Chapter 20 Mattaniah #2
"That's what I thought." His mouth finds my neck, his nose dragging from below my ear to the curve of my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. "Your mouth says this is a bad idea, but your body just told me exactly how you feel about bad ideas."
"My body is an unreliable narrator." But my hands are already gripping the front of his shirt and my head is tipping back to give him better access to my throat, the unlocked door behind him sending a thrill through my nervous system that I don't understand and can't control.
Amos' mouth opens against my neck and his teeth graze the skin, a question asked with his mouth instead of words. “This is one of the only rooms that man has never touched, not even on accident. It’s also one of the few rooms no one ever enters because people fucking hate restocking the printer.” The information pulls a short laugh out of me before it turns into a whine.
His hands slide from my hips to my ass and pull me flush against him.
I can feel him through his slacks, hard already, and the contact drags another sound from me that bounces off the supply room walls.
"Careful." His lips brush my ear. "Someone might hear you."
"Amos." My voice comes out breathy as I push against his chest. "We're at work."
"I know where we are." He spins me around so my chest presses against the shelving unit and his body lines up behind mine.
Printer paper and file boxes rattle as my weight hits the shelves, the noise making me flinch because it's loud enough to carry into the corridor.
His mouth finds the back of my neck, his hands working my belt open with a competence that tells me he's thought about doing exactly this.
"The question is whether you want me to stop. "
I don't want him to stop. The risk isn't killing the arousal. It's feeding it. Worse, I need this, even if I won’t voice it aloud. Smelling like Amos and being claimed by him is everything I need.
"Don't stop." My forehead presses against a shelf as my fingers wrap around the metal edge. "Don't you dare stop."
His hand slides into the front of my slick panties and wraps around my cock while his other hand shoves my pants and underwear down just far enough for access. Two fingers press into me through the gathered slick and I bite down on my own forearm to muffle the moan.
He works me open fast, his fingers scissoring while his palm keeps a steady rhythm on my cock. Behind me I hear his zipper and feel the blunt pressure of him lining up, before he pushes inside me in one steady thrust that makes the shelving unit rattle and my teeth sink deeper into my arm.
The pace he sets is quick, each stroke angled to hit the spot that makes my legs shake, his hand still working my cock in counterpoint to his thrusts. My breathing comes in sharp bursts through my nose because I don't trust my mouth to stay quiet.
My vision starts to haze as I let myself melt against the shelves until the sound of footsteps in the corridor bring me back to reality. We both freeze. Amos' cock is buried inside me and his hand is wrapped around mine, the both of us holding our breath while shoes head past the door.
The exhale that leaves me is shaky enough to rattle the shelving, Amos pressing his mouth against my ear.
"Your scent just spiked so hard I can taste it." His hips rock forward again, the resumed thrust after the frozen pause sending a bolt of pleasure through me that makes my knees buckle. "You loved that. Your whole body just lit up because someone almost caught us."
"Shut up." My voice is wrecked. "Shut up and finish what you started."
His pace picks up, harder now, the supply room filling with the wet sounds of him fucking me and the soft clink of shelving units rocking with each thrust. His hand tightens on my cock as his mouth stays pressed against my neck, his breath hot and uneven against my skin.
Amos' thumb swipes across the head of my cock and I come so hard my vision sparks, spilling over his hand and clenching around him in waves that pull a groan from his chest. He follows me over the edge two thrusts later, his knot starting to swell before he pulls out because knotting in a supply closet on a workday is apparently where even Amos draws the line.
He spills into my ass, his forehead dropping against my shoulder while his breathing evens out.
The warm mess trickles between my ass cheeks as he pulls out.
I'm going to need to clean up before I go back to my desk, which is a logistical problem my brain files under "deal with in sixty seconds when the room stops spinning. "
The slick panties catch most of the mess on my end, which I note with the grudging admission that Dominic's possessive underwear gift is actually proving useful in ways none of us anticipated.
Amos turns me around and cups my face in both hands, my cum coating the side of my cheek from his fingers.
His gaze darkens as he starts massaging into my skin before catching himself.
"Tell me you didn't love that." His voice deepens, a huskier edge to it than usual.
"Tell me the footsteps didn't make it better. "
I open my mouth to deny it but nothing comes out because we both know the truth and lying about it would insult his intelligence and mine.
The risk of being caught made my body respond in a way that no locked bedroom has ever achieved, and the fact that I’m a complete mess of cum and slick right now just makes it even better.
"I'm not saying it," I mutter. "You already know, so I'm not giving you the satisfaction of hearing me say it."
"I do already know." He presses his lips to mine, his hands still framing my face.
"I knew in the kitchen when you moaned loud enough to echo off the tile.
You like the danger, Niah. You spent your whole life being invisible and quiet and controlled, and the thing that makes you come hardest is the possibility that someone might see you being the opposite of all that. "
"Don't psychoanalyze me while I have your cum leaking into my panties."
He laughs against my mouth. "Fair enough."
We clean up as much as we can with paper towels from the supply shelf, which is at least convenient.
Amos straightens my collar and fixes my belt while I finger-comb my hair into something that doesn't scream supply closet sex.
But then his hands keep moving, pressing against my neck, my wrists, the insides of my elbows, and rubbing his scent into every pulse point with a thoroughness that goes far beyond cleanup.
"You're marking me."
"Yes." He doesn't pretend otherwise. He presses his nose against my throat, holding there for a moment before pulling back. "Every trace of him. I'm covering every trace of him."
"Amos—"
"He put his hands on you." His voice is steady but his eyes are nearly black. "He told you we can't protect you. So now every Alpha on this floor is going to smell me on you for the rest of the day. They're going to know you're claimed. They're going to know you're not his."
"Including your father."
His hands don’t stop moving as he continues to caress me.
"Especially my father. Let him smell me on you.
Let him know that every time he touches you, I'm going to touch you more.
Every time he tries to mark you, I'm going to mark over it.
" His forehead drops against mine. "You're not his, Niah.
You're never going to be his. I don't care what it costs to make that true. "
We leave the supply room separately, Amos first, me two minutes later after I catch my breath.
The corridor is empty and I make it to the elevator without encountering anyone, which is a small mercy because my legs are still unsteady and my scent is broadcasting freshly-fucked Omega despite the blocker's best efforts.
The moment the elevator doors close, I lean against the wall and press my hands over my face.
My body is still buzzing. The exhibitionism aspect of all of this isn't something I knew about myself.
At my desk, Tamsin's nostrils flare the second I sit down.
Her eyes widen a fraction before she schools her expression into something neutral.
"Good visit?" She asks, not looking up from her screen.
"Productive." I pull my keyboard toward me. "Very productive."
"Mm-hm." She turns a page. "You have printer paper lint on your collar."
I brush it off as my face heats while I grab a change of panties from my bag and rush toward the bathroom. I discard the dirtied ones, refusing to bring those back to my desk and spend the rest of the afternoon pretending to work while my body hums with a slight growing need.
A text from Amos arrives at four fifteen. Same time tomorrow?
I type back: You're going to get us fired.
His response: That's not a no.
He's right. It's not, but I’m still not doing it.