Chapter 26
Lucien
We’ve been home for almost a week. We’ve done laundry, gone grocery shopping, and cooked meals together.
We’re both working from home, obviously.
Going into the office and being apart for hours at a time would be tantamount to torture at this point in our relationship.
Branson owns his own company—a sustainable company that makes outdoor gear—so he can set his own hours, which is handy.
Fortunately, my manager Sadie is great about this kind of thing, and she’s gone out of her way to accommodate me.
It’s been a surprisingly peaceful week, despite how much has changed in my life.
Branson and I have found an easy rhythm.
A give-and-take I wasn’t expecting. Or at least, I wasn’t expecting this soon.
I thought I’d find it hard to have someone in my space all the time, but it isn’t.
It’s comforting. I thought I’d need time alone to recharge, but Branson’s presence is so steady, so calming, that I don’t feel overstimulated by it. And I don’t have the need to recharge.
We’ve done everything together this week. We’ve slept in the same bed. We’ve sat next to each other on the sofa. We’ve eaten meals together, watched TV, and talked into the night.
The only thing we haven’t done is the thing I’ve started to crave.
The ache arrived stealthily. A gentle tap at the door rather than a loud thud.
It’s very different from the way my arousal approached when I was going into heat.
This time, it’s slithered under my skin, humming softly rather than yelling and shaking me.
It started as something that made me long to be close to Branson.
Physically close, not just sexually. It was something that made me want to hear his voice and see him smile.
Something sweet.
Something warm.
That time is over. There’s nothing sweet or warm about it anymore. It’s piping hot now. A thick knot of arousal I feel when I walk. When I sit. When I stand. I feel it every time I move. Every time. Everywhere.
It’s a rough, agitating itch. A permanent pang I can’t ignore.
It’s not that I want to ignore it as such.
It’s that I know that the next time we have sex will be different.
It will be in a sober state of mind. Our body temperatures will be the same.
I’ll be completely present and so will he.
I won’t be burning, and I’ll remember everything about it. For now.
And forever.
In the past, with previous partners, I never really found it all that difficult to ask for what I wanted in bed. But then again, in the past, I never really found myself wanting something out of the ordinary.
What I want now feels distinctly out of the ordinary. It’s hard to explain, even to myself. The mere thought of it has me trembling inside, my hole growing slick and my dick turning to steel. I’ve wrestled with it this way and that, to try to understand how and why this desire has solidified in me.
I’m honestly not sure how to explain it, other than to say: I want what I want. My mind and my body long for it. Require it, even. A seed was planted during my heat, and it’s taken root. There’s something about what I want and how I want it that simply hits right. Feels right.
The thought of saying it aloud wakes a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my belly though. It makes me unbearably nervous, even though I know it’s something lots of omegas want. I feel a little frisson of shame when I think about it for too long. A little humiliation that makes my face hot.
At the same time, the gentle thrum of desire won’t leave me.
It’s been a long day of trying not to say the words that are echoing through me. A long afternoon. An even longer evening. I’m tired and worn down.
Our innocent bedtime routine has become a form of torment. Brushing my teeth while Branson brushes his next to me is a minefield now. A buffet of possibilities that I’m not sure I can trust myself to be around without blurting out what I want and making a massive fool of myself.
I can’t take my eyes off Branson anymore. I’ve tried, and I can’t. He’s larger than life and twice as attractive. Feeling his gaze on my back as I shower, and being unable to peel mine off him, has become excruciating.
He’s under the spout now. Naked everywhere. His hands are in his hair, fingers parted as he cards them through his wet locks. Water spills down his shoulders, forming rapids as it courses over bunched muscle. Thick muscle. Hot, sexy alpha muscle.
God, Branson’s attractive. And he’s only getting hotter the more I’m around him.
I’ve been around him for days. Days, and days, and days.
I have a towel around my waist, and I’m standing with my back against the wall as he rinses the shampoo from his hair. I’ve already showered, so my hair is wet too. My body is warm, skin scuffed and sensitized from drying myself.
I’m clean, and I smell good.
I feel good too.
I feel like I exist for one thing. One person.
“You okay, Lucy?” asks Branson from behind a froth of soap bubbles.
“Mm-hmm,” I reply, not trusting myself to say more.
He gets out of the shower after what feels like an hour, but is probably only a few minutes, and takes the towel I hand him with a murmur of thanks.
Instead of wrapping it around himself like a merciful man, he takes it in both hands, drops his head into it, and rubs his hair roughly.
His abs tense from the motion, and his dick sways heavily from side to side.
A pool of saliva forms under my tongue.
When he emerges from under the towel, his hair is standing in every direction. He takes a half-step toward me and shakes his head playfully. Tiny droplets of water fly into the air and land on my face, and honestly, I never realized just how attractive this kind of tomfoolery could be.
But I do now.
A fresh wave of want washes over me. Thick and hot. Hefty enough to suffocate the last of my restraint.
I watch quietly as he dries himself. I’m going to do it. I can tell. I can tell, and I don’t mind anymore. I want my mate to know what I want.
My heart pounds like a drum, but my mind is calm from the peace that comes with being made up. I wait until Branson is dry. Until he moves toward the sink.
Then I intercept him.
I step in front of him, standing directly in front of the sink with my back to him. He pauses, brow quirking as though he doesn’t understand what’s happening.
I catch his eye in the mirror and the bond sizzles.
I hold his gaze, not looking away as he searches the rest of my face for an inkling, a clue to what I’m doing. When his eyes find mine again, I untuck the towel from my waist and let it drop to the floor.
There’s a sharp intake of breath. His.
A slow, satisfied exhale. Mine.
I take a second, and another, to collect myself. To consider whether I can do this. Whether I can say the words that are dancing over my lips and tongue.
In the mirror, a pair of amber eyes glow and tell me that I can.
I arch my back purposefully, curving my spine and spreading my legs. It draws another quick gasp from my mate, and I look down demurely. “I’m fit for use, alpha,” I say, voice that of a stranger, and also, that of my truest, deepest self.
“L-lucy,” he splutters. “No! No, I’d never do that. I’d never use yo—”
His eyes meet mine again, and he blinks.
His jaw drops slightly. His lips form an O, and then press together.
He takes my jaw in his hand and tilts my face upward, so he has an unobstructed view of it in the mirror.
I let him see what I want. Who I am. Who I want to be for him.
There’s a shift in the mood in the room.
A slow drag followed by a simmering realization.
“Unless…” His lips form the words with care. “Unless it’s what my omega wants.”
The way he says my omega makes my spinal cord quake.
“It is,” I squeak, knees starting to knock.
It’s hard to explain why I want this. It certainly isn’t something I was consciously aware of wanting before Branson and I were mated.
At the same time, there’s something strangely familiar about the notion, something I know from somewhere deep inside myself.
From a time long ago. Something that’s been swimming under the surface since the beginning of me.
Something that’s only recently begun to feel safe to come up for air.
Fortunately, my alpha doesn’t need a long-winded explanation.
It’s enough for him that it’s what I want.
He moves like lightning, kicking the towel at my feet out of the way and tossing his own to the side.
He takes me by the back of the neck, fingers carding through the hair he finds there before clenching into a fist.
My scalp stings.
My dick jerks hard.
My hole throbs.
My heart races unbridled.
Branson’s expression is impassive, almost serene, as he reaches down and manhandles me.
He parts my cheeks a little more roughly than strictly required.
It makes a hot little squirt of slick slip out of me.
He smiles down at the mess I’m making, scooping it up in his fingers and bringing it to his face to inhale.
It’s a lewd gesture that shocks me and turns me on in equal measure.
“Mine,” he growls.
He pushes me forward and pulls my cheeks apart again, this time stepping back and tilting his head to the side to get a really, really good look at my hole. My cheeks burn in shame or arousal, I can’t tell which. I only know that I don’t move a muscle.
This is exactly, precisely what I want.
He examines me this way and that, checking my opening for signs of damage. He finds none. I knew he wouldn’t. I meant what I said. I’m fit for use. Ready for it. Gagging for it. Still, Branson is nothing if not thorough.
He fingers my rim methodically, pressing the pad of his fingers gently against my opening and pulling my cheeks open a little more. To say I feel observed is an understatement. I’m laid bare. Naked. Pried open.