Chapter 9
Branson
I arrange a pile of pillows against the wall, settle onto the mattress, and lean back.
Lucien kneels beside me, hesitant but needing closeness badly enough that he’s prepared to accept it.
I scoop him up, folding him into a little ball, and pull him onto my lap.
He comes easily, body pliant, skin intoxicatingly warm.
I hold him like that for a few minutes to let him get accustomed to my touch.
I look down at him, and the sight takes my breath away.
He’s in my arms. Lucien is in my arms. Eyes closed, lashes long and dark.
Much darker than the hair on his head. His brows are too.
Two perfect arches that frame his face beatifically.
I wait until he whimpers again before moving him, scooting him up and guiding his face to the base of my neck. He instinctively nuzzles closer, sighing softly between gulpy gasps of breath.
His lips flutter against my skin.
My chest expands, rib cage quaking from the effort it takes to suppress the growl that forms inside me. The primal part of me rears up, struggling, fighting for freedom, but it’s too soon. Lucien’s heat is close, but it isn’t here yet.
After a few deep breaths, the threat passes, and I do what I said I would: I pet the little omega in my arms.
I start with a hand on his head, carding my fingers through his hair, letting the tips lightly graze his scalp.
I use slow, steady movements to calm him.
He clings to me as I do it, scenting me so frantically that if this happened when his hormones weren’t going haywire, he’d be at serious risk of hyperventilating.
I work my hand down the back of his neck, digging my fingers into muscle and gently easing the tension I find there.
After a few minutes, he relaxes in my arms. He keeps one arm curled around my neck, but the other drops limply into his lap.
He leans against me with his full body weight, and it’s perfect.
Light enough that I could toss him around if I wanted, dense enough that I have something solid to hold on to.
I use my left arm to cradle him, and my free hand to stroke his back. I start at his shoulders and slowly track down his spine. His skin breaks into goosebumps at the merest hint of my touch.
He’s responsive. To me. To my hands on his body. To my scent.
The rampant, wild part of me turns inside out with gratification.
Every time I touch him, he relaxes a little more, until at last, all signs of tension have left him and he’s a soft, sleepy boy. A sweet boy who feels safe with me. He moans softly, not from how I’m touching him, but from the comfort, the rightness, of being close to me.
I love it more than I can ever remember loving anything.
The hand that was resting in his lap comes to life again, tracing the outlines of the ink on my arms and chest.
I lower my voice and hum softly. “Sleep, Lucien,” I say when I’m positive he’s as compliant as I’m going to get him.
He wakes, groggy and groaning with need, humping my leg and whimpering when his dick touches me.
“Branson,” he says, eyes still closed, “I’m ready.”
“No, Lucy.” I stroke his cheek to encourage him to open his eyes. Sky blue flits open, rolling once or twice before landing on me. His face is flushed, cheeks bright with heat, his pupils enormous dark orbs. “Not yet.”
He’s close, but from his scent, I’d say he’s four or five hours from the first wave.
“How do you know?” He pouts, his fleshy little bottom lip protruding so much that a trace of saliva makes it glint. It wants to be bitten, that lip. Needs to be bitten. Craves it. I can tell.
“I can smell it.” It’s true. I can smell it.
The rich, ripe scent of heat clings to him, singeing my nostrils and twisting my balls.
It’s everywhere, his scent. It’s thick and hot.
Sexier than anything I’ve ever smelled. There’s a whiff of his normal scent left though.
A subtle, sweet, clean-skin smell. Fruit that’s soft but not spilling juice yet.
Bone marrow that’s hot but not sizzling.
It’s that, and the fact he isn’t thrashing or screaming to be fucked yet, that tells me he isn’t ready yet.
“You know what they say: you’ll know when it hits you. ”
His bottom lip juts out a little more and his hips squirm. “I think it has hit me though. I do. I think it happened about five minutes ago, before you woke up.”
“Uh-uh, not yet.” I smile to soften the blow.
He slaps my chest weakly but gets distracted and starts groping my pec. It engrosses him momentarily, but not enough to dissuade him from his quest. “Why don’t we just…you know…anyway? Just once.”
He balls his fingers into a fist, leaving only his forefinger straight. He points it at me, close to my face, and gets distracted again, placing his finger over my lips and pulling the bottom one down slightly to give him a glimpse of teeth.
I stroke his cheek and wait for him to look up at me.
A bolt of cerulean blitzes my brain and renders me momentarily unable to remember his question as I watch his hand slither down my chest, surreptitiously working its way down my torso.
I catch it when it reaches my waistband and hold it tightly against my heart.
“Because, Lucy,” I remind him, “every pounding you take is a pounding you’ll have to recover from.”
His pretty face contorts into a scowl. Eyes narrowing in disdain. “I don’t care.”
“You might not care now, but you will later.”
“I won’t,” he grumbles as I pull him up and lead him to the living room. “You’ll see. I’ll be the omega who won’t care about that.”
“Let’s get you a few sips of coffee and a glass of electrolytes.”
His arms are stiff at his sides, nose pointed a little higher in the air than usual. “I don’t like electrolytes.”
Unsurprising.
“I know you don’t, but there’ll be no passing out from dehydration during this heat. Not on my watch.”
His top lip flares and he shakes his head as if I’m an idiot. “If I were you,” he mutters, “I’d be more worried about you dehydrating than me.”
I chuckle, mixing a packet into a glass of water for myself as well. “Don’t worry. I’m plenty worried about that.”
I toss the drink back in a few gulps and put the glass down on the counter.
“Yucky, right?” he asks, giving me a smug look.
“Delicious,” I correct. “What was your first heat like?” I ask the question in part to take his mind off the taste of the electrolytes, and in part because first heats, though usually much milder than subsequent heats, are a good indication of what to expect from future heats.
“Umm,” he says, dragging the word out and looking away. “I didn’t have a first heat.”
I stare at him, gaping, and quickly correct.
First heats usually occur at twenty. Medically, it’s highly advisable for omegas to go into heat before starting a suppressant.
It regulates their systems, among a slew of other health benefits.
Not only that, failing to have a first heat is known to cause much more severe heats in the future.
Lucien is twenty-six. That means he’s six years overdue for his heat. Six years!
He crosses his arms, presses his lips together, and raises his chin defiantly, challenging me to point it out to him.
I decide not to.
Instead, I change the subject. “So, I guess we should talk about what your expectations are for the next few days. Hard yeses and nos. Dos and don’ts, that kind of thing.” He looks at me blankly, so I continue, “You know, things you want and thi—”
“Cock,” he says earnestly. His eyes are big, pupils impossibly dilated, his lips swollen and dark pink. I swallow the giggle that threatens. Before I can correct him, he amends, blinking and smiling like a schoolboy who is sure he knows the answer to the question a teacher is asking. “Alpha cock.”
“Okay.” I bite my cheek. “Maybe we should have had this discussion yesterday.” He looks mildly confused, so I explain, “I meant, do you like it hard or gentle? Do you like being held down and dominated, or do you like taking control? Dirty talk, no dirty talk? That kind of thing.”
“Ah.” Lucien nods slowly, eyes darkening, as he runs a finger over his bottom lip absently. “Those things…yes. I like them.”
His gaze wanders to a spot to the left of my head and a smile creeps up his face.
I wonder if he’s seeing flashes of us together.
Fucking hard. Fucking slowly. My hands on his wrists, holding him down as I drive my dick into him.
Him on top of me, mouth open, head thrown back.
Images flash before my eyes like a movie.
A movie with a pornographic soundtrack. A soundtrack made up only of the sound of Lucien moaning and groaning as my knot cleaves him open.
No, that’s me. I’m the one seeing things.
Shit. I have it almost as bad as he does.
“Just one thing,” he adds, like an afterthought, “no biting. No mating mark.”
“What? No. Definitely not,” I say quickly. “Absolutely not. No mating mark.”
A mating mark is administered by an alpha biting an omega’s scent gland during heat.
It forms a permanent spiritual, emotional, and physical link between an alpha and an omega.
It’s the most serious commitment two people can make to each other.
Nothing and no one—with the exception of death—has the power to undo it.
I think my response was a bit strong because Lucien looks away, embarrassed about having brought it up. It’s the last thing I want. I want him to feel like he can talk to me about anything. “But you’re right, thank you for bringing it up. It’s exactly the kind of thing we need to talk about.”
His embarrassment fades, and he looks relieved. “And no mocking me,” he adds. “And no denying me.” He gains confidence with each additional statement. “And…and, you know what, how ’bout you just do whatever I tell you to do when I tell you to do it? That’ll probably work best.”
Ordinarily, I’m an alpha guy through and through—and in more than designation alone.
I have my shit together. It’s not posturing or big-headedness either.
It’s simply a product of my personality as well as my biology.
I’m strong and a leader. A leader who knows who he is and what he’s prepared to put up with. A leader no one tells what to do.
Incredibly, the truth is, I have it so bad for Lucien that I’d probably give him whatever he wants, heat or no heat.
I manage to stop myself from telling him so. Just. Almost. “All you have to do is ask, and it’s yours.”
He nods and hums, hips wriggling as he keeps his feet rooted on the spot.
When he’s finished his drink, he puts his glass in the dishwasher.
As he bends over, I see a distinctive wet spot on his underwear.
His boxer briefs are marle gray. A light, heather color with a clear dark spot where his asshole is.
Lust roars through my veins. My heart slams in my chest. Arousal rears up, ripping through my cells and blowing them out. Blood rushes downward, engorging my already erect cock. Turning it into a battering ram. Angering it. Making it hot.
My vision doubles and then tunnels. The rest of the room blurs, and the only thing that remains in focus is the omega I want.
Rough, rampant instinct takes me over.
I know myself well enough to know what has just happened: I’ve gone from man to beast.
“Lucien.” It’s my voice, but not my voice. It’s raw and stripped bare. It comes from low down in my belly. So low, only an alpha can produce it. “I am affected.”
He looks up, eyes widening, as he takes a step away from me.
“Go to the bedroom.” I speak quickly while I still can. Walls and floors vibrate as my voice travels through the space between us. “Close the door and lock it. Do it now. Don’t open it until you’re ready.”
He takes a few more steps back, pinching the tips of his fingers together near the base of his throat. His eyes are stretched wide. He looks concerned, but also visibly intrigued.
“Should I run?” he whispers. I answer with a growl that rattles the windows. “I think I’m going to run.”
I hold on to the counter and look down, trying not to watch him go for as long as humanly possible.
I’m too far gone though. Conscious thought drifts, animal instinct takes over.
Alpha instinct. The instinct to chase. The instinct to fuck.
I want Lucien so much on a good day that on a day like this—when he smells like sex and his ass is leaking for me—there aren’t words for this kind of want.
Muscle bulges, biceps and pecs pleating deeply, as I will myself to keep looking down.
I lose the battle before long and let my gaze travel down the hall. I see the shape of Lucien, clad in nothing but stained boxer briefs, as he streaks down the hall. His legs are moving so fast that he’s little more than a blur of platinum-blond hair and pale skin.
So much skin.
Such hot, soft, pliable skin that the predator in me wakes from a deep, dreamless slumber.
Stalk him, it commands.
Chase him
Catch him
Fuck him
Fuck him
Fuck him!
I hold back for as long as humanly possible.
Then I vault over the kitchen island and give chase.