I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. There’s absolutely nothing funny about this situation. I’m furious. I have no idea why I can’t stop laughing.
God.
I wonder if I’m still delirious.
Oh, that would be wonderful. Imagine if all this is a fever dream, and I wake up tomorrow, unmated and normal.
Yes, please, Lord, let that be what’s happening.
19
Lucien
Athickmatofchest hair tickles my nose. There’s a shit ton of ink so close to my face that the colors swirl together. As I blink, the distorted line of a bed frame and thick, parallel timber boards lead my eye to a crumpled ball of murder mystery costumes.
Oh. Lovely.
I’m on the floor.
Technically, I’m on top of Branson, who’s on the floor.
He’s snoring softly, and I’m stretched out on top of him. My fingers are knotted in a handful of blond hair. My face pressed heavily against his skin.
I can’t help noticing that I seem to be humping his leg with some urgency.
I stop immediately.
I keep perfectly still, but it’s a lot harder than it should be. His scent has invaded my senses. That rich, burned honey smell of home has gone straight to my dick.
I’m hard and horny. Hard and horny in a different way. Not a heated way. A normal way. Or, in an almost normal way. I feel it predominantly in my dick, like I used to before I went into heat. A deep, tantalizing firmness, a tingling sensation spreading up my shaft. A slow, sultry thickening that demands attention.
I resist the urge to nudge my cock against the solid slab of his thigh and try not to make a sound. I’m not entirely successful.
“Morning, my horny little omega,” says a fond, sleepy voice.
A pair of big hands travels slowly down my back, collecting the scattered tiny pieces of me and smoothing them back into place.
I don’t move or speak.
The hands on my back slide up my spine, pausing to roll over each knob of my vertebrae, and then travel downward again. They inch over the swell of my ass, kneading gently until my eyes drop shut.
Wait.
No!
What the hell is happening? What am I doing on top of Branson, and why am I letting him grope me?
“How did I get here?” I squawk accusingly. My voice is a little better today. Still raspy and raw, but more of a consistent husk than it was yesterday.
“You climbed onto me during the night,” he says, eyes dimming with disappointment. “Don’t you remember?”
“No. Of course I don’t remember. I was obviously sleepwalking, or sleepclimbing, or whatever you’d call it.”
I extricate myself from him, taking pains to ensure I don’t so much as look anywhere near his pants. The last thing I need is a glimpse of his hard alpha dong. It’s bad enough that I can still feel the impression of it against my belly.
It’s not that I don’t trust myself. It isn’t.
It’s that I don’t trust my dick. I’m horny as hell, and not in a good way, in anI could do something stupid at anysecondkind of way.
