Chapter twenty-six #2
She does it. Bare skin to denim, light as a feather, but she leaves it there.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does. Blue eyes, wide as oceans. She isn’t afraid. Not really. She’s waiting.
“Do you like doing what I say?” My voice is rough, almost breaking.
She doesn’t answer.
I lean in, grab her by the wrist, squeeze it a little. Her breath hitches.
“I asked you a question, Stray.”
She stares at me. For a second I think she’s going to bolt, but instead she whispers, “Yes.”
“Say it louder.”
“Yes,” she says, louder this time.
“Why?” I demand, my hand still on her. “Why do you like it?”
She shakes her head. She doesn’t know, or maybe she doesn’t want to say.
I let go. “You’re pathetic.”
She looks down. I expect her to take her hand away, but she doesn’t. She leaves it there, pressed to my leg.
“Get up,” I say. “Go get me a snack. Chips. The spicy ones.”
She scrambles to her feet, hurries to the kitchen. I hear her dig through the pantry, hear the crinkle of the bag.
I watch her the whole time. The shape of her body, how her hair falls down her back. I never looked at her before, not like this. She’s not my type. She’s not even a type. But right now, with every order I give, she melts a little more, and I can’t get enough.
She brings the chips and sets them on the table. Her cheeks are flushed, scent growing thicker. I know she’s aroused. I know it because I can smell it, because I’ve smelled it a thousand times on myself, on other omegas, on the people who used to come for me in the dark.
But this is different. She’s not scared. She wants it.
She has to want it.
“Sit next to me,” I say, patting the couch.
She does. We’re side by side now. I can see her fists, white-knuckled on her knees. The little bite mark stands out on her skin. She keeps glancing at me from the side, like she’s wary of what I might do next. I like that. I like that her instincts warn her I’m dangerous.
I lean over, close the space between us. I grab the back of her head and pull, gentle but firm, until her face is upturned, looking at me.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask. It comes out a growl. “Why do I want to…”
I don’t finish. I can’t. She tilts her head further, offering her throat. Completely open.
I snap. I push her, not hard, but enough to tip her over. She lands on her back on the couch, hair splayed out, looking up at me. I straddle her, knees on either side of her thighs, my hands pinning her wrists above her head.
“You’re not scared?” I ask.
“No,” she whispers.
She trusts me with this.
That should terrify me more than anything else.
I bare my teeth. “You should be.”
I bend down, nuzzle her neck, right where the scent is strongest. She goes soft under me, making a little sound—half whimper, half moan. It goes straight to my head. I bite her, not hard, but enough to leave a mark.
She gasps.
I long to ruin her. I want to make her forget every other alpha, every other man that ever touched her. I need her to belong to me in a separate way than my alphas do. Different. Meaner. Hungrier.
I grab her by the hair, firmly but gentle, and haul her upright.
“Bedroom,” I snarl.
She goes. She almost runs to her room, like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind if she moves slow.
I follow.
I slam the door behind us.
I push her onto the bed, crawl up after her. I’m on top, hands on either side of her head, staring down.
She’s trembling with excitement. She’s as drawn to me as I am to her and neither one of us understands why.
I press my face into her neck, breathe her in.
Her fingers are on my back, nails digging in, not to fight but to keep me close.
“Say it,” I order. “Tell me you want this.”
She does. “I want this. I want you.”
She’s telling the truth. I can see it in her face. She won’t admit it, but she knows exactly why she wants me.
Because she knows I can see all the ugliest parts of her and I want her anyway. Here we are… two broken omegas finding what we’re missing in each other instead of the alphas we both want.
I laugh, and it sounds like a sob. “You’re fucking hopeless.”
She smiles, and I see it—the real Lily, the one who can take a hit and keep going. The one who makes herself small, but who can survive anything.
I want her. All of her.
I want her so bad it hurts.
I pull her shirt up, mouth on her skin, kissing, biting, marking every inch. She arches under me, making those little sounds that drive me insane.
I’m not gentle. I don’t want to be. She’s had gentle from alphas, and it never stuck. Maybe she needs something else.
I give it to her.
I give her everything.
There’s no thought in it. Instinct, raw and hungry, the part of me that’s been caged for years and finally found a way out.
She’s on her back, legs parted, eyes huge and wet. I lean over, teeth at her throat, and her hands go to my shoulders, nails digging in like she wants to climb inside me. I barely notice when I tear her shirt, pulling it open, mouth on her collarbone, leaving teeth marks everywhere I go.
She whimpers when I bite, and the sound makes me harder.
I need her to remember this. I need her to see the marks tomorrow and know she belongs to me, not to Gabriel or Garrett or Cyrus or the Carrs or anyone else. Me.
I push her shirt up, bra too, and stare. I’ve never been with a girl before, not really, but I know what’s supposed to happen. I’m not stupid. She’s smaller than I thought she’d be. Everything about her is soft, pale, and breakable.
“Hold still,” I snarl, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. With the other, I run my fingers down her ribs, over her stomach, hooking them under the waistband of her leggings.
She gasps. I want her to beg. I want to hear her say please.
But she’s quiet, mouth open, breath ragged, letting me do whatever I please.
I rip the leggings down, underwear too. She kicks them off without being told.
I pause, stare at her, at what I’m about to take. I ache to say something cruel, because I’m a mean bastard, but I can’t. There’s nothing to say.
I spread her knees, settle between them.
I’m still in my jeans, the pressure almost unbearable. I fumble with the zipper, drag them down enough to be free. I’m trembling, not with fear but with how bad I need this.
I press in, not all the way, rubbing myself against her, smearing her slick. My own slick is leaking even though there are no alpha pheromones in the room. She’s tight, tighter than I expected.
She whines, hips lifting to meet me.
“Fuck,” I say, and bite her again, hard enough to bruise.
I push in, slow. I don’t want to hurt her. I want to hurt her just enough.
She shudders, heels digging into the mattress, but she takes it, inch by inch, until I’m buried in her.
She’s so hot inside I almost lose it. I have to freeze, count backwards from ten, before I can move again.
When I start to fuck her, it’s fast, rough, the same rhythm I like for myself when I’m alone. But she likes it too. She’s louder now, making real noise, little cries that get shriller when I slap her ass or squeeze her hips or tits hard.
I don’t talk. I’m not good at talking during sex. Not unless my alphas are making me answer them. But I need to make her say things.