“Omegas get them,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Their bodies go hot, slick floods them—just like you right now. Fuck, you’re dripping.” His fingers curl deeper, wringing a whimper from me. “Betas aren’t supposed to… but you’re ours. Your body knows it.”
The words send a fresh wave of heat through me, my thighs trembling. “That’s not—” I try to protest, but his thumb presses harder, stealing my breath.
“Shh. Don’t fight it.” His lips drag down my throat, lingering over his claiming mark. “Just come for me.”
His finger curls inside me, finding that spot that makes my hips buck against his hand. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps as he adds a second finger, stretching me in a way that sends pleasure spiraling through my body.
The claiming marks on my neck throb in time with his movements, each pulse sending a new wave of pleasure through me. It’s like they’re connected directly to where his fingers are working me, each touch amplified by the bond we share.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his eyes fixed on my face, watching my pleasure build. “Let me feel you come.”
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pulsing of the marks is too much. I feel the tension building, a coiling heat low in my belly that threatens to consume me.
“I’m going to—” I can’t even finish the sentence as the wave crests and breaks, pleasure washing through me with an intensity that steals my breath. I come with a muffled cry against his mouth as he captures my lips in another searing kiss, swallowing my sounds of pleasure.
My body spasms around his fingers, waves of sensation crashing through me, each one stronger than the last. It’s never been like this before. Never so intense. Never so all-consuming. I cling to him as if he’s my anchor in a storm of sensation.
As the aftershocks gradually subside, reality comes crashing back. I’m in the bathroom at work. I just had an orgasm against the wall, with my turtleneck pushed up and my skirt bunched around my waist, while a line of art patrons might be waiting outside.
Tristan withdraws his fingers slowly, his dark eyes never leaving mine.
He doesn’t say a word.
Instead, he lifts his fingers to his own mouth.
My breath catches in a sharp, strangled gasp. I watch, completely frozen, as he slowly licks each of his fingers clean, his gaze locked on mine the entire time. There’s something almost reverent in his expression, a mixture of awe and possessiveness that makes my heart skip.
“That was...” he begins, then seems to run out of words.
I push him back, straightening my clothes with shaking hands. “That was a mistake,” I say, though my breathless voice lacks conviction. “This is my workplace, Tristan.”
He has the grace to look sheepish, running a hand through his curls. “I know. I’m sorry. I just... couldn’t help myself.”
His scent iseverywhere, clinging to my skin and now my clothes. Anyone with a nose will know exactly what just happened in here. The thought sends a fresh wave of mortification through me.
“You need to leave,” I say, trying to sound firm even though my legs still feel like jelly. “Now.”
To his credit, he doesn’t argue. “We still need to talk,” he says, straightening his own clothing. “About the marks. About... whatever this is between us.”
“Not now,” I insist, pushing him toward the door. “Not here. I’ll text you.”
He nods, seeming to understand the panic rising in me. “Okay. I’ll go. But Zoe...” He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “That wasn’t just because of the marks. That was... us.”
Before I can formulate a response, he’s slipped out the door,leaving me alone with the lingering scent of ginger and sex, and the persistent throb of the claiming marks on my neck.
I lean against the door, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cool tile floor. My body is still humming with residual pleasure, but my mind is a chaotic mess.
What just happened? How did I lose control so completely? I’m not an omega, driven by biology and heat cycles. I’m a beta. Pragmatic. Rational. Not the type to have bathroom orgasms with an alpha at my workplace.
Yet here I am, my underwear damp, my skin flushed, my pulse still racing. And the worst part? Part of me wants to chase after him, to drag him back in here and finish what we started.
I press my hands to my face, mortification washing over me in waves. This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t lose control.
Except, apparently, I do now. With him. With them.
Whatever these marks are doing to me, whatever connection they’ve created, it’s changing me in ways I don’t understand and can’t control.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
