Finch
He pulls me into him and I go.
I wish I could say I put up a fight. That I shoved his hand away, told him to fuck off, told him I was here for literally anyone else.
That he doesn’t get to stalk my heat cycle and just expect me to roll over for him.
But his hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, thumb digging in, and I just melt.
My forehead lands on his bare chest and I breathe him in, and the noise I make is so desperate I want to punch myself.
He’s warm, he smells even stronger up close, and I end up pressing my face into him like I’m trying to disappear.
“That’s it.” His hand moves up into my hair, fingers threading through it, cradling the back of my skull. “God, you smell good. You smell even better than I remember and I remember everything.”
“You’re insane,” I mutter into his skin. His scent is everywhere, in my nose, on my tongue, all over me. I’m hard enough to hurt and my heat is just getting worse with every breath.
“Probably.” He says it easily. His other hand settles on my lower back, wide and warm, pulling me closer.
“I calculated your heat cycle. Did you know that? Three months average, give or take a week based on suppressant history and stress levels. I had a window. Showed up every Thursday in that window.” His hand slides lower, settles on my hip. “This is Thursday seven.”
Seven Thursdays. He’s been showing up here every week for almost two months, just waiting for me. That realization hits me somewhere between creeped out and turned on, and my knees actually go a little weak.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, but my hips are pressing into him, my body grinding against his in tiny involuntary movements that make a liar of every word coming out of my mouth.
“I know your scent. I know what your body sounds like when it gets what it needs. I know what makes you come.” His mouth is near my ear, his breath warm through the mask.
“I know you spent five months trying to convince yourself you didn’t need to come back here.
I know you failed. I know you showed up tonight telling yourself any alpha would do, and I know what happened when you caught my scent. ”
My face is on fire behind the mask. Thinking about what happened earlier—me on my knees in the entryway, everyone watching—makes me want to crawl under a table, but my body just gets off on it. My cock throbs against his thigh, slick everywhere, and his hand tightens on my hip.
“Everyone saw that,” he murmurs. “Every alpha on this floor watched you come from my scent. You know what that tells them?”
I shake my head against his chest.
“That you’re mine.” He says it the same way he said everything else — warm, easy, certain.
Like he’s stating a fact he confirmed a long time ago and is just now sharing with the class.
“That whatever you told yourself in the parking lot, your body already made the decision. It made the decision five months ago.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, and it comes out broken and wanting and nothing like the insult I intended.
His hand tightens in my hair. Pulls my head back so I’m looking up at him and I can see his eyes through the mask, dark and focused and hungry but patient underneath the hunger. Patient the way he was last time. Patient the way someone is when they already know the outcome.
“I will,” he says. “But first I’m going to taste you. I’ve been thinking about it for five months and I’m done waiting.”
He starts walking me backward, hand on my hip, and I just go with it because my body’s not giving me a choice. My back hits the wall—cold concrete through my shirt—and his hands go straight for my belt.
We’re just out here, in the open. There’s an alcove ten feet away, but he doesn’t even look at it. He’s going to do this right here, against the wall, where anyone can see. The idea hits me so hard I actually get dizzy.
“Wait—” I start, because there are people, because an omega two platforms over is getting knotted and the alphas by the bar are watching the room and a beta with a water tray is passing six feet away.
“No.” Simple. Final. His fingers pop the button on my jeans. “I’ve waited long enough.”
He drags my jeans down and the air hits the mess between my legs and I squeeze my eyes shut behind the mask.
I’m soaked. The fabric of my boxer briefs is transparent with slick, clinging to my cock, to the crease of my thighs.
He peels them down and my cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and the cool air makes me hiss.
He drops to his knees.
Seeing him kneeling in front of me—this guy who tracked my heat cycle for seven weeks and just claimed me like it was nothing—my brain just short-circuits.
He’s on his knees on the concrete, looking up at me through his mask, hands on my thighs, pushing them apart.
I can feel his breath on my cock and I’m shaking so bad the wall behind me is rattling.
He doesn’t touch my cock. He bypasses it completely, his hands sliding around to grip my ass, and he pulls my hips forward and buries his face between my legs.
The first touch of his tongue on my hole tears a sound out of me that I hear bouncing off the ceiling.
Hot and wet and firm, dragging flat over me, and my hands fly to his head and grab fistfuls of his hair through the mask because I need to hold onto something or I’m going to slide down this wall.
He licks me again, slower, and makes a sound against me, a low hum of satisfaction that vibrates through my most sensitive skin.
“Fuck.” He breathes it against me. “You taste the same. Sweeter. Five months of making yourself come alone and saving all this up for me.” His thumbs spread me wider and his tongue drags up through the slick, slow and filthy, and the sound he makes is a groan that vibrates through my hole.
“This pretty little hole. Been dreaming about it. Dreaming about how wet you get, how easy you open up, how your whole body just melts when someone puts their mouth here.”
Pretty. Of course he says it. That word hits every nerve I have and makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
He said it five months ago and it’s been stuck in my head at three in the morning ever since.
Now his mouth is right there and he’s calling me pretty again, and my cock is leaking all over the floor.
He pushes his tongue inside me and I stop thinking.
His tongue is thick and wet and insistent, licking into me while his hands hold my hips against the wall, fucking me with his mouth in slow deliberate strokes that make me clench around him.
I’m making sounds I can’t control, high gasping moans that I can hear mixing with the bass and the ambient noise of the floor.
The beta with the water tray passes us without a glance.
An alpha at the bar turns to watch, tilting his head, and the knowledge that I’m being observed — pants around my ankles, cock hard and dripping, an alpha’s face buried in my ass against a concrete wall — hits me like a drug.
My cock jerks and precome drips down the shaft.
He goes down on me like he hasn’t eaten in days.
Five months of just remembering my scent clearly wasn’t enough for him.
His tongue is working in and out of me, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks.
He pulls back, spits on my hole—so fucking filthy I actually moan—and then he’s back at it, licking through the mess and talking between licks, voice muffled against my skin.
“So fucking wet. You’re dripping for me, baby. Soaking my face.” His tongue circles my rim, pushes in, pulls out. “The sweetest omega on this floor and you’re all mine. Every drop.”
My legs buckle. He catches me, one arm hooked under my thigh, holding me up, holding me open, and keeps going. His tongue pushes deeper and his thumb finds my perineum and presses and a sound comes out of me that I’ve never made before, something between a wail and a whimper.
“Please—” The word is out before I can catch it. “Please, I can’t—”
He pulls back enough to speak and his voice is wrecked, rough and low, and his mouth and chin are shining with my slick.
“You can. You’re going to.” He turns his head and bites the inside of my thigh, hard enough to leave a mark, and then soothes it with his tongue.
“Look at these thighs. Shaking for me. Soaked for me. You’ve been dripping since you walked in, haven’t you?
Wet through your jeans in the parking lot, wet on the floor, and now you’re dripping down my chin.
” He bites again, higher, closer to where I need him.
“I want to lick every inch of you. I want to taste the slick on the back of your knees. I want my face between your legs until you can’t stand. ”
He goes down on me again and that’s it. I’m done fighting, done pretending I have any control left. My head hits the wall and I stop even trying to keep quiet. I’m making noises I don’t recognize, loud enough that people are definitely looking, and I can feel their eyes on me like a spotlight.
He adds a finger alongside his tongue and I whine. Pushes it in deep and crooks it and my whole body seizes. My cock is untouched, bobbing against my stomach, leaking steadily, and my hole is clenching around his finger and his tongue and I’m close, I’m so close from just this.
“Oh god.” My fingers tighten in his hair. “I’m going to — fuck, I’m —”
He pulls his mouth away. I nearly scream. His finger stays inside me but his tongue is gone and the loss is so acute my vision swims. He looks up at me, his chin wet, his eyes dark through the mask, and slides a second finger in beside the first and starts fucking me with them, slow and deliberate.
“You’re going to come for me again,” he says.
Conversational. Like we’re discussing what to have for dinner.
“You came on the floor from just my scent and now you’re going to come on my fingers and then I’m going to fuck you.
That’s three before I even knot you.” His fingers scissor inside me and the stretch makes me gasp.
“Three orgasms before you even get my cock. You know what that makes you?”
I shake my head. I can’t speak.
“Greedy.” He says it like praise. “A greedy, desperate, perfect little omega who’s going to take everything I give him and beg for more.
That’s what you are. That’s what you’ve always been and you can fight it all you want but your body—” He curls his fingers and presses into the spot that makes my vision go white. “Your body doesn’t lie.”
His fingers get into a rhythm, hitting that spot every time and making me arch off the wall. My cock is untouched, leaking everywhere, and slick is running down his hand. The sound of it is so wet and loud I know everyone nearby can hear.
“I had a lot of time to plan,” he continues, his voice dropping lower.
“Sitting at that bar, watching the door. I’d think about this.
About getting my fingers back inside you.
About the sounds you made last time when I told you I was going to breed that pretty little hole until you couldn’t walk.
” He twists his fingers and my thighs shake so hard my teeth chatter.
“About the way you sounded when you said yes, please, more.”
“I didn’t—” I’m gasping, barely coherent. “I didn’t say—”
“You did. You begged me. You begged me to breed you and fill you up and use you and you came so hard you blacked out and then you ran.” He adds a third finger and the stretch burns and I moan so loud an omega across the floor lifts his head to look.
“You ran because you liked being my pretty little omega too much. Because hearing me tell you what you were made for got you off harder than anything ever has and you couldn’t handle it. ”
His free hand comes up and wraps around my cock and I sob.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, stroking, pressing, three fingers deep inside me and his fist tight on my cock.
“Tell me you haven’t fucked yourself alone in your bed replaying every filthy thing I called you.
Tell me you haven’t come with your hand between your legs whispering breed me to an empty room. ”
I can’t say any of that, because he’s right. I’ve done all of it—face in a pillow, fingers inside myself, whispering the shit he said to me while I came so hard I actually cried. And the fact that he knows, that he can just read it on me, makes me want to scream.
He presses deep inside me and strokes my cock from root to tip and I come apart against the wall.
My body convulses, cock pulsing in his fist, slick flooding over his fingers, my hole clenching in rhythmic waves around him.
The orgasm is different from the scent one — fuller, more complete, rolling through me in heavy pulses that make my legs give out completely.
He catches me with his arm under my thigh and holds me up while I shake apart, stroking me through it, his fingers still buried inside me, and I’m crying out with every wave, loud and wrecked and broken and I don’t care who hears it because I’m past caring about anything except the feeling of his hands on me, in me, holding me together while I fall apart.
It takes a while to come down. The aftershocks fade and I slump against the wall, shaking, cock going soft in his hand, his fingers still inside me.
He pulls them out slow and I actually flinch at how empty I feel.
My legs are useless. He knows it, because he stands up and just hauls me against his chest, holding me up while I shake, face pressed into his neck, breathing him in like I’m never going to get enough.
“Two,” he says against my hair. Soft, amused, satisfied. “That’s two. You want to know how many I’m going to give you tonight?”
“I hate you,” I say again, for the second time, and this time it sounds like something else entirely.
His hand slides into my hair. His lips press against my temple through the mask. “I know, baby. Come on. We’re not done.”
He crouches down and yanks my jeans off the rest of the way, dumping them and my shoes in a pile on the concrete.
He pulls my shirt over my head and I just let him, because I’ve given up pretending I have any control over what happens to me tonight.
I’m naked on the floor of Knot Club, he’s still got his jeans on, and somehow that makes my cock twitch again, even though I’m spent.
He grabs my hand and leads me toward the alcoves.
I follow, legs shaking, naked and messy and totally wrecked, past alphas, omegas, and beta staff who don’t even blink.
I’m just following his scent, the one I’ve been dreaming about for months.
And under all the shame and heat and want, something in my chest finally lets go, just a little, for the first time since I left this place.