Chapter 13 #3
"You're dripping." His voice has dropped to something rough and low, the control fraying at the edges, and the fraying is what makes him lethal because Eirik without control is the alpha his wolf has been trying to be since the first bandage change.
"Through the cloth. Through everything. Your omega's been begging for this since I collapsed at the cottage door. "
He pulls the fabric aside. His fingers push inside me without preamble, two, stretching, and the slick eases the intrusion while my inner walls clamp down on them with a greed that mortifies the part of me still capable of mortification.
The omega clenches around his fingers in rhythmic contractions I'm not directing, pulling at him, demanding more than two fingers can provide.
The suppressant's absence means nothing is muted: the roughness of his knuckles, the curl of his fingertips dragging against the spot that makes my thighs shake and my inner walls flutter, the wet sound of his hand working me open, the slick running down the inside of my thigh.
He works me with the focus of a wolf who knows exactly what he's doing and doesn't intend to be gentle about it. My wrists twist against his grip. The stone scrapes my back.
I can hear myself making sounds that the healer has never made and the woman can't stop making, and the scent of my arousal is filling the sealed infirmary with a sweetness that the compound has been burying since girlhood.
This is what an unsuppressed omega smells like when she's being taken apart.
The whole corridor can probably smell it through the door.
"Let go," I manage. It isn't a command. It's barely words.
"No." His thumb finds my clit, and the pressure sends a white flare through my vision. My inner walls seize around his fingers hard enough that I hear the catch in his breathing. "You locked the door. You opened it. You pulled me in. This is what happens after."
He withdraws his fingers. The loss of them leaves me clenching on nothing, my body contracting around the absence with a need that borders on pain.
I hear the sound of his belt. The scrape of leather through the buckle.
His cock against me a breath later, the broad head pressing against my entrance where the slick has made everything wet and open and ready in ways I never authorized.
He pushes inside me in a single, unbroken stroke.
The stretch is immediate, the fullness consuming.
He's thick, and I yield to him in a slow, slick surrender that registers from my pelvis to the base of my throat.
Something primal responds, a deep, involuntary contraction that pulls him the rest of the way in, my inner walls clamping tight around the full length of him as if the designation has decided the woman's objections are no longer relevant.
What comes out of me is low and broken, dragged from the place where the omega lives, and it carries enough scent information that his nostrils flare and his hips snap forward to seat himself deeper, grinding against my cervix with a pressure that sends sparks across my vision.
He doesn't wait for me to adjust. He sets a pace that is hard and deliberate, each thrust driving me up the rough surface and dragging me back down onto him.
The angle means he hits deep on each stroke, and the wet, obscene sound of our bodies fills the infirmary alongside the slick that's running freely between us, coating his cock, dripping onto his thighs.
My inner walls grip him with each withdrawal as if trying to keep him inside me, and the gripping answers to nothing I control. The healer in me mapped this imperative in textbooks and never experienced it from the inside, and the inside is nothing like the textbook.
He fucks me against the wall of my own infirmary, and the word is the only honest one left. Fucking, raw and desperate, the slap of his hips against the inside of my thighs and the scrape of stone on my back and the grunt that escapes him every time I clench hard enough to slow his next thrust.
I try to catalog the physiological response the way I'd catalog any other case study.
Elevated heart rate. Vaso congestion. Involuntary muscular contractions of the pelvic floor.
I get three terms deep before his cock hits the spot that makes my spine arch off the stone, and the terminology scatters like pins on a floor and what's left is just a woman being fucked by the wolf she can't stop wanting.
The swelling at the base of his cock thickens with each stroke, the knot precursor building where he enters me.
Something is building toward a lock neither of us can afford tonight, and the thickening drags against my entrance on each withdrawal, my omega pulsing around it with a hungry clench that would pull the knot in if he let it form. He won't.
The effort of that refusal shows in the stutter of his rhythm, the way he pulls back a fraction earlier to keep the base from catching. He's fighting his own body to stop it from locking us together, and the fighting is costing him.
"Signe." My name again, rougher now, the consonants breaking apart.
His mouth finds the claiming site, and his lips press against the unmarked skin with a deliberation that makes my stomach drop, because it means he's thought about this specific patch of skin.
He's mapped it. He knows what biting there would do, and the knowing is on his mouth like a promise he's choosing not to keep.
The restraint is worse than roughness, because roughness I can fight and restraint I can't. The restraint of an alpha who wants to sink his teeth into my claiming site while he's buried inside me is the most dangerous thing I've ever felt against my throat.
He doesn't bite. The cost of not biting shows in the shake of his jaw against my throat, in the way his teeth graze the skin and stop.
He's holding back the one thing his wolf demands, and the holding back is the most devastating thing he's ever done to me, because it means this isn't about biology.
It means he's choosing. Each thrust, each graze of teeth against the claiming site, each moment he doesn't close his jaw is a choice that the alpha instinct screaming inside him hasn't overridden.
His hand releases my wrists and drops to my hip, gripping hard enough to bruise.
The other follows, fingers digging into the flesh above my hipbone, angling me so the next thrust hits deeper than anything before it.
My freed hands find his shoulders and dig in hard enough to break skin, because the alternative is losing the last thing anchoring me to this room.
The orgasm doesn't build. It detonates. One moment I'm holding the edge with my fingernails in his shoulders and my teeth in my own lip, and the next the omega seizes around him in contractions so strong they register in my spine, wave after wave of clenching that locks my body down on his cock and pulls at the thickening base with a greed that has nothing to do with the woman and everything to do with the designation she's spent her life suppressing.