37. To Embrace Being An Omega #3
Each word is punctuated by those shallow thrusts that give me just enough to keep me on edge but never enough to push me over.
In the mirror, I watch myself fall apart—the way my mouth opens on silent pleas, how my back arches seeking more, the flush that spreads down my chest as he plays my body like an instrument he's spent years learning.
"Dandelion," he whispers, and the pet name breaks something in me. My eyes fly to his in the mirror, finding them locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Let me see you let go."
He slides deep then, finally giving me what I've been begging for, and the relief makes me cry out. But he doesn't pound into me like my body demands. Instead, he sets a rhythm that's slow and deep and devastating, each thrust measured to drag against every sensitive spot inside me.
"Watch," he commands when my eyes start to close. "See how perfectly we fit? How your body welcomes me?"
I force my eyes open, taking in our joined reflection. There's something deeply erotic about watching him disappear inside me, seeing the way my body stretches to accommodate him. His hands span my hips, guiding the rhythm, and when one slides around to circle my clit, I nearly collapse.
"Not yet," he says, stilling the motion. "You can take more. I know you can."
The denial makes me whimper, but he's relentless in his patience.
He builds me up again and again, bringing me to the edge with those deep, measured thrusts and clever fingers, only to ease back just before I tumble over.
Sweat drips down my spine, tears stream down my face, and still he continues his exquisite torture.
"River, please," I sob, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I can't—I need?—"
"What do you need?" His voice remains maddeningly calm even as his thrusts pick up pace slightly. "Tell me."
"I need to come," I gasp out, shameless in my desperation. "Please let me come. I'll do anything?—"
"Anything?" He leans forward, his chest pressed to my back, changing the angle in a way that makes me see stars. "Then look at me while you do it. Let me watch you fall apart."
His fingers return to my clit with purpose this time, circling with exactly the pressure I need while his thrusts finally, finally speed up.
The dual stimulation combined with the prolonged denial creates a perfect storm of sensation.
I maintain eye contact in the mirror as ordered, watching his face as intently as he watches mine.
"Now, dandelion," he whispers against my ear. "Come for me now."
The permission destroys me. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, so intense my vision whites out at the edges.
I feel myself clench around him, hear his groan as my body milks his, but I can't look away from his eyes in the mirror.
He watches me shatter with something like awe, his own control finally breaking as he follows me over.
The world goes soft and hazy as aftershocks ripple through me. River catches me before I collapse completely, turning me gently and gathering me against his chest. His hands stroke through my sweat-damp hair as I slowly come back to myself.
"That was..." I can't finish the sentence, don't have words for what he just did to me.
"Just the beginning," he promises, pressing a kiss to my temple. I can already feel the heat building again beneath my skin, but for now, I'm content to rest in his arms. "Mavi should be here soon. Rest while you can."
And wrapped in his scent and steady presence, I do.
The door doesn't open this time—it bangs against the wall with enough force to rattle the mirror River so carefully positioned.
Maverick fills the doorway like a storm given form, his usual controlled facade completely shattered.
His clothes are disheveled, shirt half-unbuttoned, and the bulge in his jeans leaves no question about his state of mind.
"Out," he growls at River, never taking his eyes off me.
River doesn't argue. He presses one last kiss to my forehead, whispers "Good luck" with a knowing smirk, and evacuates like a man who recognizes a predator ready to pounce. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
Mavi stalks toward the bed, each step deliberate, measured despite the wildness in his green eyes.
The careful control he maintains like armor has cracked, and what shows through makes my breath catch.
This isn't the man who patiently taught me self-defense moves or installed locks with methodical precision.
This is an alpha who's reached the end of his restraint.
"Do you have any idea," he says, voice low and dangerous, "what it's been like? Watching you writhe for them through the cameras? Hearing you beg?"
Heat floods my face—not embarrassment but arousal at the thought of him watching, wanting, waiting his turn. My body responds to his intensity, fresh slick coating my already-wet thighs as another wave of need crashes through me.
"Mavi," I breathe, reaching for him, but he catches my wrists in one hand.
"No." The word cracks like a whip. "You don't get to control this. Not this time."
He flips me onto my stomach in one smooth motion, and I barely have time to brace myself on my elbows before he's pinning my wrists above my head.
The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed, completely at his mercy—and my omega instincts sing with recognition.
This is what they've been craving beneath the gentle care and patient worship.
The raw claiming of an alpha who's done asking permission.
"Spread your legs," he commands, and my body obeys before my mind processes the words. "Wider."
The first thrust buries him to the hilt without warning or preparation—not that I need it, soaked as I am from the previous attention and my own renewed arousal. He's thick, maybe thicker than the others, and the stretch borders on too much before my body adjusts, welcomes, demands more.
"Fuck," he snarls against my neck. "So wet. So ready. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to take your pack."
I can only moan in response as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me into the mattress.
His free hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, holding me in place for his use.
The angle has him hitting deep, almost too deep with my pregnant belly pressed into the bed, but when I try to adjust, his teeth find my shoulder.
"Don't move," he growls around the bite. "Take it just like this."
The dominance in his voice shoots straight to my core.
I go limp beneath him, submitting completely to his control, and am rewarded with a sound of approval that vibrates through his chest into my back.
His teeth release my shoulder only to find another spot, then another, marking me with a possessiveness that should frighten me but only makes me wetter.
"Mine," he says with each bite. "Ours. No one else will ever touch you again."
"Yes," I sob into the pillow, beyond pride or hesitation. "Yours. Please, Mavi?—"
"Please what?" He releases my wrists to grab my hair, pulling my head back enough that I can meet his eyes in that damned mirror. His face is wild, beautiful in its intensity. "Tell me what you need."
"Harder," I beg, pushing back against him as much as his grip allows. "Mark me. Claim me. Make me forget everything but you."
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Then his hips snap forward with even more force, driving into me like he's trying to merge our bodies permanently. The hand in my hair tightens, keeping my back arched, forcing me to watch our reflection.
"I've been watching you for months," he confesses, the words pouring out between harsh breaths. "Every time you touched yourself in your room, thinking you were alone. Learned exactly how you like your clit rubbed. How you always need two fingers curled just right when you're close."
The confession should disturb me. Instead, it sends lightning through my veins. The thought of him studying me, learning my pleasure while denying himself, adds another layer to my arousal.
"Did you—" I gasp as he shifts angles. "Did you touch yourself while watching?"
"Every fucking time." His hand leaves my hair to slide around my throat—not squeezing, just present, possessive. "Came watching you fall apart, imagining it was my hand making you scream."
The image makes me clench around him, drawing a growl from deep in his chest. He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and whining, but before I can protest, he's flipping me onto my back. His eyes rake over me with undisguised hunger—my marked skin, swollen lips, the mess between my thighs.
"Look at you," he breathes, spreading my legs wider to see where his cock has left me open, dripping. "Thoroughly fucked and still begging for more. What am I going to do with you?"
"Whatever you want," I answer honestly, reaching for him again. This time he lets me touch, lets me pull him down for a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. "Just don't stop."
He enters me again with a groan, this position letting him go even deeper.
I wrap my legs around his waist, using the leverage to meet his thrusts, and his control fractures further.
His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, palming my breasts, tangling in my hair.
He can't seem to decide what he wants to touch most, so he tries for everything at once.
"The camera in here is off," he says suddenly, catching my chin to make me look at him. "Has been since you arrived. I'm not—I wouldn't—not without permission."
The consideration in the middle of such primal claiming undoes me. I pull him down for another kiss, softer this time, trying to convey what words can't capture. When we break apart, his expression has shifted to something vulnerable beneath the dominance.
"I know," I whisper. "I trust you. Even when you're watching. Especially then."