“I could hold you, and like, pet you.”
Ordinarily, I’d waste no time telling him what a stupid suggestion that is. Right now, it doesn’t seem like the worst idea I’ve heard.
9
Branson
Iarrangeapileof pillows against the wall, settle onto the mattress, and lean back. Lucien kneels beside me, hesitant but needing closeness badly enough that he’s prepared to accept it. I scoop him up, folding him into a little ball, and pull him onto my lap. He comes easily, body pliant, skin intoxicatingly warm.
I hold him like that for a few minutes to let him get accustomed to my touch. I look down at him, and the sight takes my breath away. He’s in my arms. Lucien is in my arms. Eyes closed, lashes long and dark. Much darker than the hair on his head. His brows are too. Two perfect arches that frame his face beatifically.
I wait until he whimpers again before moving him, scooting him up and guiding his face to the base of my neck. He instinctively nuzzles closer, sighing softly between gulpy gasps of breath.
His lips flutter against my skin.
My chest expands, rib cage quaking from the effort it takes to suppress the growl that forms inside me. The primal part of me rears up, struggling, fighting for freedom, but it’s too soon. Lucien’s heat is close, but it isn’t here yet.
After a few deep breaths, the threat passes, and I do what I said I would: I pet the little omega in my arms.
I start with a hand on his head, carding my fingers through his hair, letting the tips lightly graze his scalp. I use slow, steady movements to calm him. He clings to me as I do it, scenting me so frantically that if this happened when his hormones weren’t going haywire, he’d be at serious risk of hyperventilating.
I work my hand down the back of his neck, digging my fingers into muscle and gently easing the tension I find there. After a few minutes, he relaxes in my arms. He keeps one arm curled around my neck, but the other drops limply into his lap. He leans against me with his full body weight, and it’s perfect. Light enough that I could toss him around if I wanted, dense enough that I have something solid to hold on to.
I use my left arm to cradle him, and my free hand to stroke his back. I start at his shoulders and slowly track down his spine. His skin breaks into goosebumps at the merest hint of my touch.
He’s responsive. To me. To my hands on his body. To my scent.
The rampant, wild part of me turns inside out with gratification.
Every time I touch him, he relaxes a little more, until at last, all signs of tension have left him and he’s a soft, sleepy boy. A sweet boy who feels safe with me. He moans softly, not from how I’m touching him, but from the comfort, the rightness, of being close to me.
I love it more than I can ever remember loving anything.
The hand that was resting in his lap comes to life again, tracing the outlines of the ink on my arms and chest.
I lower my voice and hum softly. “Sleep, Lucien,” I say when I’m positive he’s as compliant as I’m going to get him.
He wakes, groggy and groaning with need, humping my leg and whimpering when his dick touches me.
“Branson,” he says, eyes still closed, “I’m ready.”
“No, Lucy.” I stroke his cheek to encourage him to open his eyes. Sky blue flits open, rolling once or twice before landing on me. His face is flushed, cheeks bright with heat, his pupils enormous dark orbs. “Not yet.”
He’s close, but from his scent, I’d say he’s four or five hours from the first wave.
“How do you know?” He pouts, his fleshy little bottom lip protruding so much that a trace of saliva makes it glint. It wants to be bitten, that lip. Needs to be bitten. Craves it. I can tell.
“I can smell it.” It’s true. I can smell it. The rich, ripe scent of heat clings to him, singeing my nostrils and twisting my balls. It’s everywhere, his scent. It’s thick and hot. Sexier than anything I’ve ever smelled. There’s a whiff of his normal scent left though. A subtle, sweet, clean-skin smell. Fruit that’s soft but not spilling juice yet. Bone marrow that’s hot but not sizzling. It’s that, and the fact he isn’t thrashing or screaming to be fucked yet, that tells me he isn’t ready yet. “You know what they say: you’ll know when it hits you.”
His bottom lip juts out a little more and his hips squirm. “I think it has hit me though. I do. I think it happened about five minutes ago, before you woke up.”
“Uh-uh, not yet.” I smile to soften the blow.
He slaps my chest weakly but gets distracted and starts groping my pec. It engrosses him momentarily, but not enough to dissuade him from his quest. “Why don’t we just…you know…anyway? Just once.”
He balls his fingers into a fist, leaving only his forefinger straight. He points it at me, close to my face, and gets distracted again, placing his finger over my lips and pulling the bottom one down slightly to give him a glimpse of teeth.
I stroke his cheek and wait for him to look up at me. A bolt of cerulean blitzes my brain and renders me momentarily unable to remember his question as I watch his hand slither down my chest, surreptitiously working its way down my torso. I catch it when it reaches my waistband and hold it tightly against my heart.
