Chapter 5 #2
"I've been told." I bump it up to two and his back arches, hands grabbing the sheets.
His cock is fully hard now, straining against the ring, a bead of precome sliding down the shaft.
I watch, fascinated, and it's not just alpha instinct.
He's fighting the vibrator the same way he's fought everything tonight, with clenched teeth and white-knuckle control, refusing to let me see him fall apart.
But his body is already betraying him, hips rocking against the sheets in small, involuntary movements, his hole clenching on the toy.
"Here's how this works," I say, and I put my hand flat on his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under my palm. "I'm going to ask you things. If you answer me honestly, I'll give you more. If you mouth off, I turn it down. And you don't come until I take the ring off."
"That's — that's not —" He's already struggling, the vibration and his rising heat working together against him. "This isn't a deposition."
"Isn't it?" I bump it to three and he moans, full and helpless, his hands fisting the sheets.
"You came here tonight with a plan. I've been watching you all night and I know that much.
You chose me before you walked onto the floor.
" I drag my thumb through the slick on his thigh and bring it to my mouth and taste him and his cock jerks at the sight of it. "What I don't know is why."
"I didn't — I don't know what you're talking about."
I turn it down to one.
He makes a desperate sound, hips chasing the intensity that just vanished.
His head drops back against the pillow and the noise he makes is all frustration, want, and barely contained fury.
His cock is dark and swollen against the ring, looking painful.
I know exactly how it feels, and I don't care.
I need to see what's underneath the mask—the real one, not the one on his face.
"Try again," I say. "You came here with a plan."
He's breathing hard, chest heaving, and I can see the war happening behind the mask — the instinct to keep performing versus the body that's screaming for relief. His heat is building now, the next wave rising, and every minute that passes makes the denial harder to tolerate.
"Yes," he says through his teeth. "I came here with a plan. Happy?"
I bump it to four and wrap my hand around his cock, over the ring, and stroke him slow.
The sound he makes is filthy, this low wrecked groan that vibrates through his whole body, and his hips thrust up into my fist and I can feel how hard he is, how close he'd be if the ring wasn't holding him back, and the desperation in his scent is thick enough to choke on.
"Was the plan about me specifically?" I ask, stroking him slow while the vibrator works him from the inside.
"Yes," he gasps, and he sounds like he hates himself for saying it. "Yes, it was about you, are you happy, does that get you off, knowing I came here looking for you specifically—"
"It does, actually." I tighten my grip and he chokes mid-sentence. "And you're shaking again. You weren't shaking earlier when you were pretending to be in control. This is real."
"Fuck you."
I take my hand off his cock and turn the vibrator down to two and he nearly screams.
"Ask me nicely," I say. I've said it before, on the floor, and it broke him then. It'll break him now, harder, with the ring on his cock and the toy inside him, his heat cresting, no way to come, no way to fight his way out. All that composure he rebuilt is crumbling right in front of me.
"I'm not — you can't just—" He's squirming on the bed, his hips working against the vibrator, trying to get the angle right, trying to get enough stimulation to push past the ring, and it's not going to work and watching him try is one of the hottest things I've ever seen.
His cock is leaking steadily, the shaft wet with precome, his balls drawn up tight, and every few seconds his whole body clenches and a broken sound falls out of him that he can't catch.
"You're so close," I say, and I run my fingers up the inside of his thigh, barely touching, and he flinches into the contact. "I can see it. I can smell it. Your whole body is begging me, and your mouth is the only part of you that's still fighting. How long do you think that's going to last?"
"Longer than you think," he grits out, but his voice is shaking and his thighs are trembling and his eyes behind the mask are glassy and unfocused.
I bump the vibrator to five, lean down, and lick a stripe up his cock from base to tip.
He screams. His hand grabs my hair, his hips surge up, his whole body draws tight.
The orgasm tries to rip through him and can't because of the ring.
The sound he makes—frustrated, desperate, wrecked, right at the edge and held there—is the best thing I've heard all night.
"Please," he says, and he doesn't even fight it this time. "Please, fuck, please take it off, I need to come, please—"
"Not yet." I press my thumb against the base of the vibrator and angle it harder against his prostate and he convulses. "Tell me something true first. One real thing."
He's gasping, shaking, tears leaking from under the mask.
His hand is still fisted in my hair, his cock straining against the ring, right at the edge.
I'm holding him there and I know it's mean, I know it's cruel, but I don't want to stop.
Underneath all the performance, something real is trying to break through, and I can see it.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he says, and his voice cracks open. "I tried and I couldn't stop and I had to come here, I had to, I've been—" He chokes on it. "Three months. I've been thinking about you for three months and I hate it."
That's real. I can hear it in his voice and smell it in his scent. I know it's true and something in me shifts that I wasn't planning on shifting tonight.
I pull the ring off and wrap my hand around his cock.
He comes so hard his whole body lifts off the mattress.
I feel it everywhere—his cock pulsing in my fist, his hole clamping on the vibrator, his hand yanking my hair, his scent exploding into something raw and open.
He's crying and coming and saying things that don't make sense, fragments of words.
I stroke him through it until he's shaking too hard to take any more.
I turn off the vibrator and ease it out of him.
He whimpers at the loss and reaches for me—actually reaches, for the first time tonight.
Every other time, I've been the one to initiate.
Now his hands are pulling at my shoulders, grabbing at me, trying to get me on top of him, inside him.
His scent is pure need, no performance left at all.
"I want you," he says, and it's the most honest thing he's said all night. "Not the toy, you, I want you inside me, please—"
I settle between his thighs and push into him and we both groan.
He's so wet and open from the knotting and the toy that I sink all the way in with one stroke and his legs wrap around my waist and his arms wrap around my shoulders and he pulls me down against him, chest to chest, face to face, and I can feel his heart hammering against mine.
"There you are," I say against his mouth. "Took you long enough."
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob, and then I'm fucking him.
He's holding onto me like I'm the only solid thing in the room.
Just his body under mine, his breath in my ear, and the way he keeps saying yes and there and harder and please in a broken, continuous stream.
I give him everything, driving deep on every stroke, and he takes it all.
His heels dig into my back, his nails rake down my shoulders.
When my knot starts to swell, he doesn't tense or try to control the pace.
He just opens for me, tilts his hips, and whispers yes against my neck.
The knot locks and he comes again, untouched, his cock pulsing between our stomachs while his hole clenches around the knot and his whole body shakes.
I bury my face in his neck and come inside him.
The intensity whites out my vision for a second, my cock throbbing while he milks me.
His hands are in my hair, mumbling wrecked sounds against my skin.
We lie there for a long time. Locked together, breathing, his fingers trailing slow patterns on the back of my neck that I don't think he's aware of.
His scent has gone quiet and warm and completely unguarded for the first time all night, and I can smell the real him underneath the heat, the actual person, and he smells like someone I want to know.
His breathing slows, his hands go still, and his body relaxes under me with the boneless heaviness of someone who falls asleep between one breath and the next.
I don't pull out; the knot is still holding us together.
I don't move. I lie there with his heartbeat under my ear and his scent in my lungs.
I think about how this omega came here tonight with a plan aimed at me, a plan I don't understand yet.
In the middle of it, he told me he'd been thinking about me for three months and couldn't stop, and he cried when he said it.
He's the most interesting person I've ever had in my bed.
Manipulative, sharp, lying with his body the way most people lie with their mouths.
He can think through heat in a way I've never seen.
Underneath all of that, I get the sense that he's desperately lonely.
The sounds he made when he stopped performing were the most genuine thing I've heard from anyone in years.
The knot goes down slowly, and I ease out of him. He murmurs something in his sleep and turns into me, pressing his face against my chest, and I pull him in and let him stay.
I want to know his name. That's against the rules here.
I don't care. I want to know his name and what his face looks like under the mask.
Which firm he works at, what he looks like in a courtroom, and whether he's this sharp when he's not in heat.
I want to know what the plan was. I want to know why he's been thinking about me.
I'm going to find out.