Moans escape me, body quivering as he sets a relentless pace, the rug cushioning my stance, wood panels creaking faintly. Scents entwine into euphoria: my dark vanilla melding with his soft woods, creating a cocoon of spiced forest warmth.
"Never imagined this—fucking my Omega in a boutique stall, door unlocked for any wanderer," he says, grin audible. "But thrill's the spice, right? New year dares, Valentine sparks—building legends, hmm?"
His hand encircles my neck from the front, pulling me back into a deeper arch, pressure light but commanding, heightening every sensation.
"Like how deep I bury in that greedy pussy?"
"Mhmm," I moan, the affirmation vibrating.
He shifts his grip from my throat to my mouth, hand warm and rigid, palm pressed across my lips—not harsh, but with a dominance that strips breath from my lungs and replaces it with his. The shock of being silenced, my moans flattened against his skin, spikes my arousal to a fever pitch; I taste the salt of his palm, the faint tang of aftershave and heat, and it breaks something open in me. He leans his whole body into mine, pinning me to the glass, the hard ridge of his cock driving upward in sharp, unyielding strokes that make my thighs quake. Each thrust is a punctuation, a demand, deeper and deeper until I'm up on my tiptoes, arching helplessly. The reflection is a riot—flushed face, eyes gone wide and glossy, mouth distorted by his hand, hair sticking out in wild strands as he rocks me relentlessly.
He knows exactly what he's doing, angling his hips to grind against the spot inside that makes sparks explode behind my eyelids. I can't speak, can't plead, but my body says everything: the way I clench around him, slick pooling hotter with every piston, how my hands claw at the mirror for something to anchor me. He meets my gaze in the glass, a wicked smile curving his lips as he watches me unravel, the edge of cruelty softened by awe and admiration. Every flex of his arms, every shift in his stance, is calculated to maximize sensation—his chest plastered to my back, his scent drenching me, the bergamot and ginger now sharp as electric current.
My core tightens, the pressure coiling higher and higher, a spring wound so tight it feels like it might snap. I whimper and squirm but can't escape his hold, and the helplessness only pushes me closer to the brink. Heat builds at the base of my spine, radiating outward in waves so intense my knees nearly buckle, toes curling against the rug to keep from collapsing. I can feel the telltale flutter, the first flickers that mean I'm secondsfrom cumming, and he senses it too—the way my body braces, the way my breath goes shallow and frantic against his palm.
He doesn't slow. If anything, his pace grows more ruthless, each stroke battering through my resistance, dragging me inexorably toward climax. The only sounds are our mingled breaths, the slap of skin, the faint creak of the glass, and my muffled cries, frantic and pleading. My vision swims, a constellation of stars bursting behind my eyelids, and still he won't let up, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from me before surrendering his own.
"Cum undone," Elias commands, voice ragged and hungry at my ear, and the words detonate something primal in my core. The pressure I've been holding back breaks free, a tidal wave rupturing the thin dam of control, and I convulse around him, the climax wracking through every nerve. My body bucks, helpless, fingers splaying wide against the mirror as the spasm overtakes me. My core pulses, slick gushing with every contraction, soaking us both, and the sound that escapes me is animal—raw and pleading, muffled by his palm still clamped over my lips. My thighs tremble and the muscles in my calves seize, threatening to topple me, but he holds me upright, arm a steel band around my middle, anchoring me as the crest peaks and peaks again.
Elias doesn't pause to savor, doesn't give me time to come down. He drives into me harder, relentless, using my aftershocks to wring more pleasure, my body clenching and fluttering, coaxing him closer to his own edge. His breathing is a chaotic staccato, forehead pressed to the back of my head, hot sweat dotting my nape. The combined scent of us—my cinnamon-caramel and his burning ginger—floods the air, sticky and intoxicating, thick enough to taste. His hand slips from my mouth to my chin, tilting my face up so he can watch the aftermath in the glass, eyes locked on my flushed, slack-jawedreflection as I shudder and moan through the pleasure. The sight pushes him closer to the brink—his thrusts turn desperate, all finesse lost, and I can feel the telltale swelling, the base of his cock thickening as the knot threatens to catch.
He grits out a curse, hips jerking, and I feel him spill inside, warmth searing, his release pumping in rhythm with my own lingering contractions. The fullness is overwhelming—the knot presses at my entrance, not quite catching, just threatening—and the sensation sends aftershocks spiraling through me, mini-climaxes that pop and fizzle, leaving my limbs weak and my mind blank. We cling to each other, sweat-slick and trembling, nothing but our shared pulse and the frantic music of our breath echoing in the boutique stall.
Elias keeps rocking, slower now, each movement a lazy, decadent grind, drawing out the last tremors of pleasure until there's nothing left but a molten haze. I slump forward, chest heaving, but he doesn't let me go. Instead, he withdraws abruptly, hands guiding my hips back with surprising gentleness, thumb stroking over the place where our bodies meet as he pulls out before the knot can truly form. The loss is a shock—sudden emptiness, a cool draft where there was only heat—and I whimper, half in protest, half in relief, as slick and seed trickle down my inner thighs, a warm and obscene reminder of what we just did.
He isn't finished. Spinning me with a deftness that belies the size of his hands, Elias presses his lips to mine in a bruising, possessive kiss, all teeth and tongue, as if trying to consume the taste of my release from my mouth. His other hand drops to his cock, fist slick and urgent, stroking with practiced efficiency until he groans into me, body tight as a bowstring, and hot ropes spatter across my stomach. The sensation shocks me back to clarity—a mingled heat, sticky and electric, marking my skin inabstract lines of ownership. I gasp, and he whispers against my lips, "Fucking gorgeous. All mine, right down to the drip."
I swallow the moment, lungs and limbs trembling—his release still warm inside me, dripping down my thighs and my stomach, his knot swollen and tempting. There's something obscene and beautiful about it, the way the bulbous ridge glistens, streaked with our mingled slick. I can't look away, even as my thighs turn to jelly and I collapse onto the plush rug, knees parting instinctively. The rough nap of the vintage runner scrapes my skin, grounding me in the aftermath. My heart is a wild, erratic thing, but I want, need, more—I need to taste him, to draw every last shudder from his body before the moment is over.
Elias stumbles, not quite steady, and his cock glistens, still flushed, the knot pulsing in time with his racing heart. I don't give him a chance to recover. I grab him with both hands, fingers tight around the base, and take him into my mouth, lips straining to fit over the swollen ridge. The taste is dizzying: sweat and musk, the metallic tang of arousal, faint traces of cinnamon and my own vanilla, thickening the air. My tongue circles the knot, tracing every vein and indentation. He's so sensitive it makes him twitch, arms braced against the wall as if he's about to collapse right on top of me.
The first surprised yelp that escapes him is almost a laugh—high and helpless, like he never expected I'd go straight for the most sensitive part. "Holy fuck," he groans, voice hollowed out and wrecked. The sound is a reward in itself, so I dig in, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing, feeling the knot expand bit by bit. Each pull drags more from him, salty and electric, and I want it all. Need to claim it, mark him from the inside out.
He tries to gentle me, one hand shaking as he threads fingers through my hair. It’s not dominance, not this time—it’s a plea for mercy, but I ignore it, doubling down. I bob in time with my ownpulse, letting him feel the wet, relentless cradle of my mouth, the tight squeeze of my hands milking up and down his shaft. I moan around him, letting the vibration travel straight through to the base, and he nearly collapses, knees buckling. His knuckles go white, body straining to keep upright.
"Too much, fuck—Ro, you're gonna make me—" He cuts off, a raw gasp tearing loose as I swirl my tongue right under the knot and squeeze at the same time. He makes a sound I’ve never heard before—somewhere between a sob and a howl, all his control lost. The effect is instant; heat floods my mouth, thick and wild, and I swallow instinctively, greedy, unwilling to lose a drop. The aftertaste is sharp and beautiful, like burnt sugar and salt, and I keep him there, lips still wrapped tight, riding out every spasm.
He gasps, body quaking into fresh euphoria, breaths shattered as I push him higher, tasting salt and us.
Releasing with a pop, I look up, smirking.
He's braced against the wall, chest heaving, eyes dazed.
"Maybe Sweet Vixen it is," he admits, voice hoarse.
I wink, rising.
"Earned it."
The shop bell tinkles brightly, the owner's voice calling, "Back, dears!"
We exchange a loaded glance—his wicked, mine flushed yet triumphant.
"Take your time," he whispers, adjusting his clothes. "But no fingering that pretty self without inviting me, yes?"
Blush deepens, but I nod, boldness flickering.
"Yes, Alpha."
