Episode 21 Pricked Finger
I knew kissing Courtland Ashbourne would be good. There’s just something about him, about his mouth, his lips that proclaims him as a good kisser, but I didn’t know it would be like this.
All consuming. Delicious. I can’t get enough.
I shift on his lap and his hands slide to my hips, supporting me as I move to straddle his thighs.
My arms wrap around his shoulders, my hand plunging into that silky soft hair of his.
He slides one of his hands to my ass to press our pelvises tighter together, while the other cradles the back of my head.
We kiss and kiss and kiss, until we’re both panting, not enough oxygen in our lungs. My lips are swollen and my panties are soaked. From just kissing.
But then I’ve never been kissed like this.
Ever.
I’ve made out with men, sure. I’ve kissed them before sex or after or during. But not one of them held my face in their hands like I’m the most precious thing in the world to them, while also fucking my mouth with their tongue like a demon.
It's a heady combination of gentleness and all-consuming hunger and I will never grow tired of it. I want to keep kissing him forever.
Please, let me keep kissing him forever.
But almost as soon as I think the plea, he’s pulling back, pressing soft quick kisses over my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead, before returning to my lips.
His hands move as restlessly as mine do.
To my ass, slipping under the hem of my shirt up my spine, out of my shirt and into my hair to hold me steady, while the other brushes against the side of my breast, my nipple.
“Court,” I pant, wiggling against him. The pressure building. The need is almost unbearable.
“I know, pix,” he murmurs, smoothing my hair back before he leans up to kiss me again. Slow drugging kisses that steal my mind and my sanity and my self-control.
His fingers brush against the skin of my stomach, the waistband of my leggings, questioning. Waiting for me to approve of taking this next step.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t even be sitting on his lap, making out like a teenager.
This is just asking for trouble. For heartbreak.
But I can’t seem to make myself care at this moment.
I want him to touch me, badly.
I want to feel physically connected to him.
So even though I know I might regret it later, I curl my hand around his and guide his fingers to where I’m wet and aching. To where I need him most.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked, baby. Is all this slick for me?”
The blunt tips of his fingers tease my entrance and I moan my answer. “Yes, Court. All for you.”
A whine of protest leaves me when his fingers do, sliding out of my panties. He chuckles. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t leave you wanting. I just need a taste of you.”
I blink at him as he slides his finger into his mouth, green eyes rolling into the back of his head. “Best fucking thing ever,” he mutters almost to himself, before he thrusts his hands down the front of my leggings and shoves two fingers inside of me.
I cry out, bucking my hips, back arching.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen, Pixie. You’re gonna ride my fingers, fuck yourself on them. You’re gonna come so fucking hard, you see stars. Yeah?”
I nod frantically, already doing as he ordered, rolling my hips to slide his fingers in and out of me.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, green eyes flicking from my face down to where his hand disappears into maroon fabric and then back up, like he can’t figure out what entrances him more. “So good for me. Look at you. So pretty finding your pleasure. Using my hand to get yourself off.”
“Court,” I moan, losing my rhythm as the pleasure grows. “Please. I’m so close.”
He makes a pleased humming sound. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.” His thumb presses into my clit and my vision goes spotty with the intense sensation.
Just before I come, just before the pleasure builds and builds and builds, I have the hazy thought, how did I end up here?
How did we go from talking about my past trauma to me riding his fingers, to coming in an almost embarrassingly short amount of time?
How do I feel safe enough with him to let him touch me?
But then I think about the trust challenge, how he cheerfully refrained from barking at not just me, but his entire team.
How he joins me for yoga almost every morning.
How he smiles and laughs and jokes—and flirts—but he seems to do that less and less with the other omegas and more and more with only me.
I think of the worry on his face earlier today after Isadora tackled me. The way his hands hovered over me afraid to touch, to hurt me more.
I think of how he has such a beautiful fucking soul it makes my heart ache.
“Pretty boy,” I gasp out. “Alpha.”
“That’s it, omega. Come for your alpha.”
The tight coil of pleasure shatters at his command.
I cry out.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, hips bucking uncontrollably, grinding my ass against his cock. He grunts, jaw tight, fingers still thrusting in and out of me, curling at just the point to make me cry out against his mouth as the first orgasm rolls into a second one.
Court’s green eyes watch all of this, a sort of feral possessiveness in their depths. It grounds me in a way I wouldn’t have guessed, while I’m adrift in a sea of absolute pleasure.
“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, the words puffing over my lips.
The gentle stroke of his hand slows, softens, stops altogether.
My breathing is still ragged, my pulse too quick.
It only gets worse when he pulls his hand from between my thighs, showing me how his fingers glisten with my sticky cum, before he sinks them into his mouth, humming like it's the best thing he’s ever tasted.
I watch, entranced, as he laps at his digits, making sure to get every last drop of slick off his fingers. “Fuck, you taste so good.”
I have the urge to taste what he does, to understand why he thinks it's good enough to literally lick from his fingers. Especially when I’m on suppressants and I know my slick doesn’t taste like hibiscus and citrus.
He moans when I bend my head to capture his lips, licking along them, and then into his mouth. I can only taste him, warm and slightly spicy. Nothing of my own scent, just the faint chemical edge of the suppressants we’re still on.
His hand smooths along the side of my head, pushing me back gently as he looks up at me in awe. “Stunning,” Court groans, pulling his mouth from mine, but keeping our foreheads pressed together. “Fuck, Pix.”
I nod. “Yeah. We should do that.”
He barks out a laugh, but doesn’t take me up on the offer, pressing a soft almost chaste kiss to my mouth instead. “I want to. I really, really fucking do. But I think we both know it's not a good idea.”
I blink. Then I pull away from him so fast, I nearly fall on my ass. I would have if Court doesn’t apparently have the reflexes of a cat, grabbing me before I can tumble to the floor.
“Pixie.”
I ignore the chiding in his voice and push to a stand, brushing his hands off me. “You should go.”
“I didn’t mean that as a rejection, Ren. It's just…”
“It’s just that this isn’t actually going to go anywhere and we both know it. You’re right. We shouldn’t take this any further. We shouldn’t have let it go this far. It was a mistake.”
I see him flinch, and I know exactly how he’s feeling. Hadn’t I felt that too after Forsythe told me the same thing?
But hurt feelings aside, it doesn’t change anything about our situations. He’s still him, and I’m still me.
I fold my arms over my stomach. “I really think you should go.”
He stares up at me looking adorably kiss rumpled. Hair standing on end, lips red and swollen. Erection pressing against the fly of his jeans.
Finally he sighs and pushes to his feet. “I don’t want to leave you.”
I snort. “Sure, you don’t.” I know I’m being unkind.
But I’m feeling far too fucking vulnerable right now.
Not only did I open up to him about my past trauma, but I also just came on his fingers.
The first orgasm I’ve had that wasn’t self-inflicted in fucking years.
And it was with someone who can’t—or won’t—choose me.
Court stares at me hard for a moment before he scrubs a hand down his face, and then holds it out to me. “Come on.”
I stare at him then his palm. “What?”
His fingers wiggle, demanding. And I find my own hand raising, sliding against his. He grips me and then tugs me over to the bed, pulling back the covers and motioning for me to get in.
Confused, I do as he urges, then watch as he moves around my cabana, flicking off lights, checking the locks on the doors, before he shucks off his shirt and his pants and then climbs in next to me.
What is even happening right now?
“Come here, Pix,” he murmurs, hooking one muscled arm around my waist and dragging me into his embrace. He curls around me, nose pressing into my hair, arms holding me tight. One of his legs goes over mine, until he’s clutching me like a child clutching their favorite stuffy.
“Court?” I murmur into his chest. His bare chest. Right there in front of me. Warm and smooth and smelling like his soap.
“Hmm?”
“What-what are you doing?”
One hand slides up and down my spine, soothing the tension coursing through my body. “I told you I didn’t want to leave you. So I’m not.”
My throat gets tight, but I force the words out on a croak. “Not tonight at least.”
“Not tonight,” he agrees. He doesn’t tack on ‘not ever’ like I’m secretly hoping he will. He doesn’t make promises he’s not going to keep. Which I suppose is a comfort in and of itself. I can trust that he won’t lie to me. That he won’t give me false hope. Even if it would be the easier option.
This is the most he can offer me.
“Go to sleep, Pix,” he murmurs, already sounding halfway there himself.
It takes a while for me to drift off. I haven’t actually slept next to a man in… well, ever. Not like this. Not with his body pressed to mine, solid and warm, his arm heavy around my waist, his breath puffing softly over my hair and forehead.
Every small movement makes me hyperaware of him. The rise and fall of his chest against my back, of the way his leg hooks over mine like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
But slowly, breath by breath, my muscles loosen. The tight knot in my chest eases. My thoughts blur at the edges, exhaustion finally winning out over anxiety and longing and everything I’m trying so hard not to feel.
Just as sleep starts to pull me under, his mouth brushes my hair, barely there, and he murmurs so quietly it feels like he doesn’t mean for me to hear, “Sleep, Pix. I’ve got you. I always do.”
The words sink into me, warm and heavy and dangerous.
And I let myself believe them as darkness finally takes me.