"Fuck," he hisses against my throat. "I imagined this a thousand times... every possibility... but nothing came close." His voice cracks, raw and wrecked. "The reality of you. The heat."
Devan Morse has THOUGHT about ME—
His hand shoves under my hoodie, hot against my stomach. Slides up my ribs. "So soft," he murmurs, lips moving down my neck, heading dangerously, thrillingly lower. "Omega.Myomega."
That word.My.Whatever voice in my head usually tells me I'm a fraud just... dies. I'm not the loud kid in the back of the class right now. I'm his. The smartest guy at Westbridge is falling apart in my arms, and I'm the only reason why.
Take THAT, imposter syndrome.
"Devan, please." My hips roll against his thigh. "Please, I need—"
He pulls back, just an inch. His lips are swollen, red, slick with my spit.
"I know what you need," he says. "You need to be claimed. You need everyone to know."
He spins me around, face to the wall.
"Devan!" I gasp, palms spread.
He presses his full weight against my back. He's massive. He shoves my hoodie up, bunching the fabric around my neck, exposing my skin to the cool air.
Then his mouth is there.
He kisses my shoulder blade. Hands grip my hips, locking me in place. He's shaking.
"Two years," he breathes against my skin. "Two years of watching you in these... these fucking bright colors. Trying to make me look. Trying to drive me insane."
"I wasn't—" He cuts me off with a grind of his hips. The rough denim of his jeans drags against me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
"Liar," he growls. "You wanted this. You wanted me to lose control."
He's right. I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to lose his mind. I just didn't know why until right now.
His hand slides down the front of my jeans, fumbling with the button. The metallic pop is deafening in the room. He shoves his hand inside, past my boxers.
His fingers wrap around me—large, calloused, hot—and my vision whites out.
"Devan," I sob.
His hand engulfs me completely, palm rough against my cock. He strokes once, slow and deliberate, and I feel my own pre-come easing the way, hear the wet sound of it in the silence.
"So hard for me," he groans against my shoulder. "So fucking wet already."
His other arm wraps around my chest, holding me up because my legs have stopped working. He strokes again—tighter this time, twisting at the head—and a ragged gasp tears out of my throat.
"That's it," he breathes. "Let me hear you."
I can't help it. Every stroke pulls another sound from me—whimpers, gasps, broken fragments of his name. The slide of his fist is obscene. The bookshelf creaks with every buck of my hips.
"Quiet," he orders, but his voice shakes. "I need... I have to mark you."
He nuzzles along my neck. Finds the spot. My mating gland pulses. Aching.
I'm close. So close. The pressure is building at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every stroke—
Footsteps.
The squeak of wheels. A cleaning cart, rolling down the hallway.
