Chapter 8
Lucien
I’m hotter than hell, and sadly, I mean that literally. I’m so hot that I can’t remember a time I wasn’t. So hot that spontaneous combustion feels like a very real possibility.
To make things worse, that’s not even my biggest problem anymore.
I opened my eyes this morning and was greeted by horniness unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
It’s so different, so rampant, horniness hardly begins to describe it.
It’s like the heat that’s been flowing through my veins for days has had gasoline injected into it.
It’s more than arousal. More than desire.
It’s a pull. A physical pull. Something is reaching into my core and making it writhe.
Making it twist. Making it arch. Making it so I can’t think of anything but sex.
My stomach was upset during the night, as expected.
I knew it would be. I hadn’t needed Branson to tell me it would happen.
Everyone knows that’s part of going into heat.
I felt like hell, and the worst of it was that all I wanted to do was go to Branson’s room and get into bed with him.
I found myself standing at his door, at three this morning, inhaling pathetically at the crack where the door meets the casing, trying to get a hit of his scent.
It’s mortifying.
Thank God he didn’t hear me.
I’m feeling horrendous today, achy inside and so pent up that if I could touch my dick without screaming, I’d shoot in two seconds flat.
My ass feels different when I walk. Still slick, but engorged now too.
Sensitive. Desperate for touch. Every time I move, it’s another step on the tightrope between pleasure and too much.
What I’d like to do is curl up in bed and not move, but my room is so far away from everything. Everyone. It’s all the way down the hall, and Branson’s here in the living room, lying on the sofa with a pillow under his head and his legs crossed. He’s reading a book, looking relaxed and happy.
The heat swimming in my veins tugs at me.
A deep pull that makes it impossible to be away from him.
I wait until I’m sure he’s not looking at me, and then slink onto the sofa, as close to him as I can get without touching him.
I curl my legs under me and try not to squirm.
My insides have developed a life of their own.
My hips and spine becoming harder and harder to control.
Seconds before I lose the battle and start writhing, I launch myself off the sofa and all but sprint to my room.
I dash to the bathroom and splash my face with water.
Obviously, it doesn’t help in the slightest, but as I do it, I notice something in the mirror.
My reflection scowls back at me, standing stock still, or at least, trying to.
My spine arches without any intention from me.
Hard. Hard enough to thrust my chest forward and leave my clavicles exposed.
I watch, half in disbelief, half in horror, as my hips get in on the action.
They buck, tilting slowly backward and forward, even as I do everything in my power to keep still.
The heat dance.
I’m doing it. Me. Lucien Leigh.
I’ve seen the dance in heat porn, obviously. Everyone has—and people who say they haven’t are lying. It’s just that I always thought it was exaggerated for cinematic effect.
It’s a shock to see myself like this.
There isn’t an omega alive that hasn’t been mocked for the heat dance at some point in their lives.
Alphas are known to love seeing omegas like this, but for some reason, many of them enjoy shaming us for it.
Some alphas love seeing omegas like this so much that they take pleasure in denying omegas in heat their cocks, in order to make them dance longer and harder.
In the old days, it happened a lot. Many omegas suffered, some landing in the hospital, or worse, for the entertainment of alphas.
A familiar flash of rage finds me when I think about it, this time mingled with something new: fear.
For the first time, it’s real. It applies to me.
When I think about it, what do I really know about Branson other than that he’s an alpha and Jensen’s brother?
Of course Jensen thinks he’s wonderful. He’s an omega, and Branson is his overprotective big brother.
He’s the last person on Earth who would know what Branson is like in bed, or how he treats omegas in heat.
But even as I think these things, my feet carry me back to the living room so I can be where Branson is.
I feel his eyes on me as I fill a tall glass with crushed ice. I move carefully, slow and considered, as I try to control my movements. I’m doing it, controlling it, when a rush of heat hits me.
My back arches and my hips roll in a big, slow circle.
I do my best to compose myself and keep still.
When I pluck up the courage to look at Branson, I look straight into vague caramel eyes, unfocused but fixed on me. His mouth is slightly ajar. He looks a bit like a cartoon character who’s been hit hard on the head and stunned, but hasn’t collapsed yet.
I look away quickly, picking a shard of ice out of my glass and crunching it between my teeth for something to do that doesn’t involve twerking my ass at Branson. The ice lands on my tongue and melts quickly. Heavy footsteps pad toward me. I keep my eyes down until Branson is a few yards from me.
“Do you want me to look away?” he asks quietly.
“If you want me to, I will. But, Lucy…” He puts a hand out as if he means to touch me, but thinks better of it and drops it to his side again.
Something completely ridiculous that feels like misplaced disappointment flares and drops in my belly.
“You should know that I think you’re beautiful.
I think this is beautiful, and I think you’re beautiful like this. ”
“You don’t think it’s funny?” I whisper, holding my glass in front of my lips to hide my mortification at asking the question.
“No. I don’t think it’s funny.” He turns his back to the kitchen counter and uses both hands to hoist himself onto it.
He sits on the counter, feet swinging back and forth.
“I meant what I said. You’re safe with me.
I won’t let you suffer.” I snatch a ragged, relieved breath, but before I exhale, he continues, “I’ve helped omegas through heats before.
I know what’s required of me, and I’ll make sure you get it. I’ll—”
I don’t hear the rest. I don’t need to. A fury unlike anything I’ve ever known rips through me. I glare at him, breathless from heat and the strength of emotion that what he just said lit up in me.
Branson’s helped omegas through heats before?
How many?
When?
And where the hell do they live?
He must have at least a partially functioning IQ because he quickly pieces together what’s happened and holds out a hand to placate me. “It’s okay,” he says in a tone usually reserved for wild horses and rabid dogs. “You’re feeling possessive. I get it. Believe me, I get it. I—”
I turn on my heel and stomp to my room despite every cell in my body screaming at me to stay close to him.
How dare he have helped other omegas through their heat! How fucking dare he? I mean, yes, we’d hardly spoken ten words to each other before this dastardly getaway, but what of it? He should have known the day would come when I’d need him, and he should have waited for me.
Okay.
Wait.
Hang on.
No. That’s completely insane.
I’m a mess right now, and in large part it’s out of my control, but I can’t add irrational, crazy-pants-possessive-jealousy to the list of undignified things that are going to happen on this trip. I just can’t.
I give myself a good talking-to, and then go back to the living room and sit on the sofa next to Branson as though nothing happened.
After a while, I drift off, and when I wake, the light has changed.
It’s grown dim and shadowy outside. I’m groggy and hotter than Hades, fresh out of a dream about being mercilessly railed.
I’m a little disoriented to find my hole empty.
A bit shaky from the shock of it, my ass twitching hungrily around nothing.
Waking up properly takes a while. At first, it feels like the dream is still happening. Or like I’m upset that it isn’t.
Details of the dream evaporate a little more each time I blink, and eventually, all I’m left with is a hollow ache between my legs. It’s horrible. I feel like I’ve been edged. Brought to the cusp of a shattering climax, only to be woken and find it wasn’t real.
I look around, wiping the corners of my mouth furtively as I search the living room for a big block of a man. A thin thread of panic pulls tight around my heart when I don’t see Branson immediately.
“Branson,” I whisper, determined to stay calm and keep my composure. I give him a split second to respond and then scream, “Branson!”
He comes bolting down the hall. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, waving him off as though he’s the one overreacting. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“I was in the small bedroom at the end of the hall, okay? I’ve been there the whole time. I won’t leave you.”
I flick my wrist and add a tiny, tight smile meant to leave him in no doubt whatsoever that everything is A-okay and I’m not a jabbering, needy mess.
I go to the fridge and open it to try to distract myself from what I can only describe as an indescribable urge to have something repeatedly shoved up my ass.
The thought of food is still far from appealing, but nonetheless, I search through jars and containers on the off chance something takes my fancy enough to give me something else to think about.
There’s nothing remotely tempting on the shelves, so I open the drawers one by one.
Cheese? Bleugh.
Cured meat? More bleugh.
Fruit? Ew.
Broccoli, peppers, carrots? No, no, and no.