"I can protect you from Zero." He steps closer, and my back hits the edge of the counter. His hands come up to grip the granite on either side of me, caging me in. "I can ease what you're going through. I can—"
His voice breaks. He blinks, and I see the effort it takes to hold back, to keep himself from just taking.
"I can claim you." The words are barely a whisper. "Make you mine. Keep you safe. If that's what you want."
I should say no. Should push him away. Should remind us both that this is wrong, that he's my stepbrother, that Margot is upstairs probably still sleeping and Richard is somewhere in this house and any of them could walk in at any moment.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Atlas..."
It's not a yes. It's not a no. It's just his name, broken and wanting.
Something shifts in his expression. The restraint cracks, just a little.
His hand comes up. Cups my jaw. His thumb traces over my lower lip, slow and deliberate, and I shiver at the contact.
"Open."
It's a command. Low and rough and brooking no argument.
This is so wrong. So dirty… and yet, I part my lips and let his thumb press inside.
"Suck."
I close my mouth around his thumb. Taste salt and skin and something else, something that makes my omega hindbrainpurr with satisfaction. I suck gently, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling around the pad of his thumb, and Atlas makes a sound—low, guttural, barely human.
"Fuck." His hips press forward involuntarily, and I feel him—hard, thick, straining against his slacks. "Max, you have no idea what you—"
His thumb pushes deeper. I take it. Suck harder. My eyes flutter closed and I hear myself moan around him, a desperate, needy sound that I'd be embarrassed by if I could think straight.
"That's it." His voice has dropped to a growl. "Just like that. Good boy."
The praise shoots straight to my cock. I'm fully hard now, tenting my sweatpants, and there's slick gathering between my cheeks and I don't care. I don't care about anything except his thumb in my mouth and his body pressing me into the counter and the promise of more, more, more—
Footsteps on the stairs.
Atlas yanks his hand back like he's been burned. Steps away. Puts three feet of distance between us in the span of a heartbeat.
I'm left gasping against the counter, gripping the edge so hard my knuckles go white, every muscle in my body tensed against the intense throbbing in my cock, the aching emptiness in my ass. My dick is so hard it hurts, straining against my sweatpants, and if I move—if I so much as shift my weight—I'm going to come or scream or both.
"Good morning!"
Margot's voice floats into the kitchen, bright and cheerful, as she appears in the doorway wearing a floral robe and fluffy slippers.
"I was just about to make cinnamon rolls. Anyone hungry?"
"I'd love some." Atlas's voice is perfectly steady. Perfectly controlled. Like he wasn't just finger-fucking my mouth thirty seconds ago. "Max was just telling me he has a study group to get to. Isn't that right, Max?"
I can't speak. Can barely breathe. But I manage a nod.
"Oh, on a Saturday?" Margot's brow furrows with concern. "You're working so hard, sweetheart. Make sure you're taking care of yourself."
"I will," I croak.
Then I'm moving. Walking—not running,don't run, that would be suspicious—out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, into my room.
Door closed. Locked.
I barely make it to the bed before my hand is in my pants, stroking myself hard and fast, the ghost of Atlas's thumb still burning on my tongue.
