Chapter 33
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
MYLO
Twenty-four hours later
Christine pins me to a brick alley wall around the corner from the studio, where the afternoon sun casts us in inky shadow.
Her tongue slides down my throat, and I moan as relief floods my body. I need her grip bruising my arms, her weight against my chest, her touch on my cock.
Her sea salt taste sends me aching with thirst, and I’d sooner drink the whole ocean than have my fill of her.
When I tremble on the edge, she flips me around and presses my cheek against the rough brick, sliding her hand down my shorts and freeing my cock.
She strokes with one hand and slides her fingers into my mouth with the other, sucking at the base of my neck and sending me pouring onto the gravel.
She grinds against my ass, and I think I hear her cum just from that.
Then she’s gone.
Dazed and drained, I yank my shorts back into place and lean against the wall. With shaking hands, I take a hit from my vape—which had been my cover story to get out here to hide the throbbing bulge that showed too easily through my thin shorts.
Three and a half more days. A little over seventy-two hours. Then I can be on a plane, breathing blessedly filtered air, recovering what’s left of my dignity.
I will not be going to a heat center because I will not be going into heat. I’ll find a doctor in LA who’s willing to prescribe a higher suppressant dose; you can find a doctor in LA willing to prescribe anything. Then I’ll go camp out in Joshua Tree until I have myself under control.
I remain confident in my restraint through the rest of that day and a normal night of sleep.
As I arrive at the sound stage the next day, my confidence wobbles. Then crumbles. I barely make it through lunch, and I spend that break on my knees in Christine’s dressing room, eating her out and making a growing puddle on the towel thrown down just in time.
Fuck, she tastes incredible. I don’t know whether it’s her arousal or my drool that adds more to the fluids pooling on the leather and overflowing onto the towel.
We clean up in the nick of time, and I swear to myself (again) that I won’t make a habit of sneaking into Christine’s dressing room.
The next morning, all it takes is a look: eyes meeting on opposite sides of the breakfast buffet.
My body flares with need, and she can tell.
I follow her outside, and she pushes me to the back of the van I just arrived in, fucking me against the rough carpet until my exhausted cock can’t even twitch.
Christine saunters back into the warehouse, and it takes me a good five minutes before I can even move again. I make it inside just in time to avoid a reprimand from Gabriel, then have a pretty good day. Now that every whiff of Christine doesn’t set me off, I can actually enjoy myself.
Until dinner. I have to keep swallowing to stop my drool from overflowing, and it’s not because of the roasted turkey.
As I flee craft services, I don’t make it to Christine’s dressing room; I duck to the back side of a set, between the scaffolding that holds up the sculpted interior of Electra’s space plane and the metal warehouse wall.
I can only lean against a steel I-beam, begging the metal to wick the heat from my skin as I tremble and whimper, cock fighting with my shorts.
She finds me swiftly—drawn by my desperate scent, no doubt—and hoists me against the wall, slinging my legs over her shoulders to hold me at the height of her mouth as she swallows my length.
To steady myself, I tangle my hands in her hair, that platinum silk, and her overlong ears brush against my fingers as they swivel.
It scares me, those little ways she shifts: her ears, lengthened like a cat’s, angling toward my moans; her pupils tightening to slits, widening when she sights me; her nails turning to claws, sharp and long, with impossible strength.
Terrifying, but fuck, it turns me on.
Especially when her tongue stretches longer, teasing my ass.
I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my whimpering. Her lips stay planted at my base as her tongue drags along the underside of my shaft, around my balls, and over my perineum, the tip pressing through my rim.
Fuck, does this woman ever breathe?
She swallows around me, and the tight ripple of her muscles down my length pulls me into the first of many peaks. Her tongue presses deeper, stretching me, and fuck it feels amazing.
Climax after climax, she works her way further in. Every time I glance down, I meet those brutal azure eyes, predatory and ravenous as she devours me.
This is the furthest she’s stretched me so far, and I know why:
She’s getting me ready for her knot.
The mere thought sends me tipping into my hardest climax yet, and my whole body twitches as I finish draining down her throat.
When my cock finally softens, Christine retracts her tongue, twisting it around my oversensitive shaft and sending me trembling before licking her lips with satisfaction.
She pulls my waistband over my hips as my weary legs struggle to coordinate enough to hold my weight. I lean heavily against the I-beam again.
Christine just smirks down at me and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
At the sight, I almost pass out.
Then she saunters away, and I stare at her ass in her tight yoga pants. My cock musters a final throb before giving up and letting me have control of my body again.
Other than me being a little tired, the last couple hours of shooting go smoothly. When I get back to the hotel, I fall asleep early, grateful for the dreamless rest.
Two more days.
An hour before my alarm, I wake aching and hazy with heat. Though the grogginess won’t lift, a sure purpose drives me up and out of bed.
I stumble like someone still drunk from the night before as I grab my backpack and head outside. Refusing to think about what I’m doing, I walk around the block until I’m out-of-sight from the rest of the motel rooms, then order a ride share.
It’s twenty minutes of sheer misery, and every jolt of the little car sends a spike of pain through my bones.
When I reach the hotel, I’m practically blind to everything but her scent, and all I can do is follow its lingering traces.
My nose leads me to the stairwell, and I have no idea if I’m going to be able to get out on her floor; I just know her palm brushed the banister right here.
A fleck of her sweat hit the floor over there.
The subtly fresher scents lead me up, up.
I stop counting flights after ten, my body at once weary and totally wired.
A strange energy animates my aching limbs and carries me to the next hint of her scent.
I can see the stairwell door that bears the scent of her palms, but I lean heavily against the banister, unsure my body has enough energy to take another step.
The door swings open—and her scent hits me like a tidal wave. I moan.
“Mylo…”
Then her arms are around me and mine are sliding under her cropped shirt, freeing her breasts, bringing those perfect nipples to my mouth. Whatever flicker of intention she had to get me back to her room fades, and she palms my cock.
I’m already cumming, my moans echoing shamelessly through the stairwell. I can’t stop—I need her, I need this.
Her fingertips sink into my ass cheeks, prying me apart, and my cock spills again. All it takes is her massaging my perineum and teasing my rim through my shorts, and I pour it all out for her, soaking myself.
Post-nut clarity hits like a bucket of ice water as I lean against her bare breast, still panting.
“Shit.”
Christine gives a low, smug chuckle that flashes her fangs, then stands and sets me on my feet. I wobble for a moment, and she hands me her jacket as she tugs her top back over her breasts.
I tie the jacket around my waist, slinking after her as she returns to her room.
“Lucky timing,” she says coolly. “What were you going to do if I’d already left for the day?”
“Shut up,” I grumble, pushing past her as soon as the door is open. I stride to the bathroom, locking it behind me.
My shorts are… fuck, I didn’t know it was even possible to produce this much, let alone so quickly.
I scrub myself roughly in a stream of frigid water, rinse out my shorts, then wring them out as well as I can. Next, I grab the hair dryer, getting myself and my shorts as dry as possible.
As I emerge, I see a fresh set of black athletic clothes sitting on the floor just outside the door, and I ignore them. I don’t need her coddling.
I join Christine in the kitchenette where she leans against the counter, sipping from a travel mug.
She’s also wearing different clothes than she was a moment ago—which I only know because I can smell the lingering whiff of detergent still clinging to these.
I never fully registered her outfit before.
Her gaze travels down my body, clocking my decision, but she doesn’t comment on it.
“Give me your phone,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
Resisting her commands feels like dragging my nails down a chalkboard, and I glare and shudder for a moment before handing my phone to her. It’s not like she can do anything without my passcode.
She pulls out her phone and taps the two devices together. Mine chirps as her contact appears on the screen, and she accepts the prompt.
Christine holds my phone out toward me with a sweet smile. “Was that so hard?”
“It was pointless,” I mutter. “This won’t be happening again.” I snatch my phone back and shove it into my pocket. As long as Lana doesn’t add to the schedule, there are less than forty-eight hours left before wrap. Surely I can keep myself together that long.
She just smirks. “Ready to get to work?”
“Obviously.”
I follow her out of the hotel room, and she takes a half step toward the stairs before hesitating and redirecting to the elevator. Both places hold memories I’d rather forget, but the elevator at least won’t smell like fresh sex. Christine must’ve reached the same conclusion.
I settle my backpack over my shoulder, feeling grounded again. “I don’t get why people talk about it like it’s such a big deal.”
The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside.
“Like what’s a big deal?” she asks.
“Heat. I can still work a full-time job.” I stare at the panel of buttons, uninterested in looking at Christine right now.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine through dinner. I mean, maybe it’s better if I find you in the afternoon, just to be safe…”
“Mylo, you’re not… really in heat yet. Not properly.”
I scoff, finally looking up at her. “Says who? Like you’d know anything about that.”
“I can smell—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. Alphas always say they can smell what omegas need, and I’m sick of it. You don’t know the first thing about being in heat. I have it handled. Does that bruise your pretty alpha ego, princess?”
Her palm is suddenly across my chest, her growl in my ear. The elevator wall slams hard against my shoulders and skull, and the sharp ring of metal startles both of us.
She snaps her hand back as if bitten, and I rub the back of my head.
“Ow! What the fuck, Christine?!”
When the doors open, she stalks out with an almost inaudible, “You can be a real ass sometimes.”
I follow. “Me?! Christine, you can’t just—”
She ignores me. And continues to do so until she reaches the front drive of the hotel, opens the door to her car, and ushers me inside.
I huff and scoot over, making room for her.
When she doesn’t follow, I look up at her expectantly.
Her eyes are on Ollie, her expression calm and friendly. “Take him in for me, will you? I’ll catch up, don’t worry about me.”
“No worries. G’mornin’, Mylo.”
Christine shuts the car door.
“Morning,” I mutter, watching her walk away.
This is good. I should be happy to dodge an awkward car ride with her. But I just feel… annoyed.
Annoyed and horny.
Fuck, I’m going to have to find her this afternoon after all…