“Fuck—Hawk—” She breaks at the same moment I do, her inner walls spasming around me in a convulsive grip that strips every ounce of restraint from me. I thrust deep, once, twice, and the knot finally detonates, swelling until it feels like I’ll split her in two. I don’t lock, not fully, but the pressure flares, and the sensation of her clenching around me is so intense I nearly black out. We shatter together, her voice raw and hoarse as she screams my name, her body writhing under me as I empty myself into her, pulse after pulse, hot and thick, until my cock is hypersensitive and every nerve ending is bathed in aftershock.
I collapse, bracing myself on trembling arms so I don’t crush her, burying my face in the mess of her hair and breathing her in. She holds me there, arms looped tight around my neck, her body still quaking with aftershocks, her breaths coming in sharp, broken gulps. I stay inside her, unwilling to break the connection, my knot throbbing and swollen, locked in place by pure force of will.
When the last tremors fade, I pull back just enough to see her face—flushed, sweat-sheened, utterly spent. She blinks, dazed and silent, her eyes searching mine as if there might be an explanation for what just happened, as if even now she expectsme to vanish. I run a hand down her side, gentle, careful of her wound, and she shivers at the touch.
I kiss her, slow and deep, and only then do I finally draw out, the withdrawal wet and obscene, leaving both of us overstimulated and shuddering.
I stand upright, cock still half-hard and angry red with a knot that refuses to subside, the tip glistening with her slick and my own. I reach down and squeeze the knot, working it with my fingers to ease the ache, and for a moment the world narrows to just this sensation and the sound of her breath.
She’s sprawled on the table, flushed and sated, but I’m not done. I walk around to the other side, my cock still hard, glistening with our combined release.
“Suck me off, Precious,” I command, voice rough.
She slides off the table, dropping to her knees with a grace that belies the aftershocks still trembling through her. Her hand grips my shaft, stroking firmly, thumb tracing the piercing at the tip. She takes me into her mouth, lips stretching around my girth, tongue swirling as she bobs her head.
She works her jaw, lips sealed tight to my length, taking every inch I give her, but it’s the way her hand moves—lower, sure, right to the thickest part at the base—that undoes me. She doesn’t just stroke my cock. She palms that swollen, throbbing ring of flesh at the root, my knot, with a grip that’s practiced and unrepentant. She rolls it in her palm with a slow, expert twist, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm perfectly calibrated to shatter me. The sensation is pure lightning—my cock trapped between the vise of her mouth and the cradle of her fist, every nerve ending firing white-hot.
She’s smiling around me, I can feel it, the way her tongue undulates as she presses deeper, hollowing her cheeks and swallowing the head until her nose brushes the line of hair at my pelvis. My hands fist in her hair, but she ignores the hint,setting her own pace, pulling back with a wet glide and then diving down again, more forceful each time, until I’m panting, sweating, half-crazed with the need to come and the need to prolong this.
She glances up at me, eyes narrowed with mischief and intent, and she starts pumping my cock with her fist in tight, flicking strokes, all while never letting go of the knot. It’s as if she wants to milk every drop, wants to see me broken and begging. She leans in, tongue flicking at the piercing in the tip, then wraps her lips around the head and sucks as if she means to drain me dry.
I can’t hold back. Pressure builds behind my navel, pleasure spooling tight as cable, and I feel my hips start to buck up into her mouth despite myself. She moans like she loves the taste of me, and I can’t even form a coherent thought beyond keep going, don’t stop, please. My thighs are shaking, the table edge digging into my spine, and all I can do is watch as she devours me with slow, relentless hunger.
She works my knot with her hand, thumb stroking a sensitive spot at the top, and that’s what does it. I can’t even warn her—I just shout her name, ragged and hoarse, and explode into her mouth, hot and thick and unending. She swallows everything, not a drop wasted, and doesn’t break eye contact even as she keeps stroking, keeps sucking, drawing every last tremor of pleasure out of me like it’s her birthright.
When she finally pulls off, her lips are swollen, slick with spit and come, and a thin string stretches from her tongue to the piercing at the tip, glinting in the light. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning, and that’s when she sees it: the tattoo at the base of my cock, her name in black, elegant script, tight against the line where flesh meets root.
“That’s new,” she mutters, flicking the piercing with a fingertip, sending a jolt through me.
I smirk down at her, still catching my breath.
“Like it?”
She huffs, doesn’t say anything, just looks away with that petulant expression that makes me want to start all over again. I chuckle, low and amused.
“You can praise me, you know. You won’t melt into oblivion. Plus, it’s your birthday, and I did give you good morning sex.”
“Afternoon,” she corrects, voice flat but laced with that dry humor only I get to hear.
I chuckle again, helping her to her feet.
“Yes, my precious time-tracking Omega. Afternoon.”
She huffs once more, shaking her head as she straightens her bodysuit, fixing it with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be after what we just did.
“I’m going to wash up.”
“I’ll continue breakfast then,” I reply, watching her retreat down the hallway with that subtle hitch in her stride—the left leg compensating for the nerve damage she never complains about.
She returns minutes later, transformed.
Stockings now sheath her legs, sheer black climbing up to mid-thigh where the bodysuit cuts off, and she’s thrown on a oversized sweater—dark gray, hanging loose over her frame, swallowing her hands in the sleeves.
It’s one of mine, left here from some previous night, and the sight of her in it stirs something possessive in my chest that I don’t bother suppressing.
I smirk, plating the eggs—slightly salvaged now—and setting them on the table where we just fucked.
“See? Told you you’d be cold.
