The knock is quiet. I pull the door open, and his scent hits me before my brain even processes his face. Slick and nerves and the remnants of Ava's dinner, and underneath all of it,mate. That specific hit of sugar and something soft that I've been breathing off my own skin. Now it's coming from the source, trapped in the enclosed hallway, and my jaw locks involuntarily.
He looks completely undone. Flushed, sweater crooked, curls messier than they were at dinner. The band-aid is still on his finger. The mark I left on his neck is visible right at his collar, red and fresh. His eyes are huge, his hands are shaking, and his jeans—fuck. He's been soaking in his own slick for an hour, and he walked across town like that just to get to me. He didn't go home and hide. This sweet omega who apologizes for bumping into furniture just marched over here without asking permission.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." I step back. "Come in."
He walks past me. His scent trails right after him, and I have to grip the door handle to keep from dragging him back against my chest. I close the door and lock it. The click echoes in the quiet apartment.
Milo stands in my living room, looking at everything. The plants, the bookshelves, the couch. He's cataloguing my space, trying to figure me out, and the want in my chest tightens until it aches.
"Do you want—" I start. I'm going to offer him water, or a seat, because I'm supposed to be the responsible one.
"We should probably talk about—"
"I know," he says.
"Ava doesn't—"
"I know."
"This is—"
"I know, Callum."
He looks at me. His hands are still unsteady, but his eyes aren't. He's standing six feet away in an apartment that smells like both of us, and he isn't running. I offered him an out. My body doesn't give a shit about the responsible thing anyway. The responsible thing is a lie I've been telling myself so I wouldn't have to deal with how badly I want him.
He crosses the room in three strides. He stops right in front of me, tilting his chin up because I've got half a foot on him, and presses his palm flat against my chest. Right over my heart. It's hammering so hard he can definitely feel it through my shirt.
He doesn't say a word. He just stands there, looking up at me, and it's the bravest thing I've ever seen. Not running-into-a-burning-building brave. Brave like a guy who's spent his whole life making himself small and just decided he's done doing it.
I bring both hands up to cup his jaw. My thumbs sweep over his cheekbones. His skin is so fucking soft. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a small, shaky breath that shatters whatever restraint I had left.
I kiss him.
In the bathroom, it was pure instinct. Biology hitting us with no time to think. This time, I'm choosing it. I tilt his face up and press my mouth to his. It's slow for exactly two seconds before Milo grabs the front of my shirt and yanks. His mouth opens under mine, his tongue sliding against mine, and I groan. He tastes like dinner and sweet, specific Milo. I slide my hands into his hair. His curls are impossibly soft. He makes that sound again—that shaky little noise from the bathroom that goes straight to my cock. He presses his body into mine like he's trying to crawl inside my ribs.
Clothes come off in pieces. None of it is smooth. My shirt gets stuck on my elbows because I refuse to let go of him, and his sweater catches on his ear. He swears under his breath. I'd laugh, except I'm too busy staring at the strip of skin that appears when the fabric finally clears his head. The soft, round belly I had my hand on earlier. Brown skin, the faint line of dark hair trailing down from his navel. The birthmark on his collarbone. The one I've been thinking about since the cookout last summer.
He's standing in my living room in just his jeans. The flush spreads from his face down his neck to his chest. There's a dark, wet patch on the front of his denim from where he's been leaking slick, his cock straining against the fabric. He's looking at my chest, my stomach, my arms, with an expression I can only call starving. It's exactly how I'm looking at him.
I grab his hand and walk him to the bedroom.
Milo practically falls onto the edge of my mattress. He looks up at me, bare-chested, curls messy, those big brown eyes blown wide, lips bitten red. I've imagined this a thousand times, but my imagination didn't do him justice. In my head, he wasn't trembling, and he wasn't looking at me like I'm the most terrifying, exciting thing in his world.
I drop to my knees on the floor between his legs. He lets out a high, surprised sound. He wasn't expecting me down here. But this is exactly where I want to be. On my knees for the omega who walked across town for me.
I start at his thighs, pressing a kiss to the inside of one leg through his jeans, then the other. I use my hands to spread his knees wider. He breathes fast, his fingers curling into my sheets. I pop the button on his jeans. He lifts his hips, and I drag the denim down along with his boxers. Both are soaked. The heavy wetness of his slick right through the fabric. I toss them on the floor.
His cock is hard and flushed, leaking against his belly. His thighs are shiny with slick. I have to pause for a second, because the sight and smell of him this close feels like taking a punch to the gut.
I press my mouth to the inside of his bare thigh. His leg jerks. I work my way up, tasting salt and slick and warm skin, following the line of his hip to his belly. That soft curve he hides under oversized sweaters. The part he sucked in when he looked at thatphoto. The part my palm mapped out while Ava cooked chicken ten feet away.
I press my open mouth to it, dragging my tongue flat against the curve. His entire body tenses. A sound rips out of him—half moan, half wet gasp, like he surprised himself.
"You have no idea what you look like," I tell him, my mouth still against his skin. His breath hitches. "Every time you came to dinner in those fucking sweaters. Every time you stretched in the kitchen and I caught a glimpse of this." I press a kiss lower, just above his hip bone. His hand finds my hair and grips hard. "I used to have to leave the room."
"Callum—" His voice is high and shaky. I look up, and his eyes are wet, his face flushed.