Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
DAMIEN
Barbeque sauce on my titties. Somehow, standing there in my massive office, looking down at the worker below as she scrounges for something under her desk, that vine from way back replays in my head on a loop. Why? I cannot even possibly fathom.
I don’t want barbecue sauce on her titties or mine.
In fact, all I want is my creamy spoof dripping off the luscious ass that bounces and quivers with each little movement she makes as she hunts down whatever it is that’s rolled under there.
Honestly, as I watch her backside move about like two ham hocks trying to battle it out to see which will break through those fishnet stockings first, maybe barbeque isn’t as far off as I first thought.
Shaking my head, I fist my hand and rest it against the glass as I peer down at her like a lecher.
She can’t see me through the one-way glass, and that’s the only reason I unbutton my pants right there and slide out my thick shlong to rub my hand up and down, caressing my massive hunk of salami as I watch her lean over, tipping so precariously forward, I swear I catch a glimpse of her cute, puffy little cunt.
Is it glistening? Is she slick and wet as she moves around down there? God help her if she’s teasing me on purpose. But that’s insane. How can she do that when she doesn’t even know I’m up here masturbating to her in a way that would make a priest blush if I told him all this during confession?
Resting my forehead against the glass, soft grunts slip from my lips as I rub my meat raw, slamming my fist down until it hits my knot that engorges with each wicked stroke of my hand down. Why am I like this? I shouldn’t be like this.
I’m a grown ass man. Not a teenager who can’t control his erections around a pretty girl. Then again, how long has it been since I’ve actually been balls deep inside someone? It’s bound to affect me sooner or later.
Biting down on my lower lip to stifle another groan, I go to town on myself, jacking up and down, better than any jackhammer at a construction site, as sticky, gooey precum wells to the tip.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I stare at the woman, watching her as she moves. There’s a clumsiness about her, an unawareness that I somehow find delightful. Perhaps it’s because there are no pretenses about her, no walls up to keep her guarded. She just is.
For several moments, she sits at her desk, spine ramrod, as she hammers away at the keyboard. As she leans closer to the screen, I can only imagine what her face would look like, all scrunched up as she reads the smaller print. I can only imagine since I have no fucking clue who she actually is.
And just like that, whatever that damned thing is she keeps playing with on her desk goes rolling down, and she has to go fetch it.
Fuck. I could just sit here and watch her all day, cock out, as I continue to stroke one out.
But that’s absurd. Some people have actual work to do. Those people being me.
Gritting my teeth, I adjust my grip, choking my chicken, as I stare at her obscene ass.
God, but I could just take a bite out of it, serve it up on a goddamn platter and just go to town.
But who the fuck is she? And, more importantly, what the fuck is she doing in my building on all fours, looking every inch like a cat in need of a good petting?
Fuck.
Why did I have to think about that?
Now, all I can do is stand there, jerking the gherkin as I picture her in a collar and leash, lapping at my cum like it’s the most delicious cream she’s ever tasted. Would it repulse her? Or would she mewl like a cat in heat, begging for more?
God. So fucking close. I walk back to the desk, my legs bowed out as if I’d just ridden a horse for a few days straight.
Unfortunately, I’d rather be riding her until there’s not an ounce of man milk left in my body instead of waddling to my desk in shame as the berries clench to the point of pain, making any movement unpleasant.
With a quick jerk of my hand, I grab a wad of tissues and waddle on back to the lecher viewing window and continue to stroke up and down, coaxing those feelings to come back so I can finish the job. Cat. Collar. Her mewing for me. There we go. So close to where I was.
Closing my eyes, I grip the base of my anaconda, grunting as high-fructose porn syrup finally surges forward, spewing out onto the tissues, soaking into them until it drips onto my hand. Better than spraying my trouser gravy all over the window, I suppose. No one deserves to have to clean that up.
A blissful sigh slips from my lips as the motion of my wrist slows, making each stroke long and languorous as I continue to polish my sword until every last drop of cock snot leaks out of me.
My balls relax, descending to a far more appropriate location, allowing me to walk like a human back over to my desk.
More tissues. More sanitizer. More cleaning.
Damn. It must have been far longer than I realized since I last milked the snake. Normally I don’t shoot so big a load. Yet, here I am, willy milk on my hands instead of the tissue I sacrificed to the occasion. Guess it’s better than barbecue sauce on my titties.
It takes far longer than I’d like to rid myself of the sticky, goopy evidence, but eventually my hands are clean enough to get back to work. Only, as I stare at my computer, I can’t get the image of the woman out of my head.
Walking over to the door, I go to unlock it, but find it already is. Ice slides down my spine as I wrench it open and walk out into the upper floor lobby. Anyone could have come in. Anyone could have seen what I was doing.
Thank goodness HR can’t fire the owner of a company, but damn. That was close. Too close.
Striding over to the desk closet to the door, I peer down at my secretary, waiting for him to be off the phone before I motion him over to the railing that overlooks the floor. He stands there next to me, brow furrowed as I point to the cubicle in question.
“Who is that?”
Clearing his throat, he lowers his glasses and squints.
“I don’t actually know. She’s not one of our regulars. Must be a temp. A lot of the omegas are out due to their heat cycles.”
Heats. Ruts. Sex. Biology.
One of the main reasons I insisted on a male, beta secretary.
He can work without having to stop for such measly things as a rut.
But then, aren’t I subject to being a victim of the same?
But that’s ridiculous. I haven’t gone into a rut in…
The years fly by in my mind, each punctuated by different achievements, promotions, and finally wins I’ve garnered in my business.
But no ruts. Not even induced ones to take the edge off. No wonder I blew such a load over a woman I don’t even know. That ends tonight. I’ve neglected my needs for too long. What would have happened if one of the omegas went into heat instead of taking off work?
Turning my mind back to the business at hand, I clap a hand on my secretary’s shoulder, stifling a laugh as he careens forward under the force. I keep forgetting he’s a slight little thing, closer to a male omega than a beta.
“Find out who she is and let me know.”
“Yes, boss. Is she in trouble? Should I get HR on the line to prepare a write up or termination?”
“No. Nothing like that. I just want to know everyone who’s under me. Temporary or not.”
Under me.
God, I’d like her to be under me in so many different ways. Under me. Over me. Bent back down so I can smack that ass. Rubbing a hand over my face, I ignore my secretary’s concerned expression and go back to my office.
I should be going over facts and figures, balancing accounts, and prepping for the big pitch in a few days. Instead, I find myself idly sliding my hand down the length of my crotch, fondling my joystick through the expensive fabric of my pants. It’s insanity, and I know it.
A soft knock forces me to sit up and stop touching myself so inappropriately. My secretary shuffles in, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I have that information you wanted.”
“Thank you. Leave it on my desk. Make sure I’m not interrupted unless it’s absolutely necessary. Answer all calls that you can. You know the business as well as I do. I have faith you can handle it.”
“Very good, sir.”
As he walks out, I follow behind and lock it this time, making sure it’s secure before I skulk back to my desk. This is so stupid. I shouldn’t be getting this worked up over an employee. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s an omega, and I have a strict policy about fucking betas—workmates or not.
Flipping through the pages, I pause as I look at her face. Jet black hair, startling blue eyes, a mouth that’s just criminally devastating—lush, plump, made for kissing and fucking—a body to die for, and curves exactly how I want them.
Bent over, I couldn’t see her front, but in this picture, it’s clear her breasts are large, a fucking handful just waiting to be squeezed.
If I squint and look closer, I swear her nipples poke through the dark fabric of her shirt.
But that could just be my lurid imagination.
One thing is clear though, she has a body made for fucking.
Plain and simple. Forcing my gaze away from her photo, I skim over the pertinent information.
Name: Lila Sinclair
Age: 23
Sex: F
Designation: Omega.
There it is. That’s what I was looking for.
Job: Temp with Work Me Agency. Filling in as needed for omegas who go on leave.
Suppressant status: On suppressants.
Well, that’s good. At least she won’t trigger a rut in me. Not that I plan to do anything about her at work. Outside of it, though… That might be doable.
Skimming the rest of it, I jot down her phone number and address.
Just in case I need it in the future. With a heavy sigh, I toss the file onto the desk and stare straight ahead.
It tells me everything about her that’s surface level, but nothing of substance.
Not that I was expecting it to include her sexual preference or kink status.
No. That’s something I’ll have to find out on my own. If I find out. Like a moth to a flame, I walk back over to the window and look down. No longer is she on her hands and knees. In fact, she sits there, prim and proper, as she types away.
Like an addict looking for his next fix, I watch her, staring at her back as she works. I should be diligent like her. I should go back to my desk and at least pretend to do something.
Instead of doing the right thing, I go back to my desk for another wad of napkins. If I’m going to be staring at her like a pervert, I might as well have another skeet shooting session in her honor.
Loud music pulses around me as I sit in the back corner of the establishment, nursing a drink. Someone somewhere will finally drain my balls, sucking my love wand dry as I order them to do some filthy, nefarious thing. Only, who in the world will receive the honor?
Looking around, I reacquaint myself with the club, noting all the usuals, the newcomers, and if anything has changed. There’s a comfort in knowing that empires can rise and fall, but the need to fuck and dominate will always be the same.
Around me, I hear whispered negotiations as Alphas take omegas in the back to run them through.
Some look like they’re forming a train. Honestly, with how fucking horny I am, I’m tempted to call myself Thomas and chugga chugga choo choo through any willing omega who will let me use and abuse their sopping wet holes.
Unfortunately, something keeps me in my seat.
None of them are her. None of them are the omega who stirred my senses and caused me to charm the cobra so many times that I’m not actually sure how much mojo juice I have left in me.
Only, even now as I think about her, my aching, throbbing man meat decides to raise a toast in her honor.
Why can’t any of these other omegas satisfy me? I haven’t even smelled her and I’m obsessed. Enough of this. Again, I look at the club submissives and squint. One seems to be missing. Where’s the naughty kitty? Or maybe they retired her?
Damn. Now that would have been a pleasure. It’s been far too long since I’ve whipped someone’s ass for being disobedient. But then, the night is still young. Maybe my muse will appear and drive all thoughts of a black hair, blue-eyed vixen from my mind.
One can only hope.