I try to say something. I try to be the version of myself who has a 3.9 GPA and a plan for med school and opinions about things. What comes out is, "I've never—" and I can't finish the sentence because I don't even know what I'm trying to say. I've never been here. I've never done this. I've never let anyone see me like this. I've never been so hard in my life. Take your pick.
"I know," he says, and the way he says it makes my stomach flip because it doesn't sound like a guess.
His other hand settles on my hip. Low. His thumb finds the strip of bare skin between my shirt and my jeans and presses in. The contact of his skin on mine sends a shock through me so intense I jerk forward into him. My hands come up and grab his shoulders and I'm holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room. My face is inches from his neck and his scent is so strong here, right at the source, that I'm dizzy with it. My hands are on his bare chest and the heat of his skin is staggering, the hard muscle underneath, and I want to press my mouth against his throat and breathe him in until I pass out.
"Let go." His mouth is next to my ear. "Stop fighting. I'm going to take care of you."
"You don't know—" I start, and his thumb drags across my hip bone and the words die.
"I know exactly what you need." His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck and grips. Firm. Controlling. The hold that every omega knows in their hindbrain, the one that saysI've got you, stop struggling. I respond before I can decide how Ifeel about it, every last scrap of tension draining out of me like someone pulled a plug. I sag against his chest. I hear a sound and realize it's me, a low desperate whine coming from my throat that I couldn't stop if someone paid me.
He walks me backward. I let him. I'd let him walk me anywhere. The back of my legs hit something, a low couch or a platform in one of the alcoves, and he presses me down onto it. I go, boneless, my back hitting the leather and him standing over me. I look up at him through my mask and I can't see his face but I can feel his scent on me like a weight. I've never wanted anything the way I want him to touch me again.
He doesn't touch me. He stands there and looks down at me and I feel him reading me. My chest heaving. My shirt rucked up where I fell back. The bulge of my cock straining . The wet spot on my jeans where I've soaked through, the dark stain of slick visible in the colored light, and I should be mortified, Iammortified, and my hips are twitching up involuntarily, everything below my waist begging even while my face burns.
"Look at you." He says it the way you'd describe the weather. A man cataloging exactly how ruined I am before he's even started. "You're a mess."
I am. I'm a mess. I'm soaked and shaking and hard and whining on my back in a semi-public alcove and I don't care anymore. I don't care. The pride I walked in with is gone. The shame is still there but it's flipped, inverted, turned into something hot and desperate that makes me spread my legs wider instead of closing them.
"Good," he says. "That's good. Stop hiding."
Something flickers in the back of my heat-soaked brain. A question I can't quite form. He knew I was hiding. He knew I was fighting. He knew praise would open me up faster than force, knewstop hidingwould hit me harder thangive in. Every word out of his mouth has landed exactly right, like he's reading froma script written specifically for me. Some distant part of my brain wants to ask how a stranger is this fluent in the specific language of my surrender.
But then he kneels between my legs and the question dissolves.
His hands go to my thighs, pushing them apart, thumbs pressing into the muscles, and the heat of his palms through my pants makes me arch off the leather. He leans in close, his face near my throat, and I feel him inhale. Long and slow and deliberate. Breathing me in.
"Fuck." He says it like it hurts. Low and rough and almost angry. "Fuck, you smell—"
He doesn't finish. His mouth finds my scent gland and his tongue drags a slow wet stripe from the base of my neck to the hinge of my jaw.
My brain goes white. Every thought I've ever had empties out of my skull like water through a drain. My back arches so hard my shoulders leave the leather. My mouth is open and I'm making a sound I've never heard myself make, raw and animal and loud enough that I'd be humiliated if I had the capacity for humiliation anymore, but I don't. I don't have the capacity for anything except the hot wet pressure of his mouth on my gland and the wave of heat crashing through me and the single thought left in my blank white brain:
More.
Wren
His hands are on my jeans and I'm trying to help, fumbling with the button, but my fingers won't work right. They're shaking too hard. He brushes them away and does it himself, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. The sound of it is so loud in my head that it blocks out the bass for a second.
"Lift," he says, and I lift my hips. He pulls my jeans down and the air hits the mess between my legs and I want to disappear. My boxer briefs are soaked through. The fabric is clinging to my cock, to the crease of my thighs, dark and wet and there's no pretending it's anything other than what it is. I'm dripping. I've been dripping since I walked onto the floor and now this stranger is looking at the evidence of it and his eyes are on me even through the mask, cataloging me. My face is burning so hot I think the mask might melt.
He hooks his fingers in my waistband and pulls my underwear down slow. My cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking from the tip, and the cool air makes me hiss. He doesn't touch it. He peels the wet fabric down my thighs and off my legs and drops it somewhere. I'm naked from the waist down, spreadopen on a leather couch in a room full of people, and slick is already pooling under me, warm and obscene and collecting in the dip of the cushion.
"Look at me."
I look at him. He's kneeling between my legs, shirtless, the colored light catching the planes of his chest and stomach, and I can see the size of him, the bulk of muscle in his shoulders and arms, and the imbalance of it makes something in my chest constrict. I'm naked and wrecked and dripping. He's barely affected. He's got one hand on my knee, keeping me open, and with the other he reaches down and drags two fingers through the slick on my inner thigh. A long slow swipe from knee to groin. He lifts his fingers and looks at them, the slick stringing between them, shiny in the purple light.
"You've been wet like this all night?"
I can't answer. I nod. My throat has closed up.
"Alone?"
I nod again and something about that answer, about the image of me in heat alone, does something to him. I hear the breath he pulls in through his teeth. His hand tightens on my knee.
"That's over." He says it quiet and steady and absolute. "You're not doing that alone anymore."
I don't know what to do with that sentence. I don't know what he means by it and I can't think hard enough to figure it out because his slick-wet fingers are sliding down, tracing the crease of my thigh, and then lower. Then his fingertip is pressing against my hole and I arch off the couch so hard I almost knock into him.