3. Maya #2
He keeps me on the edge for three minutes, five, longer—I lose track.
I beg. I beg in actual words and in fragments and in just his name repeated and he stays exactly where he is, precise and patient and utterly unmoved by the begging except to make an approving sound against my skin when I ask him properly.
"Grant—" I'm shaking. "Grant, please, I can't?—"
"You can." He lifts his head. "And you will. When I tell you." His eyes hold mine. "Come."
The word hits and my body obeys immediately, like it's been his to command since the first Friday.
It crashes through me—the edge releasing all at once, the wave cresting and cresting, his mouth staying on me through every second of it.
I say his name twice. My back comes off the couch.
He holds my hips down, his strength absolute, and works me through it until the shaking stops.
When I come back to myself he's looking up at me from between my thighs with an expression that makes me want to put my hands over my face.
"Good girl," he says. "You waited."
Something cracks open in my chest. I reach for him and he comes to me.
He undresses without ceremony—jacket long gone, shirt now, belt.
Each piece revealed is a new adjustment.
He is larger without the suit. His chest is broad and heavy and his arms are the arms of a man who is, simply, bigger than other men in every meaningful sense.
The size of him settles into my heat-soaked brain as mine before I've formed any other thought.
Then the rest of it.
His cock is—I have been in proximity to Alphas before.
I know the general outline. I was not prepared for the actual reality of Grant Lawson's cock, which is thick and long and flushed deep with the dark base where his knot will swell already heavier than the rest of him.
I am staring. I do not stop staring for a noticeable amount of time.
"Oh," I say.
He tilts his head. "I'll take my time."
"You'd better." My voice is not entirely steady. "Grant, that's—you're?—"
"I know." He moves toward me. "You're an Omega in heat. Your body is built for this." His hand finds my hip. "Trust the biology."
I look at his cock. I look at the slick running down my inner thigh. "The biology," I say, "is doing a lot of work in this sentence."
"Less talking," he says, and his mouth finds mine.
He settles between my thighs, his weight held off me but his heat everywhere. He presses the head of his cock against me and I feel the size of him right there and my whole body goes tense and then loose.
"Look at me," he says.
I look at him.
He pushes inside.
The stretch is enormous. Real. My breath goes out in a rush and he holds perfectly still, reading my face, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back. "All right?" he says.
"Yes." I tilt my hips, testing. The stretch deepens. My body opens around him—the slick making it possible, the heat making it necessary. "More."
"Not yet." He pulls back a fraction and pushes forward again, a little more. Patient. His eyes never leave my face. "Tell me when."
"Now." I drag at his shoulders. "All of it. Grant?—"
He presses fully home.
The fullness is extraordinary. Complete. I make a sound that's barely a sound and he goes still and drops his forehead to mine.
"Good girl," he breathes. "So good for me. Taking all of it."
I'm still adjusting—my body learning the shape of him, the depth of him—and he gives me time. His mouth finds my temple, my cheekbone, my jaw. "You're going to carry my baby," he says, quiet, against my skin. Not a question. Certain. "Like you were always mine. Like you always knew."
The words hit something deep and biological and absolutely honest. "Yes," I hear myself say. "Yes, Daddy."
He goes still for a single breath. Then: "Say that again."
The word. The word I breathed out before, the word I barely said. It's right there. It's been right there since the first Friday, if I'm being entirely accurate with myself—since the first rule, since he said good and the word landed with a weight nothing else ever had.
"Daddy," I say.
Something in him releases. His whole body settles against mine, into mine, and his mouth finds my temple.
"Good girl," he says. Very low. "That's the rule now. You call me Daddy. Do you understand?"
"Yes." My voice is somewhere around my knees. "Yes, Daddy."
"Perfect." He draws back and drives forward and I gasp. "Hold on."
I hold on.
He builds a rhythm—long and measured, deep and absolute.
He takes up every inch of space my body can offer and my body offers more than I knew it had.
He's not gentle, but he's careful—controlled—giving me exactly what the heat demands while his voice runs low in my ear: "You're going to take everything I give you tonight. All of it inside you. You want that?"
"Yes—"
"Tell me."
"I want it. Daddy, please?—"
"Good girl." He drives deeper and I cry out. "That's it. Just like that."
He brings me to the edge and holds me there.
His hand between my thighs, his cock inside me, his voice in my ear—"Not yet, little girl, you'll wait"—and I wait.
I wait while my body shakes and I beg in fragments and he stays precise and patient and utterly in control.
Three times he brings me there. Three times he holds me on the edge while his rhythm builds and his voice stays low and his scent floods through me and his rut runs right under the surface of his skin.
The third time, when I'm barely coherent: "Daddy. Please. I need to—please?—"
"I'm going to fill you up," he says. His voice is rougher now. "Every drop, little girl. Going to put my baby in you." He drives forward, deep, and his hand presses low on my belly. "You want that?"
"Yes." Barely a word. "Yes, Daddy. Please?—"
"Come," he says.
I come so hard I see white.