I have the distinct impression that Beckham isn’t that kind of person.
“Not this one,” I reply. “He’s tall, athletic, and an omega. I’m not sure if he checked in under his real name or not.”
I’m repeating earlier information that I’ve given him because he's been too focused on his dick to process what I was saying before.
“Yeah, we only have one male omega who isn’t currently on the clock, if you know what I mean,” he says, pulling a key card and coding it.
“I better not find out that you’ve given this key to anyone else,” I growl. This was too easy, regardless of the fact that my gun is trained on the asshole. My omega isn’t safe here, and I hate it.
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” the guy says. There is a little name tag on his stained shirt that says that his name is Martin. When he stands, I can see his gut slightly hanging over his pants as he shifts uncomfortably.
I bet a load of cum in your boxers isn’t fun, contest or not.
“Since I’m not going to win this endurance competition, I’m going to get changed,” he grumbles. “My boxers are starting to stick to my skin. It’s room one-twenty.”
Sliding the card along the counter toward me, he walks like he has a stick up his ass as he disappears into the back room.
“There’s something wrong with the world.” I sigh, picking up the key and putting my gun away.
Leaving the front lobby, I begin walking toward the large loop of rooms. There’s only one floor, and the middle area appears to be marked for housekeeping and maintenance purposes.
Finding the room, I push open the door slowly, straining to hear signs of anyone inside it. Taking a chance, I step inside, where I’m hit in the face with the scent of honey and vanilla.
“Oh fuck,” I groan, shutting the door behind me. I know that Alaric would be pissed if he knew I was here, but it would be worth it for him to beat my ass over this.
I’ve been living half a life without being able to see and smell Beckham.
Taking the time to snoop, I begin to go through his shit. There’s a formal invitation to a party sitting on the table, and I take a photo of it. It’s at his house, which makes me wonder how much longer he’ll be able to get away with wallowing in this cesspit.
The paint appears to be peeling in the room, the mattress is lumpy when I sit on it, and his clothes are everywhere. The usually orderly professor appears to be having a mental breakdown.
Since it’s because of us, I suppose we’ll need to help put him back together.
Grumbling to myself that I need to actually be able to spend time with him to debunk whatever nonsense lives in his headabout my pack, I find a pile of clothes where his scent is the strongest.
Groaning as I realize that he’s worn these, I find a pair of boxers and smother my face with them. I can smell the light scent of sweat along with his natural omega one, and my eyes nearly cross as my cock presses against my zipper.
If he wants to leave us, run away like a coward and hide, then it’s only fair that I leave him a gift. He needs to know that he can run all the way to the farthest ends of the earth, and we would still find him.
My alphas and I are possessive, petty, and passionate. I just need Beckham to be willing to give us a chance. I bet we’d have fun together.
Unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans, I release my cock as I push my pants down my hips. My leather riding jacket is tossed to the side as I sit on the edge of the bed, ready to hide if the door opens. Right now, I could potentially hide in the bathroom if I needed to.
Shoving the boxers against my face again, I suck in his scent before looking around for something to use as lube. I’m going to take every liberty in this room, and I can’t bring myself to care about how much I’m invading his space.
I want him to know I was here, smelling me on his bedsheets but not know why. I need him to spiral to the point that he seeks us out to yell at us. Fuck.
Beckham Kennedy is so damn sexy when he loses his cool. The tick of his jaw, the blush of anger along his cheeks...
Fuck the lube.My cock is leaking precum like a faucet, and I wrap my hand around it, squeezing it hard enough to make me grunt. I love riding the edge between pain and pleasure.
I think about Beckham telling me to kneel in front of him to suck his cock, and as I breathe in his scent from his boxers, Iimagine him yanking on my dark curls to pull my mouth closer to him. I can almost fucking taste how good his cock would be.
“Yes,” I grunt, my hips thrusting up into my fist as I cork screw my palm around my shaft.
I wonder if he’d let me cut along his cock, so I can taste his blood along with his slick. The thought of it is enough to make my knot ache, and I desperately want to bite my omega.
One day, he’ll be mine.
