Chapter 16
Jensen
I make it all the way to the door leading to my rooms, thinking I’ve gotten away with it. Thinking I’ve had a little brush with insanity, but that it didn’t turn out too badly. I have my hand on my doorhandle—I’m this close to escape—when Lord Augustus speaks.
“You’re aroused,” he says evenly.
“Hmm?” I squeak, clenching my cheeks together so hard that another little spurt of slick escapes me. I flounder quite significantly at that, looking around frantically, unsure if I should throw myself into my room and slam the door behind me, or if I should stay where I am and face the music.
As it turns out, my legs are completely lame, so the choice is taken from me.
“You’re an omega under my roof.” He emphasizes “under my roof,” and though it takes a second, I quickly realize the significance of that. The Old Ways. He’s talking about the Old Ways.
In the old days, the Old Ways dictated that when an omega rested their head under an alpha’s roof, the alpha assumed responsibility for them. The alpha was honor-bound to take care of the omega, to keep them safe and protected, to ensure their every need was met for the duration of their stay.
It now occurs to me that yes, under the Old Ways, when an alpha assumed responsibility for an omega, ensuring their sexual needs were taken care of was considered part of the deal. It’s why in the old days, omegas didn’t go around merrily resting their heads under the roofs of unmated alphas.
“Oh, I, um,” I splutter.
“Do you require a release, omega?” asks the lord, earnest as can be.
I look around, left and right, checking to see if I’m being pranked. It doesn’t look like I am, but I still can’t quite get my head around the situation, so I decide to attack it with humor.
“What?” I laugh prettily into my hand to ensure he understands I’m joking. “Are you offering to suck my dick, Casanova?”
It’s funny because the man is an alpha and a lord—there’s almost no chance on Earth of him being anything other than supremely hole-centric, and we both know it.
Unfortunately, there must be something off about my delivery because the joke doesn’t land. Like, not at all. Lord Augustus doesn’t get it at all. In fact, he’s acting a lot like he’s dead fucking serious about his offer. His eyes are trained on me, his expression all sincere and shit.
“I’d be happy to,” he replies neutrally, “if that is what you want.”
“Wh-what now?” I breathe.
“I said, I’d be happy to blow you if that is what you want”—he doesn’t even have the grace to pause there, he just sails straight on—“but it isn’t. If you require a release, I’ll give you the one you desire.”
I swear to God, I think this man might mean it. I think he’s seriously standing in my hallway, in a velvet dinner jacket no less, with twigs from a conifer hedge stuck in his hair, offering to pummel my prostate because I happen to be sleeping under his roof.
And you know what, when I think about it, he bloody well should. I’ve gone above and beyond the scope of my job description big time tonight. I’ve put on a spectacular performance, I’ve chased away obsessed omegas left, right, and center, and I’ve dealt with their awful families as decisively.
He’s absolutely goddamn right that I should get a reward.
It’s hard to tell if it’s the booze talking, or if it’s the fact I got to live out one of my greatest primal-play fantasies mere minutes ago and now have pure adrenaline running through my veins.
It could be either of those things if I’m being honest, but I think the most likely thing, the thing currently guiding my hands to my groin, pulling my belt open, and unzipping my fly is the fact that it’s been months, months, since I came by a hand other than my own.
It’s been so long. Too long. Months and months.
Not since Branson mated Lucien at the cabin.
I’ve taken care of everything on my own since then. I’ve applied for jobs, booked flights, and moved countries by myself. I’ve done it all. I’ve done everything. Every single thing, and fuck, I’m so tired of keeping it together and doing it all myself.
I just want there to be one thing I don’t have to do on my own.
Just one little thing that someone else takes care of for me.
Okay, fine.
It’s not that. I’m a bad bitch who can take care of myself. I’m just really, really fucking horny and want a nut without my name on it. It’s that simple.
Lord Augustus is standing close to me, and he’s one of those people who is even more beautiful up close than he is a few feet away.
The glossy dark gleam of his hair and the soft golden hues of his skin spin together and make him look more imposing.
More personable. Sweeter and even sexier than usual.
I take a deep breath and let go of my pants without overthinking it. He keeps his eyes on mine, but his lips quirk as my pants slide down my legs and pool at my ankles.
My dick has been hard since God knows when, and it’s leaking so much that I’m pretty sure there’s a visible wet spot darkening the front of my briefs.
The lord doesn’t seem to notice it, though his expression has altered since I dropped my pants. It’s changed from mild and concerned about my well-being to focused. His brows have drawn down, and the hinge of his jaw is bulging a little more than usual.
He reaches down, putting his hand on my hip, just below the elastic of my briefs. His skin is on my skin, but not for long. He takes hold of me roughly, almost impersonally, and turns me around in a businesslike manner.
I’m a little shocked by his treatment. It’s rougher than I was expecting, but my dick loves it. Loves it. Finds it mortifying in all the best ways.
I find myself pressed against the wall, cheek to plaster with a big, hot hand pressing between my shoulder blades.
The hand drops, moving slowly down my back and smoothing my underwear over my ass.
It’s ridden up on one side. It must have because the lord takes it upon himself to untuck the elastic from the crack of my ass and smooth it over my cheek once he’s been successful.
It’s hard to say why this simple gesture turns me on so hard—probably something to do with willfully exposing my quivering thighs and sodden underwear to a member of British nobility—but a lot is going on right now, so it’s hard to say for sure.
He tucks his fingers into my waistband and slowly, fucking slowly, eases my briefs down over the mounds of my ass.
“You’re so wet,” he says as though he’s commenting on the weather.
My cheeks—the ones on my face—flush a dark shade of crimson. Heat rushes to the top of my head and sinks slowly down again, spilling out of me in a warm, slippery trickle.
Lord Augustus takes my hands, which were hanging limply at my sides, and raises them above my head.
He crosses them at the wrists and pins them against the wall with one hand.
He dusts the underside of my naked ass cheeks with the other.
His hands are warm. Strong. They move with an excess of confidence, a surplus of sexuality that makes my knees start to knock.
My dick aches with arousal, stiff as a battering ram as the head butts into the cold wall in front of me.
He doesn’t leave me like that for long. His free hand sweeps around my ass cheeks in a broad figure of eight.
He circles each cheek and squeezes them one by one, testing their weight and pulling them open just enough to expose my slippery hole.
His hand moves down and then up again. Slowly.
When it travels down again, his fingers slide down my crack, and he applies a hint of pressure as he passes over my opening.
I press my lips together tightly to stifle the abhorrent sound that’s trying to escape me, and I’m suddenly grateful for the position I’m in. My arms are hiding my face. The lord can’t see me, and I can’t see him. It’s just me and the wall, and gratification closing in on me from behind.
He doesn’t tease or toy with me at all. He simply whispers, “Ready?”
I bow my head to form the start of a nod, resting my forehead against the wall.
He taps my entrance twice. Then he thrusts two thick fingers in.
All the way in. In to the knuckle, as deep as he can get them.
The shock of the sudden intrusion knocks the breath out of me.
The pleasure wrings a low, guttural sound from my larynx.
The stretch is quick and intense. It’s accompanied by a deep burn that’s only just on the right side of pain. It tears through me, lighting everything in its path, setting it ablaze. Sensitive nerve endings react in shock.
The lord draws back and thrusts, draws back, and thrusts. There’s no time to acclimatize, no time to adapt to the girth of the digits stretching me open. There’s only wave after rough wave of pleasure being forced upon my rectum.
He sees to me thoroughly, holding on to my wrists tightly and fingering me until I see stars and I’m wobbling unsteadily on my tiptoes.
Say what you will about the lord, but this is clearly not his first time coming into contact with a prostate.
He finds the hidden bundle of nerves with surgical precision and hammers sensations out of it that I wasn’t aware existed.
The sounds I make are incomprehensible. Reprehensible. Unfit for polite company.
The lord hears them and hums in my ear in response. My legs start shaking in earnest.
He fingers me hard and fast, knuckles glancing my gland and making me see double.
Furious, dense pleasure gathers quickly, swelling until my jaw hangs ajar and my eyes are screwed shut.
Until there’s a slick, clicking sound when he thrusts into me, and the coarse grating saw of an alpha panting behind me.
I’m close.
So close.
So, so close.
Then he pulls out.
My knees sag, and I wail into the wall, fingernails clawing at plaster as I garble nonsensically in the safety of the cage created for me by my own limbs.
The lord moves quickly, jamming his thumb up my ass, a thick, blunt intrusion that he pairs with fingertips stroking my taint lightly. He rubs me inside and out. Softly and raw. Attacking my gland from all angles.
Pleasure swells and expands, growing until it can’t be contained. His ministrations are so forceful, so exacting, so precise, that the force of my orgasm stuns me. It hits from behind, splattering pieces of me against the wall as my hips thrust manically into nothing.
It’s over as suddenly as it started. The lord extracts his thumb from my anus without fanfare.
I flop limply against the wall briefly before turning and leaning against it as I scramble to pull up my pants.
It’s a simple action that’s made unnecessarily complicated by the fact that my hands are completely numb and I can’t remember how zippers or buttons work.
The lord has the audacity to look calm, removed, and mildly pleased with himself.
“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Lawlor?” he asks affably. “Cup of tea, perhaps?”
I shake my head and narrowly manage to stifle the dry, gargling sound trying to rush out of me.