37. To Embrace Being An Omega #2
"Started without me?" River's voice carries that easy calm he uses with skittish horses, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his nostrils flare as my heat scent hits him full force. His eyes darken from warm brown to something deeper, older, as they track over my flushed skin.
Austin stirs against me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before carefully withdrawing.
The loss makes me whimper, that empty ache already returning despite the orgasm he gave me minutes ago.
My body doesn't care about recovery time or rational thought—it only knows there's an emptiness that needs filling, a burning that needs quenching.
"She's deep in it," Austin tells River quietly, helping me settle against the pillows when I try to follow his movement. "The blockers failed completely. Temperature's elevated but not dangerous. She's coherent, just..."
"Needy," I finish for him, not even embarrassed by the truth of it. My hands reach for both of them, trying to keep Austin close while drawing River nearer. "Please don't go."
Austin catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "Just going to clean up and rest, sweetheart. River's going to take care of you now." He glances at River with something like relief mixed with reluctance. "She needs more than I can give right now."
"I've got her," River assures him, already moving closer to the bed. "Go. Eat something. Hydrate. We're going to need stamina for this."
Austin leaves with one last kiss to my forehead, and then it's just River and me and the weight of need pressing against my skin.
He doesn't rush to touch me, though. Instead, he moves around my room with quiet purpose, adjusting the fairy lights to cast softer shadows, opening the window just enough to let in fresh air without chilling the space.
"River," I protest, shifting restlessly against the damp sheets. "I need?—"
River’s lips curve into the tiniest smile, as if he’s reading my mind—or at least tracking every tremor of want in my skin.
There’s a steadiness about him that somehow sharpens the frantic edge of my heat even as it soothes.
Like the eye of a storm; peaceful, but only because he’s holding back winds strong enough to tear the house apart.
He’s not in any hurry. No, not River. He disappears into the shadows near my dresser, and for a moment I’m writhing in the sheets, half-mad with the certainty that if he doesn’t touch me soon, I might actually combust. But instead of climbing onto the bed, he produces something unexpected—a mirror, its edges filigreed with tarnished silver and wild rose motifs that probably predate the house itself.
It’s heavy, the kind of artifact that could shatter a skull or become a family heirloom depending on how it’s wielded.
He moves deliberately, setting the mirror at the foot of the bed, angling its surface with the grave precision of a surgeon or a jeweler.
He tucks an old book beneath one edge until the glass faces me exactly—a full, unbroken line of sight from the pillows, where I’m sprawled and still catching my breath, straight down the length of my own body.
At first I don’t understand. My mind is too fogged with pheromones and pain and want, all the desperate little signals my body keeps firing.
But then I see the setup: River, shirt off, jaw tense, hands planting firmly on the quilt.
Me, flushed to the collarbones, hair wild around my face, lips swollen from Austin’s kisses.
And soaked through, dark wet on white sheets—evidence of heat and need, almost embarrassing if I weren’t too needy to care.
He sits beside me on the edge of the mattress, one leg folded up beneath him, the other braced on the floor like he might need to ground himself against the undertow. He doesn’t touch me yet. Instead, he leans forward, arms loose across his thighs, and watches the way I watch myself in the glass.
"Take a look," he says, soft but inflexible, and I do. I see myself as he does—a body made for wanting, wanting him. My skin goosepimpled despite the sweat, eyes huge and dark, mouth parted around a helpless, keening sound I didn’t know I was making.
My whole being a signal fire, visible down every backroad of Sweetwater County.
"You ever get to see yourself like this?" River asks, not waiting for an answer. "I want you to—really see, Willa. Not just what you feel. See."
I don’t know what the hell he means, but I’m too strung-out to argue.
My thighs shiver as I prop myself higher on my elbows, unable to look away from the image in the glass.
River’s hand comes up at last, stroking the hair back from my face with infinite patience, like he’s teaching a mustang to accept a bridle.
His touch is cool and soothing on my fevered skin.
"Heat turns everything inside out," he murmurs, eyes flicking from the mirror to my face and back again. "Makes you forget you’re more than a mess of hormones." He leans in, voice dropping to a private whisper. "But you are. You’re so much more. You’re beautiful, even when you’re drowning in it."
I’d roll my eyes if I could, but the words land somewhere vulnerable and unexpected. Because no one’s ever said that to me—not in the middle of this, not when I’m all sweat and scent and wild want. My breath hitches, something shivery running through me that isn’t just physical.
His hand trails down, tracing the collarbone, sliding over the swell of my breast. He doesn’t maul, doesn’t grope.
Just explores, cataloging every response, every intake of breath.
In the mirror, my skin flushes even darker around his touch, beads of sweat gleaming on my sternum.
I watch his fingers skim the side of my belly, avoiding the most sensitive places, but the anticipation sets off a thousand tiny aftershocks just beneath the surface.
"You keep thinking you’re just a body, Willa," he says, and his gaze catches mine in the glass. "You forget you’re a story. Every mark on you—these scars, these freckles, the way you move when you’re about to come apart—that’s all part of it.
And people crave the story, not just the sex. That’s what makes it real."
I want to protest, to tell him I’ve been reduced to a body for so long that maybe that’s all I am. But his hands won’t let me. He shifts behind me, bracing my shoulders with strong, gentle arms, and for a second I’m weightless, like he could hold me up forever if he wanted.
Then he helps me up onto my knees, very slowly, very carefully, as if I’m something fragile.
My belly, heavy and awkward, threatens my balance, but River is already moving pillows into place, stacking them until the pressure against my abdomen eases and I’m supported in all the ways I didn’t know I needed.
My hands dig into the comforter, but his palms stay warm and steady at my hips, guiding me into position without ever once making me feel forced.
In the mirror, I see the transformation: I’m no longer just writhing in selfish need.
I’m an animal—powerful, desperate, alive—back arched, thighs trembling, hair cascading in wild tangles down my shoulders.
And River, behind me, a steadying presence, eyes locked on mine.
He looks at me not like a thing to be used up and discarded, but like a work of art he’s lucky enough to handle for a while.
"You see it?" he asks, quiet but insistent. "You see how gorgeous you are like this?"
My lips form a yes, half-word and half-moan, and for the first time, I believe it.
Different sounds like torture when every cell in my body screams for immediate satisfaction, but River's hands are gentle as he helps me onto my hands and knees.
The position feels vulnerable with my pregnant belly hanging heavy beneath me, but he supports me with pillows, making sure I'm comfortable before he even thinks about pleasure.
"Good girl," he murmurs when I settle into position, and those two words send heat straight to my core. "Now, I want you to watch. See what I see when I look at you."
I lift my head to meet my own gaze in the mirror, startled by what I find.
My hair is wild, my skin flushed and glowing with perspiration.
My eyes are dark with need, lips swollen from Austin's kisses.
I look thoroughly debauched, claimed, wanted.
Beautiful in a raw, primal way I've never seen in myself before.
"That's it," River says, his hands finally making contact with my overheated skin. He starts at my shoulders, long strokes down my spine that make me arch like a cat. "See how responsive you are? How every touch makes you light up?"
His hands work lower, massaging the tension from muscles I didn't realize were clenched. When he reaches my hips, he grips them firmly, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine. The pressure is just right, grounding me even as need spirals higher.
"River, please," I beg, watching our reflection as he positions himself behind me. He's shed his clothes at some point, his lean muscle and sun-bronzed skin a beautiful contrast to my paler softness. "I can't wait anymore."
"You can," he counters, running one hand down my spine while the other guides himself to my entrance. He slides just the tip inside, barely breaching me, and the tease makes me sob. "Breathe for me, Willa. Deep breaths."
I try to push back, to take more of him, but his grip on my hips prevents it. In the mirror, I can see his face—the concentration, the careful control, the banked heat in his eyes that says this restraint costs him too.
"Why are you—" The question dies as he slides in another inch, still maddeningly slow.
"Because you deserve to be worshipped," he says simply, pulling back until just the tip remains before sliding forward again, barely deeper than before. "Because pleasure should be savored, not rushed. Because I want you to remember this."