A Storage Tent #2
"Cliff?" Perrin's voice comes from somewhere behind us. It sounds far away, muffled, like he's speaking through water. "What do you mean, omega? She's—she’s wearing scrubs. She works here. She's a beta."
Cliff doesn't answer. He doesn't even lift his head. His mouth drags up the other side of my throat, and his teeth graze my scent gland, and my body arches into him.
"Alpha." Perrin's voice is sharper now. Confused. Maybe scared. "What the hell is happening?"
A low, rumbling growl rolls out of Cliff's chest. It sounds like a warning. The kind of sound that tells another person to back the fuck up.
Silence.
Then I hear the soft crunch of boots on dirt, the rustle of canvas, and the bright wedge of daylight narrows and disappears as the tent flap falls shut.
Perrin is gone.
I should care about that.
Some distant, buried part of me knows I should feel bad, or worried, or at least aware that a man just walked out of this tent confused and half-wrecked because of me.
But Cliff's tongue is in my mouth and his hand is in my hair and he tastes like dark chocolate and smoke, and I can't hold onto a single thought that isn't him.
And I don't want to.
Angling my head to one side, I open my mouth wider, letting Cliff kiss me deeper. I grind against him, slick pouring from me, finally soaking through my underwear, through my scrubs, a hot flood that I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.
Every gush of arousal is a relief, my body finally giving in to what it's been fighting all day.
And I know Cliff feels it because his grip on my thigh tightens and the growl drops an octave and his hips roll forward, grinding his big alpha cock against me with a desperation that matches my own.
Even through the layers of our clothes, I can feel the thick, hard length of him, a promise of the stretch and fullness my body craves.
The friction is electric, a maddening tease that sends a fresh wave of slick soaking my thighs.
My hands find the collar of his shirt and I pull. The fabric stretches, resists, and I pull harder, My fingers twist and yank and I hear stitches pop.
I need it off.
I need skin.
I need his scent with nothing between us.
Cliff breaks the kiss long enough to grab the hem of his shirt and wrench it over his head in one rough motion. It catches on his chin before he tugs it free and throws it somewhere behind him, and then his hands are back on me, dragging at the hem of my scrub top, hauling it upward.
I tighten my legs around his waist to keep from falling as he rips my sports bra right off my body. I register a slight, sharp pain as the rough elastic around my ribs pops and then falls away.
Cool air hits my stomach, my ribs, and then one hand reaches up and palms my breast. We both make a sound at the same time—mine high and wrecked, his low and guttural.
“Fuck,” Cliff snarls, before kissing me again.
His body is so hot against mine.
His skin is soft with firm muscle, and barely any body hair.
The feel of his hands sends a shockwave through me so intense that my back arches and my nails rake down his shoulders, leaving lines I can feel rising under my fingertips.
He hisses and bites my lower lip. Hard.
I bite him back, sinking my teeth into his full lower lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure, then he pulls back enough to look at me, his eyes burning with a feral light. "Do that again," he growls, his voice a raw command. "Fucking bite me again."
And I do.
He moans louder this time as his hands grip my thighs, shifting to lower me to the ground. He bends at the knees, loosening his hold so my legs will unhook from his waist, but my arms instinctively lock tighter around his neck, clinging to him like he's trying to throw me into the ocean.
Don’t let me go!
"Easy, sweetheart," Cliff grunts, but I'm already scrambling, pulling myself higher, pressing my face into his neck, my legs squeezing so tight around his ribs that his breath comes out in a wheeze.
And he moves.
One arm bands across my back like an iron bar.
He drops to his knees and takes me with him, then he drives me down onto the ground in one fluid motion.
His hands are rough, demanding, tearing at the drawstring of my scrubs.
The fabric rips, then he yanks my underwear down, the elastic snapping against my skin.
I'm naked, completely exposed. The warm summer air hits my wet pussy, making me gasp, then grunt as another cramp hits me.
I try to scramble back into his arms, desperate for his weight, but he pushes me back, his hands firm on my hips. My shoulders hit the hard ground and his weight comes down on top of me, his hand flat against my breastbone, pressing me into the dirt while his knees pin my thighs apart.
But I keep thrashing on instinct.
I’m so empty. So horribly, painfully empty.
My body bucks and twists against the hold, and another snarl rips from my throat, but the alpha doesn't budge. His hand shifts to my hip, pinning me in place. The raw, effortless strength of him sends a bolt of heat through me so intense my back arches off the floor.
Oh God.
He's strong. Really strong.
The kind of strong that could fold me in half and not break a sweat. The kind of strong that could hold me down and take exactly what he wants, and there's not a single thing I could do about it.
The thought makes me so wet I can barely breathe.
“Please,” I mewl as I reach for his belt.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely find the buckle.
I'm clawing at the leather, fingers slipping, and a frustrated whine builds in my chest because I can feel him, hard and straining against the denim.
But there are too many layers and too many buckles, and the world is going to end if I don't get them off him in the next three seconds.
“It’s okay.” His hand covers mine. Steadies it. Then he flicks the belt open with one hand, and the button and zipper follow and then there's nothing left between us but heat and want and the slick mess I've made of us both.
He lifts his hips, and I brace myself.
I can feel the thick, hot head of his cock brush over the seam of my pussy, a teasing, devastating promise that makes my whole body clench with need. But instead of giving me what I need, Cliff’s grip on my hip softens.
His hand rises, and rough, calloused fingers brush carefully along my jaw.
He’s so gentle it makes my chest ache.
"Pretty little thing," he murmurs, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. His gaze moves over my face slowly, drinking me in, and for one still moment the frenzy pulls back like a tide, and it's just him looking at me. “Where did you come from?”
My mouth opens.
I want to tell him. I want to explain everything. That I work here, that I'm not supposed to be like this, that something is wrong with me and I don't know how to stop it.
The words are right there, stacked up inside my throat, and I can feel the shape of them on my tongue.
But what comes out is a shattered, airless whine as a cramp seizes me so hard I curl inward. My hands fly to my stomach and my knees pull up, and the pain rolls through me in a vicious, clenching wave that steals every scrap of breath I have.
Cliff goes still above me. He doesn't speak or move. He simply watches, his eyes tracking every flinch and tremor with a focused intensity that cuts right through me.
It’s like he’s reading me, still trying to figure out if I’m actually an omega or not. It’s infuriating.
“Please,” I snarl then grunt when another wave of slick rushes from my body. It’s hot and involuntary, and my hands fly to his shoulders to steady myself.
I need this alpha inside me now.
He's mine.
All fucking mine.
And I might kill him if he doesn’t fuck me soon.