Wild rides. Multiple rounds.
Packs tangled together until dawn.
The thought flickers through me unbidden—images of not just Tank, but others here too, scents layering until the air is thick with belonging. But I shove it aside. Tonight is about now. About this man who looks at me like I'm the only omega in existence.
His dark brown eyes track my every movement, dark with desire but patient, waiting. That restraint only fuels me more. I've never felt this electrified with any Alpha—never this raw, pulsing need that makes my skin hum and my core clench around nothing. My ex-pack? They took, demanded, left me feeling hollow. This stranger—Tank, Terrance, whatever name he answers to—gives with every touch, every glance.
He knows my name. Protected me from those creeps without hesitation. Owns a house that's equal parts fortress and sanctuary, complete with a giant fluffball dog who apparently reserves his affection for rare treasures.
Sasha's enthusiastic tackle replays in my mind, and I smile inwardly.
If that beast only likes me... maybe I'm not so ordinary after all.
Other omegas have probably been here. The thought should sting—jealousy curling like smoke—but it doesn't. This is a fling, a glorious detour from my runaway life. One night to feel desired, competent hands on my body, an Alpha who might actually know how to wreck me in the best ways. I don't care about history. I care about the way his thumbs are tracing circles on my thighs right now, calluses rough against my smooth skin, sending shivers racing upward.
His scent floods the room—smoked leather deepened by arousal, saffron blooming hot and spicy, amber wrapping around everything like a possessive claim. It's masculine divinity bottled and uncorked just for me, mingling with my own fragrance that's gone downright decadent: cinnamon sugartoasted to caramel edges, coffee beans roasted dark and rich, vanilla melting into something sinful.
The air between us thickens, heavy with promise. Outside the bedroom windows, snow flurries dance under streetlights—January's quiet reminder that the world is cold, but in here? We're building our own heatwave.
I lean down, capturing his mouth again in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue, rougher this time. My hands roam his chest, nails scraping lightly over inked skin, and he growls into my mouth—a vibration that shoots straight to my clit. His massive palms slide up my back, tracing the lines of muscle before finding the clasp of my laced bra.
No fumbling. No awkward twists. One smooth motion, and the hooks surrender to those skilled fingers. The bra loosens, straps slipping down my shoulders, and cool air kisses my newly exposed skin.
Freedom. Finally.
My breasts spill free—perky handfuls with dusky nipples already peaked from anticipation—and the sensation is liberating, like shedding another layer of the old me. No more corset constraints tonight. Just skin on skin.
I moan into his mouth, the sound raw and needy, and grind down instinctively. My pussy drags along the hard ridge straining his boxers, slick soaking through my thin thong until the fabric clings uselessly. The scent barrier? Obliterated. My arousal floods the space—sweet cinnamon laced with dark vanilla urgency, coffee notes sharpened by lust—and it weaves seamlessly with his leather-amber dominance.
We don't care.
If anything, it heightens everything. His growl deepens, hands cupping my breasts with reverent possession, thumbs brushing nipples until I arch like a bowstring.
Desperation creeps in—movements turning frantic, kisses bruising. I rock harder, chasing friction, and he suddenly grips my hips, stilling me with iron control.
"Easy, Sweetness," he rumbles against my lips, voice gravel-rough. "You're killing me here."
I pull back, breathless, hazel eyes locking with his deep brown. We're both wrecked already—lips swollen, chests heaving, scents tangled into something new and addictive.
"How do you want it?" he asks, low and serious, like the answer matters more than air.
A proud grin curves my mouth. Control. Just a taste. I've spent too long having it stripped away.
"I want to ride you first," I murmur, voice husky with confidence I rarely let out to play. "I like being in charge... for a bit."
His smirk is pure sin—slow, approving, with a flash of white teeth that makes my omega preen.
"Then take it," he says, sliding his hands from my hips to lace them behind his head, elbows out like he's surrendering completely. Muscles bunch and flex with the motion, tattoos shifting over corded arms. "Lead the way, Valentine."
An Alpha submitting? To me?
The thought sends fresh slick rushing, my pussy fluttering emptily. This massive wall of a man, yielding control because I asked. It's intoxicating. Empowering. Exactly what I need after years of being told where to sit, how to smile, and when to speak.
I lick my lips slowly, deliberately, watching his eyes track the motion with lazy hunger. Then I scoot backward, knees sliding along the sheets until I'm positioned over his thighs.
The Calvin Klein boxers strain obscenely, the outline of his cock thick and insistent. I hook my fingers under the waistband and tug down—slowly, teasingly—revealing inch after inch ofveined hardness. He springs free, heavy and throbbing, the head flushed dark and glistening with precum.
Good Lord.
