I want her spent and shaking when I’m through. For her to never look at this closet the same way again.
I lean in, run my tongue just below her ear. She tastes like salt and vanilla, every inch of her designed to destroy me.
She's open under my hands, softest skin against my stubble, and I want to know how she looks when I finally split her around me, when I get her so full she can't even think straight.
I kiss down her neck, trace the jagged line where the blade cut through the tights, all the way to her ruined panties.
One more taste, just because I can't help myself.
Her thighs quake when I press my mouth to her, tongue darting out, savoring the slick, the sugar-heat that leaves my own head spinning.
She squeals—a sound so sharp and pretty it rattles the shelving. Somewhere down the corridor, conversation blurs; nobody out there knows what we're doing in here.
Reality is, bars like these, nobody cares.
Only us.
Only her…me…and the need clanging through my body like a four-alarm fire.
I lick her slow—luxury, abandon—until she bucks against my mouth, until her hand fists the back of my neck and her hips chase me, desperate for every last drop.
"Fuck—" she gasps, "you're insane."
I grin into her.
"You like that, cupcake?"
"Yeah," she groans, a full-body shudder. "Yeah, I really do."
I drink her down, then draw back, licking my lips once more.
Let her see the mess she's made of me.
"You're gonna destroy me, you know that?" I say, voice scraping raw.
She only smiles, devil-may-care.
"That's the plan."
"Hope you're ready for the consequences," I warn her.
"Hope you can count that high," she fires back—all teeth, all want, no fear at all.
For a second, everything is suspended—her wrecked and waiting, me seconds away from losing my cool, the room dripping with every want we've tried to hide since the second we saw each other.
I dig my hands into the curve of her hips, her skin hot and shivery under my palms, and rest my forehead against hers.
God, I want her.
I want her more than I want air.
And if the way she's panting and moaning is any indication, she's more than ready for it.
She tips her face up, lips shining, eyes wild, and for the first time in a decade, I don't feel broken.
I feel hungry. Famished. Desperate for this specific Omega that swayed through the bar, owning it until that ex of a fucker thought he could mock her. Belittler her as if she isn’t the most cherished prize in the room.
I kiss her hard.
