Chapter Fourteen
Finn
I ’m trying to be good. I swear I am.
I’ve been good my whole life. Middle child of three, raised right by two very tired betas. I always say please and thank you, I make tea, and I offer hoodies before omegas even think about being cold. I don’t push, I don’t take without asking, and I wait until I’m wanted.
But right now, there’s an omega in my lap wearing the world’s tiniest lounge set, fogging up the air with the sweetest-scented pheromones I’ve ever been exposed to, and looking at me like I’m a weighted blanket with a dick.
“You’re really warm,” she murmurs, like I’m not currently vibrating at a frequency only pheromone-drenched alphas and malfunctioning air fryers can understand.
I swallow thickly. "Good circulation."
She smiles, slow and sinful, then leans in to kiss me again.
It’s not gentle.
It’s hot, open-mouthed, and filthy.
Our lips slide, teeth knock, her tongue teasing mine until my hands grip her waist to keep from falling apart completely. Her nails dig into my shoulders as her hips rock against me, more deliberate now, like she knows exactly what she’s doing and just how gone I am for her.
And then, just as I’m hanging on by a thread, she pulls back—barely—and murmurs, “Take off your sweats.”
My heart skips, my dick twitches, and my brain exits stage left.
I nod immediately—there’s not even a pause. I lift my hips and tug the fabric down, not graceful in the slightest.
Honestly, I would’ve done the exact same if she’d told me to sit, roll over, or bark.
(Which is a secret I will be taking to the grave.)
She watches me as I do it, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she shifts higher to give me room.
Once I’m stripped down to my briefs, she settles back into my lap and slides herself forward until she’s hovering right above my bare thigh. Her breath catches, while mine stops entirely.
She lowers herself down, slow and steady, like she’s placing herself on something holy. And when she sinks down fully onto my thigh?
We both moan.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice breaking on the end of it. “Finn. These thighs…”
I make a choked noise.
She grinds once—testing pressure—and I swear I black out for a second.
“They’re so good,” she breathes, hips rolling again, slower now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I mean,” I manage, “I didn’t know they were a public service.”
She laughs—shaky and soft and completely wrecked —and then moves again, slick already soaking through her shorts and onto my skin. Her hands hold tight to my shoulders as she starts to rock, slow and deliberate, her eyes locked on mine.
I’m holding it together by a thread, trying my best not to rut into her like a teenager who just saw his first omega highlight reel, but it’s clear that that’s becoming very challenging. All I can think about is how soft she is; how her weight feels perfect and grounding, how I’m going to die here and it’s going to be worth it.
She presses down firmer this time, and her lips part on a gasp—no, a moan —sweet and stunned and needy, like the pressure hits something deep and desperate inside her. We’re so close that I can count the freckles that dust her cheek and the bridge of her nose, and I swear, if I wasn’t already braced against the headboard, I’d have gone straight through it.
I grab the base of the mattress to keep from flipping her over and begging.
“You’re sure this okay?” she asks, breath hitching.
Is she for real? This is the best day of my life . This is the definition of okay. This is alpha gospel .
“Of course,” I nod. “Anything you want. You just tell me.”
She lets out a broken little sound—half thank-you , half you’re mine now —and then she starts to move . Learning, finding angles and pressure points, turning my thigh into a fucking weapon of mass ruination.
Every slick grind, every breathless whimper is killing me—
And I love it.
Her slick is hot and thick against my skin, soaking straight through her shorts. I’m burning, holding myself together with nothing but willpower and a deeply repressed whimper.
Good boy. Good helper.
Let the pretty omega hump your leg until the stars fall down.
My instincts scream for more; to grab her hips, to pin her under me, to take ; but I don’t.
She’s choosing this—choosing me —and I will burn in place before I take that away from her.
But then—
“ More ,” she chokes out, her eyes wide. “Please, Finn—I need more .”
My hands find her waist instinctively. “Anything you need, sweetheart,” I murmur. “You take what you want. I’m right here.”
She gasps and grinds down harder.
Theo said she might be a match, that her scent syncs too perfectly with ours for it to be coincidence.
And he might be right—because she smells like yes . Like heat and fate and something too holy for my filthy brain to process while she’s riding me like I’m the last working surface in the building.
Our mouths crash together, and her fingers twist in my shirt and then my hair as if she’s trying to take from me—everything, all at once—and I give it. Every groan, every shudder, every instinct inside me screaming Alpha, now. Claim. Bite. Mark.
She keeps grinding; rubbing herself against the thick of my thigh like it’s salvation, like I’m something useful . The scent of her slick is dizzying now—thick, rich, and syrup-sweet. It clings to the back of my throat, floods my lungs, makes my hips twitch helplessly beneath her.
Frankie’s lips part in a gasping moan as my hands slide under her shirt, gripping her waist harder now, guiding without pushing, holding without taking. She rocks harder and faster, her thighs shaking around me as my shorts ride up and her slick spreads—hot and wet and fucking everywhere .
My thigh is soaked. My restraint is soaked. My soul is probably soaked.
Her head falls forward, forehead brushing mine, and her breath hits my lips in hot, ruined bursts.
“Frankie,” I whisper, my voice barely there, barely me. “You’re so— fuck , you’re perfect —”
Her hands slide down her own hips, and before I can even fully process it, she’s hooking her thumbs into the side of her shorts and panties, pulling them both away from her skin and bunching them over to one side. The scent of her perfumes the air, and my grip on her hips tightens even further.
“Finn, please—I need it,” she whispers, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. “I need to feel it. All of it.”
And then she presses down.
Skin to skin.
Raw.
Hot.
And fucking drenched .
I choke on a sound that’s not human. It’s part gasp, part growl, part ancient prayer to whatever god thought I was strong enough for this.
Her hips roll with sweet, sinful pressure, dragging the slick heat of her naked pussy over my bare thigh like she’s branding me, marking me without even trying.
And I am gone .
“Frankie,” I gasp, eyes fluttering shut as I try to keep my instincts locked in place with nothing but spit and moral integrity. “You feel— shit , you feel unreal .”
She whimpers again, grinding harder now, dragging her clit against my thigh with maddening precision. Her nails scrape my skin, and it’s all I can do to not rut into her.
My cock is a problem. An urgent problem. My shorts are tight enough to cut off circulation, and I’m so hard it hurts, so close I can taste it. Every shift of her hips, every wet slap of skin, every ruined moan is like a fucking countdown.
One of my hands trails up under her shirt, fingers splayed across her back, revelling in the flex of her muscles and the heat of her skin. She smells like a storm; like slick-soaked velvet and lust and sugar and her , and it fills my lungs until I can’t breathe around it, until my teeth ache and my vision threatens to white out from sheer, feral need .
I kiss her everywhere . Her lips, her cheek, the underside of her jaw, down her neck where her pulse is thundering. I nose at the space beneath her ear and inhale like it’ll save me before I scent her lightly, brushing my mouth along her skin.
It’s instinct. It’s reverence. It’s everything I’m trying not to take and somehow still give .
“F-Finn,” she stammers, head tucked into my neck now, “it’s—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” I whisper. “You’re doing so good. You’re so perfect. Let go for me, baby. Let me feel it.”
She stutters forward, the rhythm faltering for a second as her whole body trembles, and then, with a cry that rips through me like heat lightning, she comes apart: body locked, back arched, pussy pulsing slick and hot and desperate against my soaked thigh.
She grinds through it, riding every wave, fingers twisted in my shirt like she might fall through the world if she lets go.
And I just hold her . Hands steady, lips at her temple, murmuring nonsense and reverence into her hair as she collapses into me. All the while, my cock is leaking, twitching , painfully trapped in my shorts like it’s protesting my entire moral code, and I am holding on by the barest thread.
Frankie doesn’t move for a long moment. Her head rests on my shoulder, warm and heavy, her thighs still draped across mine and her bare cunt still pressed against my thigh like she’s permanently melted there.
Honestly? I kind of hope she has . I want to die right here, crushed under the weight of her orgasm and her trust and the scent of her slick in the air.
My brain’s trying to reboot but keeps error messaging. No blood flow available. Try again later.
And then she lifts her head and blinks at me with those dazed, heavy-lidded eyes and thick lashes; flushed and smug and glowing while I’m barely clinging to my last shred of composure. She shifts in my lap, sits up a little straighter, and kisses me.
Her mouth tastes like a secret, like something stolen from a better man’s fantasy, and I just take it . My hands find her waist, her back, sliding under the hem of her shirt again like I’m trying to ground myself before I float clean off the planet.
I’m making noises that definitely do not qualify as alpha-like. I’m saying things like, “ god ,” and “ fuck ,” and “ are you trying to kill me ?” in between breaths.
And then—oh no —
Her hand starts to move lower.
Sliding past the waistband of my shorts.
Warm fingers. Cool nails.
Touching me.
Wrapping around me.
And it’s over.
There is zero warning. Zero composure. My entire spinal cord just throws in the towel and screams EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF.
Her hand isn’t even moving that fast. It’s gentle , a little lazy—almost like she’s curious.
But my body?
Yeah.
My body thinks we’ve survived a war and this is the post-victory fireworks.
I jerk once. Twice. Make a noise that absolutely does not belong to a grown man.
And then I come—pathetically fast.
It’s like my soul just did a tactical evacuation via my dick. I finish with a strangled gasp and a full-body twitch, and Frankie pulls back slightly.
She blinks down at me. Then blinks again.
“Oh,” she says softly, lips parted in surprise.
I want to die. I want to apologise to the fucking Moon . I want to write her a formal letter of regret and light myself on fire.
“I’m…” I wheeze. “I didn’t—you’re just—you’re very effective.”
“Wow,” She bites back a grin. “That bad, huh?”
“No—that good ,” I groan. “ Criminally good. Honestly? I might need medical attention.”
“Well,” she grins, breathless, smug, and still panting slightly. “That was… efficient .”
I cover my face with both hands as blood rushes to my cheeks. “I was overstimulated, okay? It was the pheromones. I was already on the brink.”
“ Right ,” she nods. “Definitely not because I wrecked you with a single thigh ride and a well-timed squeeze.”
I groan again, and her smile widens. She leans in and kisses my cheek— my cheek , which should not feel like a spiritual awakening—and murmurs: “Helpful enough for you?”
I whimper.
That’s it. I whimper .
I’m never living this down.
Frankie flops forward, collapsing into my chest with a giddy little laugh that I feel all the way to my soul, and somehow, that’s worse .
Because she just made me come in my pants, and I am absolutely, hopelessly in love with her now.