Chapter 11 - Ronan #2
The memory hits like a blow. The way her throat stretched tight around the width of my cock, the sweet, strangled whimpers as I held her head down and seeded her mouth, the taste of her slick and her tears, and the humiliation that made her even softer, even hungrier.
I’d left her trembling, dripping, desperate for more.
I’d told her I was just taking the edge off her heat, but the truth is, it’d only stoked the flames even more.
The wolf in me howls at the memory, claws at my ribs, demanding I finish what I started. That I claim her, right here, right now, where the whole world can hear her scream my name.
I’m not even aware I’m moving until it’s too late to stop.
One second, I’m glaring down at her; the next, my hands are fisted in her hair and I’m pulling her to her feet.
She yelps, but the sound is all but lost as I slam my mouth against hers.
She tastes unbelievably sweet as her mouth parts slightly under mine in a way that’s half invitation, half surrender.
My grip tightens in her hair, tilting her head back so I can devour her, teeth scraping hard enough to draw blood from her lower lip.
She moans into my mouth, and the vibration runs straight to my cock.
The towel is gone, lost somewhere on the deck, and I’m so hard it’s almost a threat.
I grab the hem of her dress and yank it up, not even bothering with gentleness.
She squeaks, but doesn’t resist, her hands coming up to my chest as if to push me away, but doing nothing of the sort.
The fabric rides up over her hips, exposing the lush, perfect curve of her ass and the sticky gloss of slick running down her thighs, the sight of which nearly ends me there and then.
I turn her and push her forward, bending her over the railing so her hands brace against the cool wood.
She looks back at me, eyes wide and wild, her lips parted, and her entire body trembling with anticipation.
She’s not afraid, not of me and not of this.
If anything, she’s daring me to take it further, to do everything I’ve threatened and more.
I line myself up behind her, the head of my cock slipping against the wet, swollen lips of her cunt.
She shivers, her wolf begging for it, every muscle in her body taut with need.
I don’t wait—my body remembers how good she felt and is more desperate than ever to feel itself inside her again.
I push inside her in one sharp, brutal stroke, burying myself to the hilt.
The sound she makes is half sob, half moan, and it echoes off the trees, wild and raw.
She clutches at the railing as if bracing herself.
The sight of her bent over and offered up to me on the deck is so obscene, so perfect, that for a moment I almost lose myself completely.
I thrust again, harder, and her ass shudders against my hips, the wet heat of her cunt clenching down like nothing I’ve ever felt.
All those perfect, compliant omegas I’d sampled over the years…
none of them came close to this. No one came close to my memories of Ava.
I grab her shoulders and pull her back onto me, using her body to fuck myself deeper, harder, until the sound of her cries is almost drowned out by the slap of flesh and the low, guttural snarls that pour from my own chest.
She’s soaked, her slick pouring down her legs, and my cock slides in and out of her so easily that I nearly forget to hold back.
The urge to knot her is overwhelming, the base of my cock already swelling, but the more my wolf demands it, the more unsure I feel.
I block it out, my hands roaming up her body, gripping her waist, then sliding up under the dress to free her tits.
They’re even bigger than when we were younger, heavy and perfect, and I squeeze them with both hands, not caring if I’m being rough.
I grind my hips and force her open, her tits heavy in my hands as I knead and twist them.
She shudders, her voice desperate and breaking.
I remember the first time I took her, years ago, how she’d gasped and sobbed and clung to me, her body so tight and sweet it nearly broke me.
I’ve never forgotten it, never found another omega who made me feel so alive, or so out of control.
With her bent and bared to the world, nothing else compares.
I can’t keep my hands off her, sliding from her tits to her hips to her throat, yanking her back onto my cock. I barely recognize my own voice as it spills out in snarls and curses, the urge to claim her more than I can stand.
My knot threatens, swelling at the root, and the idea of locking myself inside her, pumping her full of cum, drives me wild.
I should just let it happen and breed her, but something in me resists, a last flicker of control.
The doubts about her intentions and her unusual behavior since her return persist. An omega should be exhilarated to be chosen.
She’s not fertile yet—I’d be able to smell it.
Sensing I have more time to figure out her intentions, I wait until I feel the knot beginning and jerk back as she howls in protest. I pull free, fisting my cock and painting her back and ass with ropes of cum.
She shudders beneath me, her body clamping down around nothing, an empty sensation that makes her sob in frustration.
The sound of it is so raw, so wounded, that for a split second, I hate myself for holding back.
But my wolf is too sharp, too suspicious.
He wants her marked, bred, but some deeper, more wounded part of me can’t let go of the thought that she doesn’t really want it.
She got on that stage but hasn’t seemed happy about being chosen.
I lean closer and whisper, “I’ll give you the knot when you’re ready for pups and show me you really want it. ”
A small sob escapes her, but despite her heat, she doesn’t beg; omegas are born for this. She’s clearly fighting it hard. The question is, why?