Her breath stutters.
“And you’re mine,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, rougher, the words settling into the space between us with a weight that doesn’t leave room for argument. “You don’t get to take from everyone else and leave me at the edge.”
Her lips part slightly, her gaze flicking over my face like she’s searching for something that might let her push back again.
She doesn’t find it.
“Then prove it,” she says finally, the challenge softer than it’s been with the others, but no less real.
Something in me settles.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Just…certainty.
I lean in, close enough that I feel the way her breath shifts, the way her body reacts before she can decide whether she’s going to fight me again.
“I don’t need to prove anything,” I tell her quietly. “But I will.”
Her body responds to that before her mind does, a subtle shift that brings her closer instead of pushing me away.
There.
That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
Not permission.
Alignment.
“Present,” I murmur, the word low, controlled, threaded with something that doesn’t allow refusal.
She hesitates. Only for a second. Then she moves.
Not perfectly. Not immediately. There’s still that edge to it, that instinct to resist before she gives in – but she does give in, her body turning, shifting, her knees tucked under her, back arched, hips lifted high.
Vulnerable and waiting.
Her breath is rough, uneven, but she stays there, offering herself up with a trust she won’t name out loud.
I exhale slowly, letting myself take her in, the sight of her like this, the soft line of her spine, the curve of her ass, the way her body shakes just slightly with the effort not to move.
Mine.
The word thrums deep in my chest.
My hand finds her, stroking up over her skin, claiming each inch. “Perfect,” I tell her, my voice rough, possessive, the praise settling into the space between us the same way she has. “Just like that.”
My hand settles at her hip, firm and steady, grounding her, holding her in place without forcing it. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, ignoring the pull at my side, the reminder that I shouldn’t be doing this.
Irrelevant.
What matters is her response. The way her breath changes. The way her body reacts. The way shetakeswhat I’m giving her now instead of pushing it away.
“That’s it, omega,” I murmur, softer now, the edge easing just enough to let something steadier come through. “You don’t get to decide I can’t handle you.”
Her breath catches and something in her shifts again. Not resistance. Not challenge.