In it, Branson is sitting on the sofa, and I’m on top of him. He’s inside me, his knot fully distended, stretching me beyond what I thought my body could take.
There was a soft scratch of upholstery on my shins as I rode him. I was arched backward, as I have been in every memory I’ve had of this particular fuck. He had one hand on my lower back, and the other between my shoulder blades, holding me securely as I bucked and thrashed in his arms.
A booming orgasm receded, and I stilled, looking down at the mess I made all over him in satisfaction.
“Alpha,” I said, smiling at Branson in a way that’s been known to get me my own way a lot in life. A playful pursing of lips. A slow, seductive quirk at the corners of my mouth.
There was something different about my voice when I spoke. It was syrupy and low, with a hint of hoarseness grated into it.
That isn’t the main thing that’s notable though. The main thing I notice as the memory plays back is the certainty that was laced into my voice.
“Omega,” he replied.
His smile was different from mine. Mine was precision and willful intent. His was a lopsided mess that tugged unevenly at his cheeks.
If his smile was a mess, his eyes were worse. Bleary doesn’t begin to describe what they looked like. Amber striations were lit up so brightly that his irises were glowing. His pupils were dilated, dark shadows stretched wide.
I dipped my face toward him, and he chased my lips for a kiss. I let him get close but pulled back at the last second, laughing. I did it again and again until he was growling so loudly, the room was alive with heady vibrations.
There was a second where I paused, where I considered what I was doing.
Then I leaned in again. Only the second time, instead of teasing him with my mouth, I let my hand drop backward and offered him the soft skin of my inner wrist.
In the present, confused by the memory, I’m aghast by it.
What the hell was I doing?
I offered him my wrist? Why would I do that?
There’s no earthly way something like that could possibly be misinterpreted. No one, no matter how out of touch with reality, could ever see an omega doing something like that and think of it as anything other than a deliberate act of seduction.
In the memory, Branson looked at my wrist for what felt like an age. He swallowed hard, seemingly unable to tear his gaze from my pulse point. At last, he took my wrist in both hands, his grip firm and possessive, and raised it to his face.
He scented me like a gentleman at first. An alpha with good breeding and old-world refinement.
I watched, pleased, as his breeding and refinement were eroded.
He scented me again, and that time it was the action of an alpha acting on instinct. A loud drag of air filled his lungs and made his eyes roll.
The next time, he scented me like an animal. His nose trailed light blue-green veins greedily, and a low, hungry lament was followed by a fully extended tongue and the slight scrape of teeth.
Again, the version of me in the flashback watched in quiet approval as he did it. In fact, if memory serves me,I’m pretty sure I clenched my ass on his knot to spur him on.
When his pupils were completely blown out, and his lopsided grin had faded to a snarl, I raised my shoulder slightly and curled it toward him. It was a coy gesture designed to entice. When I was positive I had his attention, I extended my arm and offered him the pulse point at my elbow. As I did it, a desirous ache raced through my veins, heating me. Fueling me.
Branson took my arm without hesitation, inhaling fast and frantically. Scenting me like I was a drug and he was an addict.
I let him do it until his eyelids were drooping and a line of enamel offered me exactly what I wanted—a glint of teeth. A pair of canines that were a little sharper and a little more distended than usual.
I smiled at them like they were old friends, and tilted my head to the side in a slow and controlled way. A considered way. A tempting way. I brushed my hair back off my neck calmly, as if I were home alone on a warm day, and I was unaware that anyone was watching me.
I break into a cold sweat as the first murmur of an unbelievable realization dawns on me.
Can this be right?
Did I do this?
In the memory, Branson’s lips parted robotically, and his gaze followed my every move. He watched the sweep of my hand as if it were riveting. Like he couldn’t look away. Like he was bewitched.
