Chapter One #4
A long, hot, wet stripe from the base of my neck to just below my jaw, his tongue flat and pressing firm against my pulse point, the sensation is so sudden and so searingly intimate that my entire body locks up and then goes liquid in the space of a single heartbeat.
I go fully hard instantly, my cock straining against my slacks, and my head swims as arousal crashes through me in a wave so strong that my vision blurs at the edges and I have to catch myself on the desk beside me to keep from tipping over.
I know this is bad. I know I should get up and leave, should pull his hand off my wrist and walk out of this classroom and go back upstairs and send one of the other alphas down here to deal with this, because I am an omega and he is an alpha in rut and we are alone and everything about this situation is a terrible idea that could ruin everything between us.
I know all of that. It’s clear and logical and completely correct.
But my will falters.
Because the thing is, it’s not just the pheromones.
It’s not just about being an omega responding to an alpha in rut, the hardwired instinct to submit and yield and present.
If it were only that, I could fight it. I’ve been fighting that my whole life, proving that I’m more than what my designation says I should be, keeping up with alphas and refusing to be treated as less. I’m good at fighting it.
What I can’t fight is the fact that it’s him.
It’s Hongjoong. Hongjoong, who I’ve wanted since first year when he threw his arm around my shoulders for the first time and told the entire lunch table that I was the coolest omega he’d ever met.
Hongjoong, who I’ve watched date a parade of small, delicate, conventionally pretty omegas and told myself each time that it didn’t sting, that it didn’t matter, that he’d made it clear enough what his type was and I wasn’t it.
Hongjoong, who once told me, laughing, that I was basically one of the guys, and I’d smiled and agreed and gone home and sat on my bedroom floor for an hour staring at the wall because being “one of the guys” meant I would never be something else to him.
Years of that. Years of swallowing it down and locking it away and being his friend, his best friend, his ride-or-die, the omega who was basically an alpha, the one he never looked at twice.
All of that is tangling with the pheromones flooding my system right now, years of suppressed wanting braiding together with the biology, and the combination is so overwhelming that I can feel my resistance crumbling under everything I’ve refused to let myself feel.
Hongjoong tilts his head and catches my mouth.
The kiss is clumsy. Desperate. His lips land half on mine and half on the corner of my mouth before he adjusts, his hand on the back of my neck tilting my head to the angle he wants, and then he’s kissing me properly, his mouth open and hot and tasting faintly of soju and mint gum.
His tongue slides against mine, slick and searching, and the sound that comes out of me is embarrassing, a soft, broken noise.
It’s better than anything I’ve imagined, and I’ve imagined it a lot.
Late at night in my bed, in the shower, during boring lectures when Hongjoong was sitting two seats ahead of me and I could see the line of his jaw and the curve of his ear and the way his hair fell across his forehead.
I imagined what it would feel like to kiss him, and I was wrong every time, because I couldn’t have predicted this, the way his mouth moves against mine with a hunger that feels like it’s been building for longer than just tonight, the way his fingers tighten on the back of my neck like he’s afraid I’ll pull away, the way his tongue curls against mine and sends heat cascading down through my chest and into my belly where it pools and spreads and makes my whole body feel like it’s glowing from the inside.
I’m already gone. I know I’m already gone because I’m kissing him back, my free hand coming up to grip the front of his stupid red shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric and pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
My mouth opens wider under his, letting him in, and the taste of him fills me up until I can’t breathe around it, don’t want to breathe around it.
Slick is soaking through my pants now, a warm, spreading wetness that I can feel against my thighs, and I should be mortified but I’m not because Hongjoong groans into my mouth when he smells it, a gutted sound that vibrates through both of us, and his hands move down my body with a single-minded focus that makes my stomach flip.
His palms slide from my neck to my shoulders to my waist, gripping hard, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt, and then down to my hips where he pulls me toward him in one firm motion that drags me across the linoleum.
I don’t fully take in the shift until my back hits the classroom floor and Hongjoong’s weight is pressing me down, his body covering mine, and the solid heat of him on top of me knocks the air out of my lungs in a rush.
He’s hard. I can feel the thick line of his cock pressing against mine through the layers of our clothes, and when he rolls his hips in a desperate, grinding thrust, friction dragging along the length of me, I whimper in a high, needy sound, and Hongjoong swallows it with his mouth still on mine.
My legs fall open. Hongjoong sinks into the space I’ve made for him, his hips slotting against mine, and the new angle presses his cock harder against me and I arch up off the floor with a gasp that breaks the kiss.
He pants against my mouth, hot and strained, his forehead pressed to mine, and his hips roll again, a slow grind that sends sparks scattering through my nerve endings and makes the slick pooling beneath me spread wider on the cold floor.
I can feel it under my lower back, warm and wet, soaking through my slacks completely now, and I should care about that, should care about the mess and the evidence and what it means, but I don’t.
I don’t care about anything except the weight of him on top of me and the way his breath hitches every time he grinds down and the fact that this is happening, this is actually happening, after years of wanting it so badly that I had to teach myself to stop wanting it just to survive being near him every day.
My hand is still fisted in the front of his shirt. I don’t let go. I pull him closer instead, my other hand coming up to grip the back of his neck the way he’s gripping mine, fingers sliding into the damp hair at his nape, and I hold him against me and let him rock into me and I stop fighting.
I just stop fighting.