Chapter 19 #2
All I feel is savagely aroused.
I stumble out of the bathroom, a towel around my waist and a heavy cloak of shame around my shoulders, and all but collide with Branson.
“Oh,” I say, displeased. “You’re still here.”
He looks like he’s been to hell and back. His hair is a mess and his chest is heaving. His fists are balled at his sides and a massive erection is tenting his pants. The mark on my neck and the brand on my chest both spasm when I see him.
It’s not so much that I decide to go to him. It’s more that, between the mark, the bond, and my dick, the decision is made for me. I close the space between us in three or four wobbly strides and throw my arms around his neck.
The bond hums on contact, a deep, warm vibration that swims through my veins and lulls me into a different state of mind.
A state of mind that whispers that I’m where I belong.
That I belong in Branson’s arms, and he belongs in mine.
That I’m right where I need to be. Where I’ve always needed to be.
For his part, Branson appears stunned by the events of the morning. He blinks slowly, not bothering to close his half-open mouth.
“Please let me help you,” he slurs. “Please, Lucy, let me lick you. Please. It’ll make you feel better. I know it will.”
I honestly can’t tell if it’s a remnant of my heat, a side effect of being bitten, or if Branson is simply the sexiest man in existence and thus impossible to resist. Either way, I drop my towel and turn my back on him.
He whimpers at the sight of me. Him, Branson. A big, hard man. A strong, rugged alpha whimpers because I’m naked for him.
Big hands drag down my body, down my back, down my hips, as Branson sinks to his knees behind me. He parts my ass cheeks gently, more gently than I thought an alpha with an old-fashioned face could do such a thing.
He hisses when he sees me. I flinch in embarrassment, my neck and ears heating when I think of what I look like back there. I reach back quickly with both hands and try to cover myself, but he catches my wrists and holds them firmly at my sides.
I crane my neck to look at him, expecting to see a smug smirk, or worse, a trace of disgust. Jokes about ruined holes are something all omegas have been subjected to at some point in their lives.
It’s something that’s been used to shame us for eons, and though things have gotten much better in recent years, the generational trauma done to my kind persists.
To my surprise, I see Branson sitting back on his heels, head lolling to the side, mouth open wider than it was before. His eyes are fucked up. His pupils are big and black.
“You look as drunk as a skunk,” I tell him.
“Ung feel ash drunk ash a shunk,” he replies.
Despite myself, I laugh, and he does too, though I’m not sure what he’s laughing at.
He raises an unsteady hand and points directly at my asshole. “Ffeautiful omega,” he slurs.
He looks completely ridiculous. He’s looking at my hole and cooing, making silly sounds like the ones you usually make when you see a puppy or kitten, or something you love.
A strange thought takes hold, and I speak before I have time to dissect it. “Do you like how it looks?”
His head sways from side to side, then up and down, and he shrugs one of his shoulders. He looks up at me, and his expression changes from inebriated to animal. Intoxicated to absolute alpha. His nostrils flare and his eyes darken.
He raises a hand and gently—so, so gently—runs a single fingertip over my hole. It’s a decadent caress. A soft, sweet storm of sensation.
“I like knowing”—his tongue curls seductively around his words—“that it was my knot that did this to you.”
I crumple, doubling over and bracing myself with my hands and elbows on the bed, as Branson flicks a soft, wet tongue directly over my opening.
I cry out, and he soothes me with a long, thick stripe that lights up the underside of my overfull balls, my taint, and my hole.
He doesn’t rush. He simply laves every sensitive part of me until my legs are unable to hold me up.
Saliva and venom sink into my skin, into the sore parts of me. I’m such a mess, and I’m so fucking susceptible to suggestion that I swear to God, I actually think what he’s doing to me might be making my ass feel better.
“Do you want me to make you come?” asks Branson, punctuating the question with a series of short, quick flicks that make me moan loudly.
“Gguck,” I say, nodding my head furiously and clawing at the bedsheets.
Fortunately, Branson understands that in whatever primitive language I’ve devolved into, what I’ve just said means fuck yes.
He reaches around and takes my dick in his hand.
He doesn’t stroke as much as he holds me.
He holds me in a way that makes me feel completely contained.
Completely enveloped. He keeps licking my ass, rimming the sense clean out of me, as my hips thrust frantically.
It feels unreal. A perfect balance of pleasure in my dick and my ass.
A flawless cocktail of bliss. An endless circle of euphoria that lights a bright-gold sphere.
I see it in my mind, and I feel it in my chest, around my heart.
It pulses twice, three times, and then unholy heaven breaks loose.
I come violently. Thrashing. Thrusting. Clenching my hole uncontrollably. The world goes black for a beat and then bursts into electric streaks of violet and gold.
Branson keeps rimming me until I’ve come down and rocketed into the ether twice more.
When I’m done, when my balls are drained and I can’t take any more stimulation, I crawl onto the bed and slump onto my back. Branson follows me, caging me with his arms and his body, and I let him because the fiery brand on my chest fucking loves it when he’s close to me.
It’s not humming now. It’s singing an old song. Tribal and strangely familiar. A song that sounds like his heartbeat and mine set to music.
It’s rhythmic. Gentle and soothing.
A lullaby.
A love song.
Branson nudges my legs open and moves most of his weight to his hips. He gently lowers his chest onto mine.
The bond pulses with joy and the song explodes into a crescendo.
I gurgle happily, and I’m not the only one. Branson does too.
He looks so happy and pleased with himself that I can’t stand it. “It didn’t work,” I tell him. “The venom, or whatever. It didn’t work.”
As I say it, there’s a pale, wispy flash of white between us. A hazy orb that’s a bit like when you look at the filament of an Edison light and then close your eyes.
Branson smiles, though I can tell he’s trying not to. “White for a white lie,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean?” I cry, though I have a horrible, sinking feeling I know exactly what he’s referring to.
“Didn’t you see it? The flash of white?”
Despite myself, I nod. “W-was that the bond?”
“Yeah. White for a lie,” he says again.
“Oh shit. Does that mean I can’t lie to you?”
“You can lie to me, Lucy.” He bites back a smile and dips his head, rubbing the tip of his nose against mine. “But I’ll know if you do.”
I honestly can’t say why I find that endearing, but I do. I don’t know if it’s because he’s on top of me and I’m on my back, or if it’s because he has a little glimpse into the inner workings of my mind, and no one else has ever really had that before.
Branson dips his head again, and this time, I tilt my head the way a man who was offering his lips for a kiss would.
Branson doesn’t take me up on the invitation, turning his face instead until his lips are all but touching my ear. “Let me heal your neck, little omega. Please. It pains me to know you’re hurting.”
My head falls back of its own volition, my neck stretching and arching off the pillow in an involuntary willingness to comply.
I expect Branson to attack my neck with the same fervor he attacked my ass, but he doesn’t. He combs his fingers through my hair, brushing it carefully off my face. Smoothing it down tenderly.
“You’re so pretty, Lucy,” he murmurs, looking deep into my eyes. “So beautiful.”
His gaze drops to my neck, thick lashes painting shadows onto his cheeks as he looks down.
He licks his lips, leaving them glossy and wet.
“You’re the most beautiful omega I’ve ever seen, and…
” He leans down and runs his tongue up from my clavicle, following a jagged line only he can see.
His tongue moves slowly, a hot, delicious burn that soothes and sets me on fire.
It’s a different kind of fire. A new way of burning.
It finds me gradually and singes me gently.
He circles the mark with the tip of his tongue, and the second he does it, I’m doused in pleasure.
Drowning in it. It’s as intense as an orgasm, but there’s no price to pay for it.
Not struggle to get there. No pressure. No panic.
No wave, no crest. Only complete and utter pleasure. “You’re mine.”
He licks me again and says it again. “You’re mine. You’re mine. Mine.”
Each time he says it, the emphasis changes and the growl in his chest echoes through me. Through the bond. Through the mark. Through parts of me that were hollow before.
He licks the mark over and over, and each time the result is the same. Total pleasure. Complete, perfect pleasure. The most pleasure a person can feel, without an end. I bathe in it. Swim in it. Tread water and try to keep my head above it. None of it lessens the sensation.
Branson licks the mark until it feels like mine. Like part of me. “My pretty boy. My beautiful mate,” he growls. “I’m going to make you the happiest omega on the planet.”
By the time he finally stops licking me, I’m incoherent, and thank God for that. For if not, he’d surely be able to piece together the inexplicable things I’m trying to say.
Maybe you’re right. Maybe it won’t be that bad.