Chapter 23 #3
A whimper escapes my throat. My hips buck into my fist, chasing the sensation.
The hollow ache inside me is worse now, not better—a gnawing emptiness that my hand can't reach.
I want to be filled. Need to be filled. My hole is slick and loose and clenching around nothing, and I hate how much I want something inside me.
Bane against my bedroom wall. His mouth on mine, soft at first, then hungrier. The groan that rumbled through his chest when he tasted me. The way his pupils blew wide, black swallowing hazel, like I was a drug he couldn't resist. The hard length of him pressed against my hip.
I'm panting now. Gasping. The cold water does nothing—I can't even feel it anymore, lost in the heat building at the base of my spine, in my balls drawing up tight, in the desperate rhythm of my hand.
Three of them. All of them. What would it feel like to have all of them at once?
The fantasy takes hold before I can stop it.
Atlas behind me, those steady hands gripping my hips, his cock thick and heavy pressing against my entrance. Zero in front, fisting my hair, dragging my mouth to his cock, making me taste him. Bane beside us, watching, stroking himself, waiting his turn.
I twist my wrist. Squeeze tighter. My thumb drags over the sensitive head and I shudder, a broken sound escaping my lips.
Taking turns. Or taking me together—Atlas inside me while Zero fucks my mouth, Bane's hands everywhere, all of them growling and groaning and fighting over who gets to make me come.
"Fuck," I gasp out loud. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
My balls tighten. My spine arches. I'm so close, teetering on the edge, every muscle in my body wound tight.
All three of them filling me up. Claiming me. Making me theirs.
I come with a choked-off cry, spilling over my fist in hot, pulsing streaks. My knees buckle. I catch myself against the wall, shaking through the aftershocks, wave after wave of release crashing through me until I'm empty and gasping and barely able to stand.
The orgasm seems to go on forever. Longer than it should. Harder than it should. My cock twitches and spurts again, a second wave I wasn't expecting, and I moan—loud, desperate, grateful the shower covers the sound.
When it finally fades, I'm trembling. Wrung out. The cold water beats down on my back and I let it, too weak to move, watching my release swirl down the drain.
Then the shame creeps in.
I just jerked off thinking about my stepbrothers. All three of them. At the same time.
I let the cold water run over my face, washing away the evidence, wishing it could wash away the memory too. But it can't. Nothing can. The images are seared into my brain now, and I know they'll be back the next time the heat spikes, the next time my body betrays me.
This is getting worse.
The suppressants are completely gone from my system now—they have to be. Whatever buffer they provided has eroded away, leaving me raw and exposed and at the mercy of a biology I never asked for.
I need to do something. Need to find more suppressants, or see a doctor, or something. I can't keep going like this. Can't keep sitting at dinner tables pretending I'm fine while my body screams for things I can't have.
I turn off the water. Step out of the shower. Don't bother with a towel.
The bathroom mirror is fogged, but I wipe a streak clear with my forearm. And there I am.
I barely recognize myself.
My cheekbones are sharper than they used to be—I've lost weight, I realize. The hollows under my eyes are bruised purple, testament to nights of restless, fever-dream sleep. My skin has a flush to it that won't fade, a permanent heat-blush that makes me look feverish. Sick. Wanting.
My hair is plastered to my forehead, dark and dripping.
Water trails down my chest, catching in the sparse hair there, sliding over the faint definition of muscles I never worked hard enough to build.
I'm not built like them—not broad and powerful like Atlas, not lean and lethal like Zero, not golden and athletic like Bane.
I'm small. Soft in places I wish I wasn't. Built like exactly what I am.
An omega.
I press my palm flat against my chest. Feel my heart still hammering beneath my ribs. My skin is hot under my hand, even now, even after the cold shower and the desperate release. The heat never really leaves. It just... waits.
I drag my hand down slowly. Over the plane of my stomach. The jut of my hipbone. I stop before I reach anything else. I'm not hard anymore—finally—but I can still feel the echo of it. The ghost of need that's become my constant companion.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I ask my reflection.
He doesn't answer. Just stares back at me with those dark-circled eyes, that flushed skin, that body that refuses to behave.
I think about Linda. What she used to say when she caught me looking at myself. Disgusting. Filthy. Do you have any idea what you are?
I know what I am.
I press my hand harder against my chest, nails digging in slightly, leaving little crescents in my skin. It hurts. Good. I want it to hurt. I want something—anything—to anchor me to reality, to remind me that I'm more than just this hungry, needy body that keeps betraying me.
"Fucking stop," I hiss at myself. My voice is raw. Wrecked. "Just—stop."
But my body doesn't listen. It never listens.
I can't control this. That's the whole point. That's what makes omegas what we are—slaves to a biology we never chose, prisoners of hormones and heats and the desperate, aching need for an alpha's touch.
I drop my hand. Step back from the mirror.
The boy looking back at me is a stranger. Hollow-eyed and heat-flushed and falling apart at the seams.
I hate him.
I hate every fragile, needy inch of him.