One last taste of cupcake before I fuck her the way she deserves.
God help me, this Omega is about to see what happens when an Alpha looses his mind for her.
I slot myself between her legs, both hands anchored hard at her hips, and the counter's cold laminate leaves a red line across my thighs.
She’s still wrung out from my mouth, but she meets me full force—fists my shirt, yanks me close, and crushes her lips to mine like she’s going to drag the next orgasm out through my teeth.
It’s more a brawl than a kiss, our lips fighting for dominance, which ignites me even more.
Having an Omega that doesn’t simply submit or fake moan in hopes of getting the latest Gucci bag or a night of free drinks is a first.
She’s potentially the real deal or I’m too far lost in her attractive orbit to give a damn.
Her tongue is velvet and lightning, fighting for control. My mouth is rough, greedy—I bite at her lower lip until she moans, then drag her forward so our bodies line up: her slick, ruined panties against the hardest erection I've had since she sat on my damn knee like a naughty Ms. Claus.
Denim grinds her open and I can feel how ready she is—nothing but wet, want, fire.
She’s got both arms locked around my neck, legs spreading wide, shreds of pantyhose tickling the backs of my hands. My dog tags dangle and clink against her chest with every stuttered rock of our bodies. The closet is too damn small for this, but I don't care.
I want to fuck her against every surface, leave her so marked up the next Alpha who looks at her gets scared off for good.
The lighting above us sputters. Throws our shadows sharp and wild across the shelves, like we're the only living things in this whole damn building. Somewhere, out in the bar, the jukebox is doing its best to murder a Christmas classic.
I pull back, just enough to growl into her mouth.
"You got a preference on protection?" My voice comes out wrecked, barely there.
She snorts.
Like, an actual snort.
"That’s not what you want to ask right now, is it?"
I freeze, then laugh. A sound I haven’t heard from my own lips in a whole long while.
Can’t help it.
Because, yeah. She’s right.
I want her raw. I want her dripping on my cock, nothing between us.
I want her to remember for a week that she let a strange Alpha fuck her silly in a closet and she craved every disgusting second of it.
I want my scent in her, on her, all through her.
The realization hits like a punch to the gut—I want to fill her. Can't remember the last time I genuinely cared about leaving my mark.
Something about Reverie makes it a biological imperative.
She meets my gaze, absolutely fearless.
"So, Alpha. What is it that you actually want to ask?"
Her voice is shredded—daring, but soft at the edges, like she wants me to confess something filthy just so she can echo it back.
Fine.
She asked for it.
