Chapter 11
Lucien
I fist the bedding beneath me tightly. A swarm of nerves gathers in my belly, but is quickly drowned out by lust. I adjust my position, settling into it, arching deeper and spreading my legs wider as Branson breathes heavily behind me.
My spine bows to its absolute limit.
Then it bows a little more.
To say I’m in a position of total submission would be quite the understatement. Heat begins to rise again, creeping up my arms and legs. I recognize it this time. A slow, distinctive swell that I know will crash into me any minute.
“Branson,” I whimper.
“I’m here, Lucy.”
I drop onto my elbows, raising my ass a little higher in the air. “Am I ready?”
He moves closer, disturbing the heat in the room and somehow cranking it up.
He touches my hips first, holding me securely and pulling me toward him slightly.
My arms and knees stay where they are, and my ass splays open more.
A big, warm hand sweeps a broad circle around my cheeks.
Right one and then left. Tendrils of pleasure ripple through me.
Two hands are on me now. One on each cheek. The pressure is light, but my skin burns on contact. He parts my cheeks gently, as gently as one can do such a thing.
“Am I ready?” I ask again, heat rising faster and more intensely.
He rumbles softly. “You have a little gap, baby. A tiny gap. Big enough for a finger, no more.”
I clutch the quilt tighter and let out a strangled sob. It’s been so hard to get here. It’s taken everything I have. I’ve burned for days. I’ve leaked, and I’m swollen. I’m hollowed out and empty.
And I’m not ready.
On top of that, the next wave is approaching, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s stronger than the last one. Hotter too.
This is going to hurt.
I bury my face in the quilt to muffle my cries.
I know what’s going to happen. It’s well documented.
Inevitable, almost. It happens so often that it’s more common than not.
When the next heat wave strikes, Branson will put his fingers in me and stretch me roughly.
It’s going to hurt like hell, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.
I’m an omega in heat, and Branson is an alpha in a rut.
He’s acting on instinct as much as I am.
He’ll hear my wail when the wave crests, and he won’t be able to fight it.
I breathe in through my nose, tears welling as I try to relax my ass and accept the inevitable.
Something touches my hole. A forefinger.
A thumb. I can’t tell what. It circles my rim with a firm pressure that makes my mind swim.
It’s a light touch. A light sensation, but it’s enough to trigger the crash of the next wave.
Lightning crashes, a bolt of white heat finds my opening and travels up my spine at blistering speed.
I clench my teeth to drown out my cry, but Branson hears it all the same.
I shove a handful of the quilt into my mouth and brace for the sting.
It doesn’t come.
I blink in confusion. There are no fingers gouging at me. No rough stretch. No pain. Only pleasure. Only mind-altering, brain-numbing pleasure. Only something wet and warm at my opening. Something soft and persistent worming its way in and replacing every sensation in my body with bliss.
It’s a familiar feeling. Something I’ve felt before. Something smooth and wet. Slippery, yet persistent.
A tongue. His tongue.
Branson’s tongue teases my hole, flicking around my rim, alternating with long, deep strokes.
Probing. Caressing. Seducing until I sigh.
Until I relax. Until something deep in my core shifts and my muscles relax.
He doesn’t stop there, he parts my cheeks, and licks into me.
Deeply. Like he’s desperate. Like he’s dying and needs what I have to keep living.
I lose reason.
I lose time.
Pain from the unanswered heat wave mingles with the pleasure of what he’s doing with his mouth. I yield in distinct stages, ravaged by an indescribable hollow ache and a bone-deep pleasure I can’t get enough of but isn’t what my body demands.
It works though. My hole stretches and expands in ways I never imagined possible. Every time I think that’s it—I’m as open as I can be—my ass yields a little more.
When the next heat wave approaches, I don’t need to ask Branson if I’m ready. I know I am. I can feel it.
He kneels behind me, closer than he was before, the coarse hair on his legs scuffing the back of my thighs as he runs a heavy hand up and down my back. He pets me, hands heavy but gentle, soothing me as we wait for the next wave.
It churns inside me, a river of lava, rising fast, and when it hits? Oh God, it hits hard. A blinding line of fire that lights me up and makes me scream.
“Alpha,” I sob between piercing wails. “Please, Alpha. I need you. Please, please, please!”
Something hot drags up and down my sopping hole. A thick head that stuns me and renders me mindless.
Yes.
God yes.
That’s what I need.
All civilization, all conditioning, all shame, evaporate to nothing. There’s only one thing that matters anymore. One thing I need: Branson’s hard alpha cock.
He taps his head against my opening, and I keen to encourage him. He stills, pausing until I look back at him over my shoulder in confused desperation.
His eyes are glowing, brows drawn low. His lips pull in a grimace that shows a flash of white teeth. He’s panting, chest heaving, and abs clenching. He’s primed, but waiting.
What’s he waiting for?
I’m frantic, my heart racing, my body screaming, as the new wave turns me to ash.
I crane my head frantically to see what’s holding things up.
Our eyes meet. Burnt amber, cool blue. Alpha and omega.
The first and the last letters of the Greek alphabet.
The beginning and the end. There’s a symmetry in the moment.
A finality. An inevitability. We’re both here by a twist of fate.
Both products of our biology. Both outside of ourselves right now, but still, deep down, we’re two human beings baring our souls to each other.
Shadows ripple in Branson’s eyes, and I see it—I see what he needs.
“Branson,” I say. “I want you.”
That does it.
His eyes flutter shut, head tilting back to expose the sinews in his throat as he breaches me with an almighty thrust.
My body gives way, burning like everything I’ve ever wanted from life, everything I’ve ever needed, and things I didn’t know I wanted or needed.
The stretch is intense, but I’m ready for it.
I’m made for it. It hurts, but not in a bad way.
A necessary way that extinguishes everything that isn’t his body or mine. His body in mine.
He slides his dick into me smoothly, slippery from the copious amount of slick I’m producing. He pauses and tells me to breathe once or twice, but mainly, mainly, he keeps thrusting his massive cock deeper and deeper into me.
It’s a storm of sensation. Sensitive, oversensitive.
Too much, not enough. A deep stretch. Nerve endings singing.
It’s all those things, but mostly, it’s a relief.
It’s a dizzying, bone-melting relief. It’s the heat that’s ravaged me for days, finally quelled by the ridge of his swollen head grazing my insides.
It’s the burn that was a bad thing before changing into something beautiful.
Something that’s hot in a totally different way.
My joints are locked. I don’t move a muscle as Branson continues to thrust. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I’m completely open for him, completely spread, completely splayed, and the only thing I want in this world is Branson’s dick deeper inside me.
I don’t move, and I don’t try to. All I do is blink, and when he tells me to do so, I breathe in and exhale. I stay like that, breathing and still, until something deep, deep inside me cramps, and I feel the cool weight of Branson’s balls slapping against mine.
My head spins.
I did it. Holy shit. I did it.
Branson is inside me. I took him. I took all of him.
Full isn’t the word. Though trust me, I’m full and then some. I feel every inch of him. Every ridge. Every vein. I feel him in the muscle pulled tight around him, and I feel him in the strain as my insides stretch to accommodate him.
I feel him in my guts. In my bones.
In my throat. In my mouth. In my mind.
I pant frantically, as relief, pleasure, and the last remnants of pain dart from my ass to my dick and balls.
“Good boy,” says a deep voice I feel under my skin. A slow vibration that skips over the knobs of my spine.
I mewl pathetically in response.
He pulls back slowly, and I’m so gone that I’ve forgotten he needs to thrust in and out to be effective. The deepest, most inner part of me, of my biology, can’t stand the thought of him retreating, even if it’s only so he can gather momentum to fuck into me again. “No, no, nooooo!”
Lucky for me, the most inner part of Branson knows how to fuck. It knows how to thrust. He was built for it. Made for it, the way I was made to take it.
He pulls out until only his head is buried inside me, soothing me with soft, comforting sounds, and thrusts in.
It’s a blinding thrust. An overwhelming, devastating thrust that activates pleasure centers all over my body.
My asshole quivers, sending gentle ripples that pulse up and down Branson’s length, testing his girth and length and finding them perfect.
Perfectly thick. Perfectly long.
Exactly what I need. Exactly what I’ve craved for days.
I erupt without warning.
My orgasm slams into me violently. It’s nowhere one second, and then it’s all I know.
It’s all that exists. It overwhelms me completely, riding the heat wave and amplifying it to something that defies comprehension.
Something not of this world. Not of this place.
Not of this body. Fuel poured onto an open flame. Pleasure on top of pleasure.
I shatter and quiver under the force of it, opening my mouth and shouting my release until my voice cracks.
Branson slows, seemingly unsurprised by how suddenly, or how hard, I’m erupting. He waits until the third or fourth surge of ecstasy has died down before starting to fuck me in earnest.
As soon as it happens, I recognize it. The rhythm. The pace. It’s ancient, a primal beat my body was made for. I accept what he’s giving me with gratitude. With appreciation. With no fear or concern whatsoever.
He holds my hips in place, his grip firm and inescapable, and fucks me thoroughly.
Every thrust is deep. Purposeful and true.
I alternate from near empty to as full as a man can possibly be at blistering speed.
His pace is perfection, predictable enough that soon, I don’t mourn the slow, punishing drag of him retreating.
I relish it because I know it will be followed by a mind-blowing rush of sensation.
For all his strength and power, he’s true to his word. He’s gentle with me. Considerate and careful. He doesn’t slam into me. He holds back, waiting until I push my ass back impatiently before fucking me harder.
I expect to become oversensitive after my orgasm because that’s what usually happens, but this is different.
I’m different. Flames lap at my skin and heat swims through my veins.
I don’t have an off switch anymore. There’s no such thing as too much.
There’s only my body and Branson’s, and the sounds we’re making together.
He fucks me until my arms and legs give way, and the only thing holding me up are his hands on my hips.
He bears my weight easily, pushing me away and dragging me down on his pole.
Sliding my hole up and down his cock like it’s a sleeve.
A hand. A toy made for him. He fucks my ass vigorously as I gurgle euphorically and beg for more.
Despite my orgasm, and despite the fact that I’m full of alpha cock, and being expertly fucked, I want something. Something more. I need something more.
My entire body breaks into goosebumps two seconds before I receive it, almost as though I was primed, ready and waiting for it.
Branson stops moving, stops panting, stops everything.
He grunts loudly as his dick swells and pulses inside me.
His fingers dig into my hips and he thrusts once more. Deeply. As deep as he can.
Then he shoots.
The bottom half of my body turns to hot, molten liquid as he sprays rope after rope of semen inside me.
My body recognizes it on a cellular level.
That’s it. That’s what I want. That’s what I need.
His seed paints my insides and my body reacts.
A chain reaction. A chemical process. A series of events caused by the last one.
His orgasm triggers mine. It’s like the one I had before, devastating, earth-shattering. Except, it’s harder and stronger.
My thoughts fade and my mind goes blank. All that’s left is an infinite pleasure that rips through me like wildfire.
A long time later, a lifetime, maybe, I open my eyes and find that I’m alone in my body, on my back in my cozy nest, staring mindlessly at the ceiling. The lines of the beams above me swim and blur. Coming into focus and moving out of it again.
Branson lies beside me, a hot, solid slab of muscle. Of maleness. Of strength and power. He has one arm tucked under the back of his head. His free hand is between my legs, fingers moving lazily as he gently rubs his seed into my opening, pushing it back inside me when it spills out.