33. Leo
Leo
The blizzard around us is a complete white-out that makes the road disappear and reappear like a ghost. The engine of the rented SUV groans, a protest against the thick snow.
Every few minutes, the tires hit a deep drift and the whole vehicle shudders, a bone-rattling vibration that goes straight through me.
I should be focused on the road, on surviving this godforsaken drive, but all of my attention is on the woman in the passenger seat.
Mara is a mess. She's whimpering. They're not words, not even really sobs, just these mewls that escape her lips with every shuddering breath she takes. Her scent has filled the small space, a thick, intoxicating cloud of honeysuckle and rain and something else now, something deeper, more primal.
It's the scent of an Omega in distress, and it's calling to every possessive instinct I have.
I'm not an Alpha; I don't have the same biological imperatives, but I'm not dead.
I can put two and two together. The suppressants are failing spectacularly.
This isn't pre-heat anymore. This is the beginning of a full-blown heat. A painful, agonizing transition.
She's restless, shifting in the seat, her body unable to find a comfortable position. She presses her thighs together, a futile attempt to quell the ache, and a low whine escapes her throat. "Leo," she breathes.
"I know, baby," I say, my voice rough. I reach over and grab one of the cocoa cups from the holder, trying to think of something, anything, to help. "Here, drink this. It'll warm you up."
As I hand it to her, my hand jerks, a spasm of nervous energy, and a splash of hot liquid flies out over the rim. It arcs through the air and lands with a sickening splat against the windshield and the dashboard, right in front of the rearview mirror. A dark, brown stain spreads across the glass.
"Shit," I mutter. That's coming straight out of the rental deposit. But looking at Mara's pale, sweat-slicked face, I realize I have much bigger problems than a chocolate-stained mirror.
She takes the cup, her hands shaking so badly I'm surprised she doesn't drop it. She takes a small sip, then another, her eyes closed. But it's not helping. Nothing is helping.
Her hand shoots out and grabs mine. Her skin is burning up, so hot it feels like she has a fever. She pulls my hand to her chest, pressing my palm flat against her breast, right over her heart. "Please," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Leo, please."
The car swerves, a sharp, jerky motion that sends us sliding toward a snowbank. I wrench the wheel back, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Jesus, Mara."
"I can't," she gasps, her body arching off the seat. "It hurts. I need… I need…"
She can't finish the sentence, but she doesn't have to. I know what she needs. And I'm terrified.
I see a small pull-off, a deserted turnout covered in snow.
I crank the wheel, maneuvering the car into it, the tires crunching through the deep powder.
I kill the engine, and the sudden silence is almost as loud as the storm was a second ago.
The only sounds are the wind howling outside and her ragged, pained breaths.
The snow keeps coming down, soft and relentless, blanketing the world outside. She's already moving, her hands fumbling with the zipper of her coat. "I need you," she says, a raw, desperate sob. "Leo, I need you. I need it."
"Baby, look at me," I say, trying to cut through the fog of her heat.
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me.
Her eyes are wide and unfocused, her pupils blown so wide they almost completely obscure the beautiful hazel irises.
"We're getting close. Another hour, tops.
We can get you a warm bed, Gray can check you out, we can figure this out. "
She shakes her head, a frantic, jerky motion. "No. Can't wait. An hour is an eternity. Please, Leo."
Her begging is a physical assault on my self-control.
She takes my hand again, but this time, she pushes it down, down between her legs, pressing my fingers against the soaked fabric of her leggings.
The heat that radiates from her core is intense, a scorching, undeniable need.
She's grinding against my hand, a seeking motion, and a fresh wave of her scent washes over me, so thick and sweet it makes my head spin.
She leans in, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her nose brushing against my throat. She's scenting me, a primal, instinctual act of seeking comfort and claiming me in the same breath.
"Please," she whispers against my skin. "Please, Beta."
She didn't call me by name. She called me Beta. And in that moment, something inside me snaps. I am in service of her.
I will do anything for her.
The last thread of my restraint, my rational thought, my carefully constructed plan to just get her to the café, it all dissolves into a primal, overwhelming need to take her pain away.
"Okay," I surrender. "Okay, baby. I've got you."
The space in the car is cramped, a logistical nightmare of consoles and gearshifts. I maneuver her, my hands on her hips, guiding her. "Turn around," I command, my voice thick with a need I can no longer hide. "Knees on the seat. Hands on the dashboard."
She obeys instantly, her body pliant and trusting.
She's facing away from me now, her back arched, her perfect ass presented to me.
I yank her leggings and panties down in one swift motion, and the scent of her, raw and unfiltered, fills the car.
It's the most intoxicating thing I have ever smelled.
I don't hesitate. I lean forward and bury my face between her thighs.
She cries out, a sharp, broken sound of pure relief as my tongue makes contact with her slick, heated flesh.
She's so wet, so ready, and she tastes like heaven and sin and everything I've ever wanted.
I lick a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, and she shudders, her whole body trembling.
"Leo," she gasps, her hands braced against the dashboard. "Oh, fuck, Leo."
I'm fumbling with my own jeans, my hands shaking so bad I can barely get the button undone.
I finally manage it, pulling my cock out, hard and aching.
I wrap a hand around myself, stroking in time with the movements of my tongue.
I tell myself this is just to take the edge off, a necessary medical intervention to get her through the worst of it so we can get to the café.
It's a flimsy, pathetic excuse, and I know it. I want this. I want her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
I focus on her, on her pleasure. I circle her clit with my tongue, then suck it gently, flicking it against the roof of my mouth. I slide a finger inside her, then another, curling them to find that sensitive spot deep inside. She's so tight, so hot, her inner walls clenching around me.
"Don't stop," she begs. "Please, don't stop."
"I won't, baby," I growl against her skin. "I won't stop."
I increase the pressure, my tongue and fingers working in tandem, driving her higher and higher.
I can feel her body tensing, her muscles coiling.
I'm stroking myself faster now, the pleasure a sharp counterpoint to my focus on her.
Her scent, her taste, the sounds she's making—it's a sensory overload, a perfect, overwhelming storm.
She comes with a silent scream, her body convulsing, her inner walls clamping down on my fingers so hard it almost hurts.
A flood of her slickness coats my hand, and I groan, my own orgasm tearing through me, hot and thick and messy.
I come all over the floor mats, my body shuddering with the force of it.
We stay like that, tangled in the cramped, steamy car. The only sounds are our ragged breaths and the wind howling outside.
I pull back slowly, my face wet, my hand sticky. I gently pull her leggings back up, covering her. I help her turn around, her body limp and sated. Her eyes are glazed over, but the pain is gone, replaced by a soft, hazy contentment.
"Feel better?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
She nods, a sleepy, blissful smile on her face. She leans her head against my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, holding her close.
"Okay," I say, pressing a kiss to her sweat-damp hair. "Let's get you home."