29. Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part Two #3
Instead of shocking me, instead of making me pull back, the crude promise sends heat flooding through my body. I've been good for so long, careful and controlled and everything a proper Omega should be. But proper got me locked in a burning building. Proper got me a pack that saw me as property.
Could it be time to be improper.
I let my smile curve slow and deliberate, maintaining eye contact as I deliberately make my eyes go even softer, even more pleading.
"What if that's what I want?"
He breaks.
One moment he's standing there fighting himself, the next his hands are framing my face and his mouth crashes into mine.
This isn't like the possessive kiss in front of Blake—this is desperation distilled into action.
His lips are demanding, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
I moan into his mouth, hands coming up to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
"This side of you," he pants against my lips, "is super fucking effective."
Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, one hand tangling in my still-damp hair while the other grips my hip through the shirt.
I can taste the whisky on his tongue, feel the way his control frays with every sound I make.
When he nips at my lower lip, I gasp, and he takes advantage, licking into my mouth like he's trying to devour me whole.
My hands find their way under his shirt, palms flat against his abs, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch.
He's so warm, so solid, and when I rake my nails lightly down his stomach, he groans into my mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. "You're going to wreck me."
"Good," I whisper, and then I'm sliding off the bed, dropping to my knees in front of him.
His whole body goes rigid. "Willa?—"
"Shh." I look up at him through my lashes, hands already working at his belt. "Want to taste you. Want to see if you lose control when I use my mouth for something other than talking."
"Jesus fucking Christ." His hands hover near my head, not quite touching, like he's afraid to influence my choices. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." The belt comes free, and I work his jeans open with fingers that only shake a little. "Been thinking about it. How you'd feel, how you'd taste, what sounds you'd make."
His cock springs free when I pull his boxers down, already hard and leaking. He's bigger than I expected, thick enough to make my mouth water with anticipation and just a hint of nerves. But the way he's looking at me—like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once—gives me courage.
I lean forward, maintaining eye contact as I run my tongue along the underside from base to tip. His whole body shudders, a broken sound escaping his throat.
Encouraged, I do it again, slower this time, learning the shape of him, the way his breath catches when I flick my tongue over the sensitive head.
"Those fucking eyes," he groans, one hand finally coming to rest gently in my hair. "You have any idea what you look like right now?"
I hum in question, then take him into my mouth, just the tip at first, swirling my tongue around the crown.
His hips jerk forward involuntarily before he catches himself, muttering an apology.
"Don't apologize," I pull back to say, voice already rough. "Want you to feel good. Want you to show me how you like it."
His control cracks a little more. The hand in my hair tightens, not forcing but guiding, and I follow his lead eagerly.
I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand to work what doesn't fit.
Every groan, every curse, every time his thighs tense under my free hand sends heat pooling between my legs.
I look up at him again, those same puppy eyes that apparently destroy his resistance, and deliberately take him as deep as I can. The stretch makes my eyes water, but the sound he makes—desperate and wrecked—is worth it.
"Fuck, fuck, Willa—" His hips start moving in tiny thrusts, careful not to choke me but unable to stay still. "So good, so fucking perfect, those goddamn eyes?—"
I hum around him, the vibration making him curse creatively.
My jaw aches but I don't care, too lost in the power of reducing him to this—trembling and swearing and looking at me like I'm simultaneously salvation and damnation.
His movements get more erratic, breathing harsh.
"Gonna—fuck, need to?—"
I pull back just enough to speak, lips still brushing his cock.
"Want it. Want to taste you."
That's all it takes. He comes with a shout that's probably too loud for a hotel, hips stuttering as I swallow around him, taking everything he gives. His hand in my hair gentles, petting me through the aftershocks, whispering praise that makes me preen.
"Come here," he demands once his breathing steadies, pulling me to my feet. "Need to?—"
Whatever he needs gets lost as he kisses me again, deep and filthy, tasting himself on my tongue. His hands are everywhere—pushing the shirt up, gripping my thighs, spreading me open. When his fingers find how wet I am, we both groan.
"This what I do to you?" He backs me toward the bed, fingers sliding through my folds with devastating skill. "Get you this desperate just from sucking my cock?"
"Yes," I gasp, beyond shame or pretense. "Please, Mavi, need?—"
He doesn't hesitate—not when he crawls onto the bed, not when he gathers me up like I'm both heavier and lighter than air, not when he wrenches my thighs apart in his hands with a kind of brute gentleness that makes my heart trip over itself.
"I know what you need," he growls, but the words are honeyed, promise and threat braided together.
His hands brand my hips, and when he looks down at me, his pupils are blown so wide the green is just a ring of wildfire.
"Gonna give you everything, sweetheart. Gonna make you forget every Alpha who didn't worship you properly. "
I want to make some smartass quip about how he's laying it on thick, but I can't, because then he's all the way on top of me—body caging mine, one strong hand at the back of my neck, the other dragging slow up my thigh to hook my knee high around his waist.
He grinds against me, bare and hot, heavy cock dragging through my slick folds until I'm arching into him, shameless. He lines himself up, the head nudging right where I need it, and pauses.
"Tell me you want this," he says, voice raw and unsteady, forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me to stop and I will."
I stare at him, struck dumb for a second by the contradiction—the absolute dominance in the way he's holding me down, the total deference in his eyes. I lick my lips, taste the salt and the honesty, and tell him, "Don't stop. Not unless you want to find out how loud I can get."
That does it. He laughs, shaky, and then the laugh dies in his throat when he pushes inside me in one smooth, relentless stroke.
It feels like being filled for the first time, like every time before this was just a practice run, like my body was only ever waiting for this exact moment to be truly, completely used.
He's thick, stretching me open, and it's that sweet ache between pain and pleasure that I forgot was possible.
My hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails digging in, desperate for an anchor.
He curses, the sound guttural and low, and rocks forward, sinking the last inch until our hips are flush and I swear I can feel him everywhere.
He doesn't move right away. Just watches me—really watches, like he's cataloguing every twist of my face, every shuddering breath, every little noise. His hand at my nape rubs slow circles, grounding me, and I realize I'm trembling.
"Still breathing, Omega?" There's a smile tugging at his mouth, but it's soft, worried. "Didn't mean to blow your circuits this fast."
I bite my lip, clench around him just to see what he'll do, and he hisses through his teeth, grip tightening on my thigh. "You cocky bastard," I manage, and it comes out as a moan. "Move. Please."
Permission granted, he pulls back and thrusts in again, this time harder, deeper, like he's trying to erase the gap between us.
My body bows off the mattress, chasing him, wanting more.
Every thrust is a slow-motion collision, relentless and perfect, grinding right against the places that make me see sparks.
The rhythm is ruthless, but his hand never leaves my neck, fingers massaging gently, a strange counterpoint to the rough snap of his hips.
He buries his face in my hair, breathing in the scent and exhaling it back against my ear. "Fuck, Willa, you take me so good," he murmurs, voice half-dazed. "So fucking good for me."
The praise turns everything sharp and bright, and I whimper, rolling my hips up to meet him, greedy for every inch. He gives it, matches me thrust for thrust, each one getting harder, faster, until the bed frame slams against the wall in time with my pulse.
I'm loud. I know it and can't help it, each moan and gasp uncensored, unashamed, echoing off the cheap wood paneling. I want the whole damn town to hear, want every ghost of every Alpha who ever doubted me to listen, because this is what it feels like to be worshipped.
He’s getting close—I can feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hand knots tight in my hair, the ragged edge to his breathing.
He slips a hand between us, finding my clit with ruthless efficiency, circling it in time with his thrusts.
The sensation is white-hot, searing through me, and I tumble over the edge so fast it rips the sound from my throat.
I come hard, full-body, clawing at his shoulders as everything clenches and convulses around him. He follows with a shudder, holding my gaze as he buries himself one final, brutal time and comes with a noise that’s half growl, half gasp, all surrender.