Chapter 3 #2
"Not yet," I tell him. I grab his hip with my other hand and spin him around so his back is against my chest and his ass is pressed against my cock, hard enough that there's no way he doesn't feel it.
He gasps, a real gasp, surprised. I get my mouth against the side of his neck and breathe him in, and he goes rigid against me.
His ass pushes back into my dick before he can stop it, a helpless grind that lasts about two seconds before he catches himself and goes still.
My hand slides down from his hip to his thigh and I can feel the wet where his slick has soaked through his pants.
"Jesus," I say against his neck, and I mean it. He's drenched. "You're this wet and you're still talking shit?"
"Fuck you." But his voice is wrecked now, thick and shaky, and when I press my palm flat against the front of his jeans I can feel him hard and straining under the fabric.
I rub him through the denim, slow, and his hips buck up into my hand and his head drops back against my shoulder and the sound he makes is nothing like the sharp, controlled person who told me to get on my knees thirty seconds ago.
"There it is," I murmur against his ear. "That's better."
"That's not — I'm not —" He's trying to get words together and I'm making it hard for him, my hand working the front of his jeans while I grind against his ass, and I can feel the heat of his slick soaking into my own jeans where we're pressed together.
His hand is still locked around my wrist but he's not directing me anymore, he's just holding on.
"You're not what?" I unbutton his jeans one-handed and slide my hand inside and wrap my fingers around his cock, bare skin, hot and hard and leaking at the tip, and his whole body arches back against me and the noise he makes bounces off the concrete walls.
He's thick for an omega, which I like, and the way he jerks into my fist like he can't control it tells me more about what's happening to him than anything he's said all night.
I stroke him slow and tight while I grind against his ass and his breathing dissolves into these ragged, open-mouthed pants and his bravado is hanging on by a thread.
"Thought you wanted me on my knees," I say. "Doesn't look like you want that anymore. Looks like you want to come in my hand and you're pissed about it."
"I'm going to — fuck, I'm going to kill you —"
"Probably." I twist my wrist on the upstroke and he chokes. "But not right now."
He's close. I can feel it in the way his cock is pulsing in my hand and his thighs are trembling and his whole body is drawing up tight.
His hips are fucking into my fist in short, desperate jerks that he's given up trying to control, and his head is back on my shoulder and his throat is bared and every sound he makes is raw and involuntary and nothing like a performance.
I stop.
I take my hand off his cock and put both hands on his hips, just holding him there, pressed back against me. His whole body goes rigid. His cock is out, hard and wet and untouched, and his hips are still trying to thrust into nothing. The sound he makes is close to a sob.
"What the fuck," he says, and his voice is shaking. "What the fuck are you doing."
"Showing you what happens when you tell me to get on my knees.
" I tighten my grip on his hips and hold him still, and he squirms against me and my cock is so hard it hurts where it's pressed against his ass.
I want to fuck him so badly I can taste it, but I wait. "Ask me nicely and I'll make you come."
"Go to hell."
"Not what I asked."
He's trembling all over and his scent has gone desperate, heavy and sweet and begging in a way his mouth refuses to.
Slick is running down his thighs. I can see it glistening in the purple light below the hem of his pushed-down jeans, and my mouth is watering.
He's the most stubborn omega I've ever touched, the wettest, the hardest, still straining and twitching in the air.
I want him underneath me more than I've wanted anything in recent memory.
He's quiet for a long time. His chest is heaving against mine and his hands are gripping my forearms hard enough to bruise. Then, so quiet I barely hear it over the bass:
"Please."
I get my hand back on his cock and stroke him fast and tight and he comes in about four seconds, spilling hot over my fingers while his body jerks against mine.
A sound rips out of him that's louder than I'm sure he'd ever allow if he were thinking straight.
I work him through it, feeling his cock pulse in my hand.
His ass grinds in a way that has me imagining his hole clenching against my dick, and I growl low in my throat.
He's still shaking when I turn him around to face me.
His jeans are open and his cock is softening against his belly, wet with come.
His hands are braced against my chest and his breathing hasn't slowed down at all.
The scent rolling off him has shifted, still aroused, still in heat, but layered now with something almost dazed, like he wasn't expecting to be here, like his own orgasm surprised him.
I look at him and can feel the first wave of his peak heat building, pushing his scent higher and sweeter and more desperate by the second, and I know — we both know — that what just happened was the warmup.
"Still want me on my knees?" I ask.
His hands land on my arms and pull me toward one of the private rooms, and he doesn't answer, and he doesn't need to.