His fingers pause, then resume. "Because if we don't make sure everyone is getting enough of what they need, this will blow up in our faces. If we leave it to instinct, we will always gravitate toward whoever smells newest. Strongest. Scariest to lose."
"Marie."
"Yes."
I inhale sharply. "At least you're honest."
"I told you I would be."
My throat tightens. The sharp, ugly part of me tries to twist that:Not in affection. Not in bonds. Just in uncomfortable truths.
But the softer part knows it matters.
I don't say thank you. But I lean into his hands a little more.
He tips my chin and I let him, the pad of his thumb warm where he's been rubbing. The kiss he gives me isn't a test; it's a claim. Slow, sure pressure, his mouth fitting to mine like we've done it a thousand times and still somehow have things to learn. I make a small sound I don't mean to, and his answer is a low rumble against my lips that slides straight down my spine.
His scent changes—deeper, heavier—and I tip into it because my body is starving for exactly this. He coaxes my mouth open and takes a little more, tongue stroking, fingers tightening at my nape until my toes curl in the blankets.
"Is this on the rotation too? Kisses, neck rub, mandatory morale—"
He huffs a dark laugh, then cuts it off by rolling, dragging me under him in one smooth shift that steals my breath. The mattress dips with his weight. His hands catch both my wrists and press them to the pillow above my head, big palms bracketing my pulse. He looks down at me for one long heartbeat, blue eyes steady, alpha settled heavy in the air.
"You want to be a brat, or you want me to take that mouth and put it to better use?"
Heat floods me so fast I almost pant. "Bossy."
"Correct. Tell me to stop if you want it to."
"I don't."
"Good."
The word lands like a stroke down my core.
Clothes become a problem he solves with efficient hands and that stubborn patience he uses when he's building something complicated. He peels my hoodie up, drags my shorts down, maps bare skin with his palms like he's checking the frame for flaws. When he bends and puts his mouth on my throat, I break a little, the scrape of his teeth right where my pulse flutters making every muscle go soft.
"Ragon," I whisper, and there's plea in it I can't swallow.
"I've got you. Open for me."
I do. I always do for him, even when I've sworn to myself I won't. He lets my hands go only to urge my knees wider, to bracket my hips with his and slide home on a long, thick push that wrings a sound out of me I'd deny in any other room.
Relief hits so hard my eyes sting. He fills me in a way that shuts off all the circuits that have been sparking all damn week. Every edge blurs. The world telescopes: his body heavy and hot, the hard steady drive of him, the way he watches my face like the only thing that matters is whether this is enough.
I reach for more and he gives it to me. His rhythm sets and holds, no teasing, no circling—just the deliberate, relentless kind of taking that strips me of every brittle thing I've been clinging to. The headboard thumps against thewall in an even, measured beat. He rocks me into the mattress until words scatter and all I can do is feel.
"Too much?" His voice is rough.
I shake my head, pulling in air, letting it out on a broken sound when he pushes deeper, the thick head of his cock nudging that tender, needy spot inside me that makes my toes curl. He holds my wrists to the pillow for a beat longer, testing, then slides one hand down, broad palm cupping my jaw, thumb skimming my lower lip like he's reminding me who all this mouth belongs to.
"Open," he murmurs again, not for my legs this time.
I part my lips and he feeds me two fingers, hot and deliberate, the pads rubbing my tongue while his hips set that punishing, even rhythm. Every stroke drags delicious friction along my inner walls, the long length of him stroking in, bottoming out, grinding just enough that my clit bumps against the pressure of his pelvis. Slick spills out of me, obscene and perfect. I taste the salt of his skin and moan around him, heat rolling through my belly in waves.
He pulls his fingers free with a soft wet sound and uses them where I need them more, sweeping down and circling my clit in tight, unrelenting strokes that make my vision stutter. His other hand slides to my neck, that big, certain weight pressing my head into the pillow in a way that makes every muscle in me go soft and obedient.
"That's it. Take it, omega. Use your words for me or use your sounds—I'll take either."
