Page 50 of The Rust in Her Hair

I look over at the nightstand nearest to me, where a small stack of books sits. The thick one on the bottom is about the architecture of old cathedrals. Underneath it is a slim volume with soft, rounded corners. It looks like it’s been opened a hundred times. I squint at the title, but it’s in Spanish, and I can't read a word of it.

This must be Nico's side.

Soft voices drift down the hall, and my eyes start to droop.

I curl onto my side and reach for the pillow on the other side, wrapping both arms around it.

It's Nico’s.

I know it the second it's against my face, his scent soaked all the way through it, and my heart gives that same quick kick it did when he first walked into the living room.

But it doesn't frighten me now. It wraps around me instead, warm and heavy, tangled up with Owen's scent in the sheets until I can't tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

I bury my face in it and breathe them both in. And for the first time since my father's office, I'm not afraid to close my eyes.

They drift shut on their own.

Relief

Mack

The air in our little at-home gym smells like sweat and rubber.

The single bare bulb over the weight bench casts long shadows across the floor, catching the silver chain of the pull-up bar. My knees dig into the worn foam of the mat.

It's not the most romantic spot in the house, but it's got a door that locks and it's about as far from the bedroom as we can get without standing in the yard, so it'll do.

"Yes." Nico's fist tightens in my hair, and I take him deeper.

He tastes like salt and skin, his cock heavy on my tongue.

I breathe through my nose, as the crown pushes against the back of my throat, and I force myself to relax around him.

He's so damn tense, his whole body a coiled spring of muscle and anxiety. The tension rolls off him in waves, thick enough to choke on, and it has nothing to do with the blow job and everything to do with the omega sleeping in his bed.

I slide a hand up under his loose shirt, palm flat against the firm plane of his stomach. I drag it slowly up his chest, caressing him while I suck.

He's warm and solid beneath my palm, his heart slamming against it. I want to feel him come apart from the inside out, so I keep my hand spread wide over his chest and take him deeper.

I work him with my mouth, sloppy and wet, the way he likes it when he's keyed up like this.

My other hand grips the thick base of him, stroking in time with the bob of my head. I want him to forget. I want him to stop thinking about that injured omega, Owen’s pale face, and how the hell he’s going to fix all this.

I want him to relax, but his brow is furrowed, his eyes squeezed tight.

I pull off him with a wet pop and look up, keeping my hand moving.

"You're thinking too loud." I drag my tongue up the length of him slowly, watching his face while I do it. "I can hear it from down here, baby. Knock it off and let me work."

Nico huffs something that isn't quite a word, so I take him back down before he can argue, all the way, until my nose is pressed to the wiry hair at his base and my eyes sting.

I hold him there.

Let him feel the back of my throat flutter around his head, showing him how much I can take, because I know it drives him out of his mind.

"Goddamnit, Mack," he hisses, as his grip spasms in my hair.

Stop thinking, I tell him, without saying anything at all. For five minutes. Let me have you for five minutes.