cock already sliding through the slick. Even now, checking. Even at three in the morning, with my scent shouting yes at industrial volume, he asks.

“Yes. Like this. Exactly like this.” I shove back against him to make the point.

He laughs into my hair and pushes in, and the laugh dies in both of us.

This one is nothing like the slow. He takes me the way the heat has been demanding all along — hard and deep, his forearm bracing me, his breath ragged at my ear — and I push up on my hands and meet him stroke for stroke, loud, past caring what I sound like. The headboard hits the wall and I could not care less.

He gets a hand in my hair — asks first, a tug, a question — and when I push back into it he takes a proper fistful and holds me exactly where I apparently need to be held, and the noise I make into the mattress is one the heat will have to answer for, because I certainly won’t.

And here, in the dark, at the bottom of the wave, is where the heat plays dirty. His mouth crosses the back of my neck — a kiss, only a kiss — and the gland there aches, sudden and shocking, a want with teeth in it, and what comes out of me is: “Do it.”

He goes completely still, still buried in me.

“Everett.”

“I didn’t—” My own voice, wrecked, appalled. The want is still talking. I wrestle it down. “Ignore that. That was the heat. Shoulder. Use the shoulder.”

A long breath against my spine. Then his teeth close on the meat of my shoulder, hard and blunt, nowhere near the gland, and I come so fast and so violently that the room goes white.

He finishes with his face pressed between my shoulder blades, shaking, holding me through it, and when we collapse he pulls me back against his chest and puts his hand flat over the gland, covering it.

“Thank you,” I say, very quietly, to the dark.

His only response is his arm tightening, before the heat rises again and I am lost.