My words did that. Not my slick, not my scent. Me. I asked for what I wanted, and he gripped harder. I demanded more, and his control slipped. The more I ask for, the more he gives.
He edges me one more time—brings me right to the agonizing brink and holds me there with a relentless grip—and I finally break.
"I want your fingers inside me," I say. The words tear out of me between ragged gasps. "I want your fingers inside me while you jerk me off, and I want you to watch me when I come."
The words hang in the air between us. This is the line I've never crossed. Not the physical act, but the shameless, out-loud asking for exactly what I want from an alpha who could say no. This is me, drawing the map.
Callum doesn't hesitate. He doesn't tease, doesn't slow down, doesn't make me repeat it. He keeps his tight rhythm on my cock while his other hand slides down, slipping between my legs from behind. His fingers find my hole—soaked and open, the slick making it embarrassingly easy. There's a wet slip of sound as he pushes two fingers deep inside me. The blunt stretch, the fullness, and his fist pounding my cock all hit me at the exact same second, and I'm gone.
I come so hard my spine bows off the couch. His name tears out of my throat, loud and broken. My cock pulses hard in his fist, hot spurts of cum making a messy, wet sound against his knuckles, splattering across my stomach and the hem of his ruined shirt. His fingers press deep inside my ass, hitting my prostate, and my legs clamp tight around his thick forearm. The orgasm rolls through me in endless, violently intense waves. And he watches my face. His eyes are locked on mine, dark and blown wide, exactly like I told him to.
The waves finally slow. My body goes entirely boneless. His grip eases on my cock, his slick fingers working me through the sensitive aftershocks. The mess cooling on my stomach, the streaks of cum painting his hand and my skin. The shirt is absolutely destroyed. He slides his fingers out slowly, and Ilay there panting and trembling. The couch is a disaster. The cooking show has moved on to desserts. I can't feel my legs.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Because I'm me, and that's what I do. Someone gives me something, and I thank them. It's an automatic reflex, the muscle memory of an omega who was taught that taking up space costs something.
Callum pulls me flush against his chest. His mouth presses against my temple, firm and sure. "You don't have to thank me for wanting things, bubba," he says into my hair, quiet and certain.
The words hit me square in the chest. Not in my brain, which is still currently mush, but in whatever buried part of me holds all the rules about being small, being easy, not being a burden. That part goes very, very quiet. Maybe this is the new rule. Maybe I'm allowed to just want.
I press my face into his neck, inhaling his cedar scent, and just breathe. He holds me. The cooking show keeps going. The couch is ruined, and for once, I'm not sorry.
Callum gets up after a few minutes—ignoring the pathetic, protesting sound I make—and comes back with a warm, damp washcloth. He wipes me down, careful and thorough, his large hands gentle on my stomach and thighs. I watch him do it, and I open my mouth to say,Sorry about the couch.Because the cushion is definitely destroyed. There's a dark wet patch spreading under the blanket, the whole thing soaked through with our mingled scent like a territorial claim on the upholstery. It's my fault, and I should apologize.
I stop. My mouth opens, then closes. The apology sits heavy on my tongue, but I don't let it out. I swallow it. I let the mess exist. I let myself be the kind of person who leaves a mark.
Callum sees it—the swallowed sorry. The corners of his eyes crinkle, but he doesn't say a word. He just leans down, presseshis lips firmly to the fresh claiming bite on my neck, and goes back to cleaning me up.
Callum
I'm in the locker room pulling off my shift gear when Marco appears in the doorway looking like someone kicked his dog. I know before he even opens his mouth that I'm about to agree to something I shouldn't.
"Hayes." He's got his phone in one hand, his jacket half-on, and the frantic energy of a guy who's been striking out for twenty minutes. "I know you're off. I know. But my sister just called. My mom's in the ER—they think it's her gallbladder, but she's asking for me. Jen can't swap, Torres is already on tomorrow's rotation, and—"
"I'll cover it," I say.
The words are out before my brain even registers them. It's a bad habit. I've been Marco's first call for two years running. Every emergency, every last-minute swap—Hayes will do it. But tonight is the night Milo bought a new sweater for. The night I'm supposed to meet his friends. The night his entire world decides if I'm worth a damn.
Marco sags with relief, clapping my shoulder and thanking me as he bolts for the door. Jen pokes her head around the corner, giving me a look that's half-grateful, half-skeptical.
"You had plans tonight," she points out. Not a question. I've been talking about it all week.
"It's fine," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. The words taste like ash. It's exactly what Milo says when things aren't fine at all. "I'll figure it out."
Jen shrugs and disappears down the hall. I pull out my phone and stare at the blank screen. I already know what Milo's response is going to be, which makes typing the text that much harder.Marco's got a family emergency. Nobody else can cover. I'm really sorry. Can we push tonight to tomorrow?
I read it three times before hitting send.
The response comes back in under a minute.
Milo:Of course! Don't even worry about it :) I hope Marco's okay. We'll figure out another night.
Fuck. The exclamation point. The smiley face. Thedon't even worry about it. I've watched Milo perform that exact routine since the day I met him. My stomach drops. I pocket my phone and get to work. I spend the next ten hours doing my job, checking my phone on every break. All I get are more supportive, casual, too-bright messages from him. He's already forgiven me because it's easier than admitting he's hurt.
By midnight, I'm dead on my feet. I crash in the bunk room—the same bunk where I swiped right on his KnotMe profile three weeks ago. I close my eyes and I'm out before I even set an alarm. Rookie mistake.
I wake up at five in the morning. My phone is lying on the mattress next to my face. I have one missed text from 11:47 PM.