"You're here. Jury's still out."
I laugh, and it's genuine, which surprises me. I don't usually laugh on the floor. The omegas here are beautiful, willing, andthey smell like everything my biology wants, but they don't usually make me laugh. This one is standing in front of me, visibly wet through his jeans, scent screamingfuck me, and he's busting my balls. I like it more than I should.
I reach out and touch the side of his neck, just below the mask. Light, testing. His skin is hot, feverish, heat-hot, and the second my fingers make contact, his whole body shudders. Not a small shudder—he shakes with it, head to toe, and a soft sound escapes him before he can catch it. When I pull my fingers away, they're damp. He's sweating. His body is screaming at him to stop talking and start presenting, and he's white-knuckling through it. It's the most interesting thing I've seen in months.
"Jury's still out, huh?" I say, and I let my thumb drag along his jaw where the mask ends, smearing the sweat.
"You think one touch is going to impress me?" But his voice isn't as steady as it was thirty seconds ago. There's a crack in it now, a thickness he's fighting. The scent pouring off him intensifies and I can smell the slick freshening — new slick, right now, because I'm touching his face, and he can't stop his body from responding no matter how sharp his mouth is.
An alpha near us has noticed. He's drifting closer, drawn by the scent, and I watch the omega's eyes flick toward him behind the mask. Not afraid. Assessing. He shifts his weight slightly and the new alpha catches a stronger wave of the scent and takes another step, and I realize what's happening — this omega is using the other alpha's interest to test me. To see if I'll posture, compete, get territorial. To see what kind of alpha I am.
I don't look at the other alpha. I keep my eyes on the omega and I put my hand flat on the railing on either side of him, boxing him in without touching him. The other alpha gets close enough to catch the edge of the scent and I let mine flood out in response — not aggressive, not a challenge, just a wall ofminedense enough that the other guy stops in his tracks, reassesses, and decides it's not worth it.
The omega watched the whole thing. He tilts his head, and I get the distinct impression he's smiling under that mask.
"Subtle," he says.
"I don't need to be loud." I lean in until my mouth is close to his ear, close enough to feel how hot his skin is. "You wanted to see what I'd do. Now you've seen it. Are you done testing me, or do you need me to let a few more of them get close first?"
His breath hitches and his hips shift forward, just slightly, an involuntary roll toward me that he catches and kills almost immediately. I notice it, and he knows I noticed. His scent goes sharp with something that might be embarrassment or might be anger.
"I'm not testing you," he says, which is the first thing he's said that I'm certain is a lie.
"Sure you're not." I get my hand on his hip — not grabbing, just resting there, my thumb finding the strip of bare skin between his shirt and his waistband — and feel the muscles in his stomach jump at the contact. He's burning up. His body is ready and his attitude is not, and I want to take him apart for it. Most omegas in heat want to be touched and they show it. This one wants to be touched and he's furious about it.
I run my thumb along the line of his hip bone and his hand comes up and grabs my wrist. Not to pull me off — his grip is tight but he doesn't push or pull, he just holds on, like he needs to be the one controlling where my hand goes even if he's not actually stopping it from being there.
"You're used to being in charge," I say. It's not a question.
"You have no idea."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." I lean into him and let my mouth graze the skin just below his ear, not quite a kiss, just breath and heat, and he makes a sound that's almost a whine andimmediately hates himself for it. I can hear the teeth clench. "You want to tell me what to do? Go ahead. Tell me where to put my hands."
He's quiet for a second, breathing hard through his nose, his grip still locked on my wrist. Then: "On your knees would be a good start."
I pull back enough to look at him. He stares back through the mask, defiant. His scent is thick with arousal, almost visible in the air between us, and his thighs are pressed together in a way that tells me the slick is getting hard to ignore. I should be annoyed. Most alphas would be. An omega in heat telling an alpha to get on his knees is not how this usually goes, and he knows it. He said it anyway just to see what I'd do.
I grin. I know he can see it.
"Not yet," I tell him. I grab his hip with my other hand and spin him around so his back is against my chest and his ass is pressed against my cock, hard enough that there's no way he doesn't feel it. He gasps, a real gasp, surprised. I get my mouth against the side of his neck and breathe him in, and he goes rigid against me. His ass pushes back into my dick before he can stop it, a helpless grind that lasts about two seconds before he catches himself and goes still. My hand slides down from his hip to his thigh and I can feel the wet where his slick has soaked through his pants.
"Jesus," I say against his neck, and I mean it. He's drenched. "You're this wet and you're still talking shit?"
"Fuck you." But his voice is wrecked now, thick and shaky, and when I press my palm flat against the front of his jeans I can feel him hard and straining under the fabric. I rub him through the denim, slow, and his hips buck up into my hand and his head drops back against my shoulder and the sound he makes is nothing like the sharp, controlled person who told me to get on my knees thirty seconds ago.
"There it is," I murmur against his ear. "That's better."
"That's not — I'm not —" He's trying to get words together and I'm making it hard for him, my hand working the front of his jeans while I grind against his ass, and I can feel the heat of his slick soaking into my own jeans where we're pressed together. His hand is still locked around my wrist but he's not directing me anymore, he's just holding on.
"You're not what?" I unbutton his jeans one-handed and slide my hand inside and wrap my fingers around his cock, bare skin, hot and hard and leaking at the tip, and his whole body arches back against me and the noise he makes bounces off the concrete walls. He's thick for an omega, which I like, and the way he jerks into my fist like he can't control it tells me more about what's happening to him than anything he's said all night. I stroke him slow and tight while I grind against his ass and his breathing dissolves into these ragged, open-mouthed pants and his bravado is hanging on by a thread.
"Thought you wanted me on my knees," I say. "Doesn't look like you want that anymore. Looks like you want to come in my hand and you're pissed about it."
"I'm going to — fuck, I'm going to kill you —"
"Probably." I twist my wrist on the upstroke and he chokes. "But not right now."
He's close. I can feel it in the way his cock is pulsing in my hand and his thighs are trembling and his whole body is drawing up tight. His hips are fucking into my fist in short, desperate jerks that he's given up trying to control, and his head is back on my shoulder and his throat is bared and every sound he makes is raw and involuntary and nothing like a performance.