“Where have you been?” I demand. Or at least, that’s what I mean to do. What actually happens is that my lips move accusingly, and no sound comes out of my mouth.
Great. Just great. On top of everything else, I’m hoarse. Heat hoarse. It’s a common condition that often follows heat. It’s caused when omegas are subjected to excessive screaming orgasms. The cure is to stop having screaming orgasms, and I’m in luck because I definitely won’t be having more of those anytime soon.
“How’s your…?” Branson’s voice fades and his eyes flick to the general vicinity of my crotch and quickly back up again. “I, er, I mean, how are you feeling?”
There’s something not quite right about him. He’s wearing too many clothes, for one thing, and for another, his eyes keep skidding off mine. There’s this weird tension around the corners of his mouth that I don’t like at all.
“How’s my ass feeling?” I mouth furiously. “Is that what you wanted to say?” He doesn’t nod or shake his head, but he does press his lips together in a way that provokes me. “Well, I’ll tell you what my ass feels like—it feels like someone tried to park a freight train up it,repeatedly. That’s how it feels.”
“Sorry,” he says, showing me a row of incisors and canines.
I shrug his apology away. Of course it’s mainly his fault, but I did forget to pack my suppressant, so I can’t place all the blame on him. As I raise my shoulders, the collar of his jacket briefly covers the bottom half of my face, and the rich, homey scent of Branson hits my olfactory system, washing over me in thick, heavy waves.
Ligaments loosen.
Tension leaves me.
My shoulders drop and my hands fall to my side.
“Where were you?” I rasp. “I woke up, and you weren’t here.”
I’m upset that I’m upset about this, and I’ve even more upset that I seem hellbent on telling Branson about it. Fortunately, he’s too pleased with himself to notice. He smiles broadly and raises his arm to show me what he has in his hand.
“What the fuck is that?” I croak, a tiny sliver of sound scraping roughly over my voice box and booming out of it on every second word.
“It’s a tushy-cushy,” he says proudly holding a doughnut-shaped cushion up as though it’s a fish and he’s an asshole posing for a dating app profile photograph. “Iknewwe had one somewhere. I searched the whole cabin fromtop to bottom and eventually found it in the garage.”
“I’m not using that,” I hiss pointedly.
“Oh,” he says, disappointed. “Okay.” We eye each other for a tense moment, and his eyes skid off mine again. “I made some chicken soup for you. D’you want to get some fresh air while I heat it up?”
He motions to a distinctly uncomfortable-looking outdoor bench on the porch. It’s one of those wrought iron ones with a timber seat. I consider my options briefly and reluctantly lower myself down onto it when I can’t think of a reason to decline that doesn’t involve me alluding to the fact that his dick is the size of a freight train again.
As I do it, he slides the fucking tushy-cushy under my ass.
It helps rather a lot, so I decide not to remind him that I’m not using it.
He heads into the house and sucks the air out of my lungs as he does it. I sit on the stupid bench, struggling to breathe until he gets back.
He sits next to me, turning his body so he’s mostly facing me.
“Are you okay, Lucy?”
His voice is molasses. It’s his heat voice, not his normal voice. It’s the voice he used to say my name when he knotted me, bathed me, took care of me.
My asshole has the incredible audacity to twitch hopefully at the sound.
“I’m—” I blink fast and breathe through a terrible urge to sob. I’m partially successful. I manage to tamp down the snivel that threatens, but while I’m working on that, an errant tear makes a break for freedom and streaks down my cheek quicker than I can stop it.
Branson watches the tear, his face lined with concern, as it tracks all the way down to my jaw. Then he raiseshis hand, making a loose fist, and wipes it away with his knuckle.
He touches me hesitantly, like he doesn’t know me, and is unsure if his touch is welcome.
That makes me cry more.
I turn into him, burying my face in his neck. “Everything hurts,” I cry. “And, and, I’m feeling so much. Everything is big, and I feel all alone in my body, and…”
His hand is a weight on my back. Solid and grounding. A hot mass that calms me more than I thought such a thing could.
