Chapter Eleven #5
A gasp caught in my throat as he trailed lower, his teeth pressing into my shoulder where the sleeve hung off, nipping at the skin bare to him—the spot tingled well after he moved on.
His hands slid oh so softly up my torso, feeling the fabric and no doubt the unsteadiness of my breathing under his fingertips, his pheromones fogging up my senses.
He bit at my shoulder blade, a smirk ticking his mouth at the small whimper that escaped me spontaneously, the sting making my belly clench.
And, to my utter mortification, I was wet.
Fuck.
I clamped my thighs together, but it was pointless; slick was dripping from my hole whether I wanted it to or not.
Did I want it? It didn’t matter. I should be nudging him away, avoiding his advances and sticking to the terms of the contract, but his attention was lighting me up from the inside out.
“You like it, then?” I said without much consideration, my voice strained and . . . subconsciously seductive. My head even tilted slightly to display my neck further, giving him access. And permission.
“Hm.” He ground his hips forward, and his hardness grazed against the small of my back. “You tell me.”
My lips thinned to conceal my groan, and my toes curled.
His reaction likely had nothing to do with me and more to do with his provider tendencies flaring.
He was a rich man, lavishing an omega with gifts.
It was only natural for wires to cross and for him to feel some weird sense of Alpha pride or whatever, but fucked if I could get my own instincts to comprehend it and behave.
Apparently, a certain point in the last six hours had primed me for mating.
Was it the bickering? Was it his casual praise whenever I tried on an outfit he’d chosen for me?
Were loathing and passion too similar? I had no idea, and it was bizarre, but my body had counted the cause as foreplay, and was hankering for more.
Caine’s hand roved to the slit in the dress, brushing my bare thigh.
The fabric rucked up as he moved higher, stopping just above the waistband of my boxers, teasing the hair below my navel.
I stared at us in the mirror, his body eclipsing mine, even bent over as he was to keep our faces level.
My skin was flushed pink, my eyes were glazed, and though he’d barely done anything, it was obvious my lust was skyrocketing with every touch.
He knew it, of course he did. Even without the small tent in the front of the dress, he’d be able to smell it, to feel it.
My skin would be hot to the touch, my pulse racing faster, my scent growing richer. Spicier.
Everything I could sense in return from the body plastered against my back.
I turned in his arms, my breaths wavering—not from apprehension but a shiver of emotion much more carnal. We considered one another for a moment, the tension between us stifling, winding tighter and tighter in the confined cubicle, trapping the air in my lungs.
Hot.
Heavy.
Until it snapped.
Caine descended on my neck, teeth sinking in below my jaw without a care for the marks they’d leave.
I hissed, the site bursting with pleasure and pain, and he made a sound in his throat that vibrated straight to my toes.
I was pinned against the mirror with more force, the glass creaking as he planted one of his hands beside my head, while the other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.
His leg slotted between my knees as he devoured me with his tongue, lips, and teeth, boxing me in.
I rolled my hips, dragging my clothed dick against his thigh, moaning at the delicious hit of friction.
It was the first time he’d touched me like this outside of my heat, and even without the disorientation and overwhelming eagerness to please, my head still swam, the public nature of it amplifying the thrill.
He had to be using his pheromones to his advantage.
How else could I explain the speed I’d gone from wanting to kick him in the shin to needing him to fuck me hard enough for everyone outside to hear?
I rutted against him faster, my fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles white.
I wasn’t entirely mindless—a knot-hungry slut whose only purpose was being bred—but my focus was narrowing down to the smell of sex, the sound of muffled grunts against my collarbone, and the firm press of his thigh, making it hard to discern if the way I felt now was any different.
The contact against my dick was rough, and I was desperate to reach down and take myself in hand, but I couldn’t get my arm to move, didn’t want to ruin the build-up.
The familiar pressure was already coiling, warmth gathering in my belly, and I knew if I adjusted even a hair’s breadth, it might fizzle out.
Caine’s hot mouth was inches away from my mating gland, reducing the gap with every nip and lick.
He was so close, my neck already pulsed with the phantom ache of his teeth sinking in; I could almost feel them puncturing the skin as his tongue lapped at the blood.
I made an encouraging noise in my throat, tipping my head back, begging wordlessly for it . . .
He withdrew.
My stomach lurched at the sudden loss of stimulation. I blinked until my eyes focused, panting heavily, muscles contracting wildly. I looked up at him—catching a glimpse of ferocity before it was once again contained—a question on my lips that wouldn’t vocalise.
He understood anyway.
“If we go further, you’ll only hold it against me,” he said indifferently. He ignored my responding whine, my back arching toward him. He put distance between us, adjusting himself in his trousers before marching out of the stall. Distantly, I heard him call out, “We’ll take the dress.”
I stayed in the changing room until my arousal and confusion finally dissipated.
And I remembered just how much I despised him.