4. Teddy #2
The crop is in his hand. He hasn't raised it.
He hasn't said stop. He's looking at me, standing very still, his breath coming fast through his teeth, short, sharp pulls, and I can smell why.
Under the cedar and the gin and the careful, composed omega I've been kneeling for all night, his scent has changed.
Gone thick. Gone sweet. Gone open. The scent of an omega whose body has registered an alpha in rut and is answering, slick flooding, muscles going soft and ready, biology overriding composure.
His thighs press together. Then release. I can see the slick, wet streaks down the inside of them, shiny in the low light, more of it coming, the scent of it hitting me like heat, like a hand on the back of my skull pushing me forward.
He's not running.
He's not saying red.
He's standing there with the crop in his hand and his legs slightly apart, his breath ragged, his scent saying yes in a language older than the one he's been using all night, and I don't know if his mind has agreed to this but his body has, and right now I don't have the part of me that would stop to ask.
"Teddy."
My name. Breath-hitched and low, and it's not a no.
I cross the three feet in one step.
My hands close on his upper arms and I lift, and the feeling of it, the weight of him coming off the floor, his feet leaving the ground, his whole body in my hands, breaks something open in my chest. He's a grown man, dense and real, and I'm holding him off the floor with two hands like he's nothing, like it costs me nothing, and the ease of it is the most terrifying and the most right thing I've ever felt in my life.
I turn. Carry him three steps to the concrete wall. Put him against it, hard enough that his shoulder blades hit and his breath leaves him in a huh that I feel against my chest.
He hangs between my hands, off the floor.
I've never held a grown person off the floor before.
My whole life I've been careful with my hands.
My whole life I've been told to mind my size, to be gentle, to watch how I pick things up, and I've done it, I've been so careful, and right now I'm holding a man against a wall with two hands and it's the easiest thing I've ever done and I want to do it forever.
I press him against the wall, my chest to his, and I can feel his heartbeat, fast, so fast, through the shirt, through the ruined collar, through all the layers he's still wearing.
My hand slides off his arm and grabs the collar of that dark shirt.
The one I've been staring at all night, the one he kept buttoned through everything, the one that's been driving me insane. I pull.
The collar tears. A button pops off and skitters across the concrete. The shirt splits down the middle, the dark fabric falling open from his throat to his navel, and I bury my nose in the bare skin I've just uncovered and breathe.
Oh god.
It's the best thing I've ever smelled. It's the only thing I've ever smelled.
I drag my nose up his sternum to his throat and back down, and I can't stop, and I don't want to stop.
I rub my face on him. His collarbone, the hollow of his throat, the soft skin over his ribs.
My scent is all over him now, dark alpha musk pouring off me, covering him, marking him, and his slick is running hot down his thigh against my leg, my cock leaking all over his hip, everything wet, warm, mine.
He makes a sound. A small oh, the same oh I made in the alcove hours ago when I saw him dressed and hard. His hands come up and find my biceps and grip. Fingers digging in, hard enough that I feel the nails.
I lift him higher. Pin him to the wall with my chest. My hands go under his thighs, opening him, and he gets what I want before I tell him.
His legs come up and lock around my waist, ankles crossing behind me, and the pull of him, the hold of him, the way his body opens, wraps, takes.
I groan against his throat, a sound that doesn't sound like me, something low and rumbling that comes from the same place the mine comes from.
I reach between us and line myself up. He's so wet I slip through my own fingers.
Slick everywhere, hot, more of it than before, his body producing it in waves I can feel against my palm.
I push the head of my cock against his entrance and he opens for me.
This isn't the slow, controlled give from the bench.
This is the omega in him, the biology, the muscle going soft and hungry, and he's so ready that the first inch slides in with no resistance, just heat, wet, the desperate clench of his body pulling me deeper.
"Teddy."
My name again. Breath-hitched. His voice is wrecked and his legs tighten around my waist and he's not saying stop.
I shove in.
One stroke. To the hilt. His body takes all of it, opened, slicked, hungry, and the sound he makes is nothing like the sounds he's made all night.
Raw, broken, a noise that goes from his throat to the back of the room, and his head goes back and hits the concrete with a soft thud, and his whole body arches forward into me, and he clenches down so hard I see white at the edges of my vision.
I pull almost all the way out. Shove back in.
Again.
Again.
I don't have words for what it is. It's nothing like anything.
Every stroke is a wave that starts at the base of my cock and rolls up through my stomach, my chest, my skull, and I can feel the wall shuddering against his back, and his fingernails are biting into my biceps, and his breath is wrecked against my ear, short, sharp, high, and I'm grunting with every stroke, low and animal, and the mine, mine, mine is pouring out of my mouth in a chant I can't stop because it's a heartbeat, it's the rhythm of my cock in him, my teeth against his skin, the thing that's been building in me all night, all my life, finally let loose and running.
He's heavier now. Looser. His head lolls against my shoulder, and the weight of him, the give of him, the way he's letting me hold him up and hold him open and take, it feeds the thing in my chest, the animal thing, the alpha thing, and I lift him higher on the wall and drive harder.
My mouth finds the skin of his throat above the torn collar.
The pulse is right there, hammering against my lips, and something in me, something deep and old, surges up and my teeth find the skin and press, and I want to bite, I want to close my jaw, I want.
The instinct is a hand on the back of my skull pushing down, and for one second I'm right there, right at the edge of it, the bonding bite, the one that can't be undone, and I.
I can't. Something catches. A leash. A wall inside me that the rut can't wash over.
Not him. Not a stranger. Not tonight. I pull my mouth off his throat and go down.
Down to his chest, to the firm muscle of his pec, to the place where my hand was resting all night. I bite there instead.
Hard.
Real.
Through skin.
The resistance is more than I expected. Skin is tough, tougher than I knew.
And then it gives, and the taste of iron floods my mouth, hot and copper-bright, and he cries out, short, sharp, surprised, the first sound of real surprise I've heard from him all night, and his hands come up and claw into my back hard enough that I feel skin break, four bright lines of heat, and he clamps down on my cock so hard my vision goes.
My knot starts to swell.
I pull out of the wall. I need him under me.
I need to see him. All of him. I need to see the whole length of him laid out, the torn shirt, the bitten chest, the face I can't see behind the mask, all of it under me, and I pull out.
He cries out at the emptiness, a raw sound.
I drop, taking him with me, one hand behind his head to keep the concrete off his skull because some part of me is still here, still a guy who doesn't hurt people, still careful, still minding his size even now, and I lay him down on his back on the floor.
The torn shirt is half-off his shoulders.
The collar is ruined. His throat is bare, the bite mark on his pec bleeding a thin line down toward his ribs, and he's spread out under me.
Pale, lean, wrecked, his cock hard and red and leaking, and he hasn't come once, and I did that, I held him there, and now I'm going to take him the rest of the way.
I get between his legs. Push them up, open, wide.
My hands are the size of dinner plates on a man this build, and I can feel the strength in my own grip, the way I can fold him in half without effort.
His hole opens for me, slick, swollen, ready, and I put myself back inside him and sink the whole way in and stay there, deep, my mouth on the bite I left, tasting copper, while I grind.
He's making broken sounds under me. Wordless. Wrecked. His hands are in my hair, on my back, on my arms, touching me everywhere, and I can feel his scent pouring off him. Sweet, thick, desperate, omega in heat, omega claimed, omega mine. It fills my skull until there's nothing else.
I fuck him into the concrete floor.
Hard strokes. Deep. My hand braced beside his head, my other hand on his hip, holding him where I want him, and I can feel the way his body moves under the force, sliding on the floor, slick with sweat, the concrete grinding under his back, and I don't care, I can only drive, take, have.
My mouth is on his collarbone, his sternum, the hinge of his jaw, his pulse hammering under my tongue like a second heartbeat.
His cock is trapped between our bellies, sliding in the slick of sweat and pre-come, and I can feel it twitching with every stroke. The only measure of how close he is, because his voice is gone, his words are gone, he's just sound now, just a body, and I fuck him harder.