Chapter 4 An Addiction Worth Obsessing #2
But even as I think it, a flicker of real fear gnaws at my backbone.
She’s going to need a pack. Real Heats aren’t safe, not alone, not with just me.
Sooner or later, she’ll have to make a decision, and the second she does, everything changes.
I try not to think about it, try to focus on the now, on the way her Omega scent is blooming richer every time I breathe her in and how I want to drink it straight from the tap.
I squeeze her tighter, spooning her so hard there’s no space for air, let alone rival Alphas or hungry packs.
She makes a noise—half whimper, half exhale—and I swear to god, my heart actually skips.
She’s mine…for now.
For as long as she’ll let me have her.
I can’t lose this—so I don’t.
I refuse.
Even if it means making her hate me a thousand times just so I can keep her coming back.
Her sleep is never peaceful—she tosses, knots the sheets up, sometimes wakes up thrashing if the suppressants are off.
But tonight she’s dead to the world, body limp and warm, and I know it’s because I’m here to hold her.
Maybe that’s arrogant, but it’s also true.
I’m the only leash that can keep her from running herself ragged, from overdosing on self-destruction.
I think about tomorrow, then immediately reject it.
Better to live in this second: her bare skin under my palm, the lap of her breath, the animal sweetness rising under the bath bomb and designer bedding.
I could lay here forever.
But if I’m honest, I want more.
I want to touch.
I want to take.
I want to see if she’ll let me play with her even in her sleep.
My hand drifts lower, cupping her hip, thumb digging into the dip above the bone. Her slip is a joke—barely a barrier, and even that is starting to ride up. I’d bet my last dollar she did that on purpose, just to see if I’d try something.
As if she doesn’t know me by now.
I press my mouth to her neck, right where her pulse hammers, and taste her skin—lavender, then the wild sweetness of Omega beneath it, faint but impossible to miss. She shivers. Not awake yet, but it’s as if her body senses my presence.
I want to wake her—but not just yet.
For now, I just savor it.
Savor and wait, like the villain of her story, the one she’ll never admit she needs.
That could be all I’ll ever get, but I’ll fucking take it.
I flex my hand, sliding it under the slip until my fingertips can graze the barest edge of the thong she’s chosen—emerald, to match her eyes, probably the only color she actually likes besides black. Fuck, I love this woman for making even lingerie a weapon.
I could lose myself in this.
But before I do, I take one last deep inhale, burning her scent into my lungs, branding it deep where nobody can ever scrub it out.
Motor oil, vanilla, lavender—and underneath, the Omega perfume she tries to strangle. Hot, rich, dizzying, tinged with need and something else: a warning, or a promise.
The suppressants are losing.
Her scent’s coming for me, and I want to be the only one who ever gets to drown in her.
Ever.
My hand hovers at her hip, weighing right and wrong, but if I’m honest, I’ve never cared about doing what’s right when it comes to Aurora. All I want is what I can take. All I want is her.
Again and again and again.
I tighten my grip, dragging her back until there’s no space—just skin, silk, and air that tastes like lavender and sweat and the ozone before a lightning strike. My cock is already hard, fighting for space in my shorts. She’s so small I could crush her, but all I want is to swallow her whole.
My lips find her nape again, but this time I linger.
The touch is careful, experimental, a featherweight threat. If she wakes up, I’ll pay for it later.
Fuck, I want to pay.
My hand finds the edge of the thong once again, unable to resist any longer.
I almost laugh—fuck, she picked the skimpiest thing in her arsenal.
There’s barely enough fabric to call it underwear, and it’s so thin and soft that I know I could rip it in half with a single tug.
The color is deep emerald, satin, already darkening where the silk is soaked through.
A growl bubbles up in my chest—quiet enough not to wake her, but loud enough that my own body tenses. My scent expands, filling the air with burnt cedar and raw amber, burying the lavender until only I remain.
I ease my hand between her thighs, parting them just enough to give me access.
I expect resistance—her Omega biology makes her tight, always, but what I find is heat, slick, her folds already wet for me.
The knowledge that she’s this ready even in sleep, even after a bath, even after a fucking day of suppressants and stress—it just kills me.
I want to wake her up, make her look at me, make her realize she can’t hide the way I make her feel.
Patience Cale.
Patience…
I stroke my fingers over her folds, light at first, just tracing the seam from top to bottom, the way I’d run a hand along the hood of a classic car, testing for hidden damage.
She shivers. The sound she makes—it’s not a real moan, more like the hum of an engine turning over, but it’s there, threaded through the quiet of the room.
Her thighs part by instinct, just a little, a silent invitation.
Or maybe resignation—she knows what comes next, even in sleep.
The slick coats my fingers—warm, perfect, hers.
I move back and forth, slow, teasing, refusing to go deeper. I want to see how much she can take before waking.
How much pleasure I can wring from her with nothing but patience and a little cruelty.
My cock throbs.
I rock my hips against her ass, needing the friction, needing to brand her with my shape.
I stroke again, swirling circles around her clit but never quite touching, just skimming. She whimpers. Her hand spasms in the bedsheets. She mutters something—probably a curse, or I dare envision my name, but her brain’s not awake enough to say it clearly.
God, she’s beautiful like this.
Ruined, undone, not even conscious, and still so fucking responsive it makes my chest ache.
I wonder if more would be enough…
If I fucked her every night, every damn shift, would it tame the wildness in her?
Would it keep her safe, keep other packs away, or keep her needing only me?
Or am I just buying time, postponing the inevitable heartbreak?
I don’t care, honestly...at least, I can keep convincing myself of such.
All I care about is this second, her scent, the way her body cradles my hand like it was made for nothing else.
I breathe in, sharp, greedy.
My hand keeps moving. I let my fingers roam, testing her, watching how she reacts to every change in pressure. Sometimes she tenses, sometimes she melts. Every little response is mine—nobody else’s. I memorize them like track records, like lap times, like the stats that win championships.
She moans again, this time louder. Or just the sound a body makes when it’s too overwhelmed to know better.
I want her. All of her. Forever.
But for now, I’ll settle for this—her, helpless and open, trusting me to keep her safe even as I wreck her for anyone else.
I press my mouth hard to her neck—hard enough to challenge her senses, to leave a mark she’ll complain about for days.
My teeth scrape, but I don’t bite.
Tame it, Cale…
Even now, with her body arching into my touch like it's the only thing that matters, I can't shake the storm raging inside me—the one that's been building since we were kids throwing insults across the track.
Her breath hitches, a soft, sleepy sound that hits me right in the gut, and I slide my fingers deeper, curling them just right to hit that spot that always makes her shatter.
She's soaking my hand, her slick coating me like a goddamn invitation, and I press my hips harder against her ass, letting her feel how hard she makes me, how this obsession never fucking quits.
A rumble claws up from somewhere low and guttural, filling the hollow of my chest before it shudders out through my lips and teeth, vibrating against her throat.
There’s nothing gentle left in me now, nothing but the raw, insistent need to push her right to the edge and make her know the only reason she ever sleeps this deep is because she’s in my arms. Because I’ve ruined her for anyone else.
I slide my fingers—slow, then fast, then slow again, teasing her with a rhythm designed to confuse and devastate.
My thumb finds her clit, circles it, then backs away, never quite letting her have what she wants.
The taste of her neck, salty and sweet and impossibly alive, fills my mouth as I suck, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her whimper even as she dreams. I want to leave her marked up so bad she’ll remember me every time she passes a mirror or touches her own skin.
She’s stirring more now, the way she always does when her body’s caught between sleep and the sick gravity of want.
Her hips twitch, try to rut back against my palm, and her fingers curl unconsciously in the bedsheet. There’s nothing conscious about her voice yet, just a string of half-words and broken sounds, little pleas that never fully form.
But that clench around my fingers—that’s pure Omega. It’s instinct, a physical language, and it tells me everything I need to know: she wants this, even if her mind isn’t awake enough to admit it.
I work my hand deeper, spreading her open from behind, knuckles brushing her softest places, slipping in and out with the kind of control that makes me see stars.
Every time I slide in, she squeezes tighter, slick pooling at the base of my hand, her heat insane. I swear, if I died right now, I’d die happy just knowing this is what I get to have.
My cock is hard enough to hurt, leaking into the cotton of my own shorts, but I grit my teeth and keep my focus where it belongs—pinning her right here, making her melt.