CHAPTER 3
BECKETT
The duch gasped, his lips parting under Beckett’s. Beckett didn’t kiss him, not properly. The duch had been chewing on his lips, probably to keep back his keening cries, as well as not getting himself the water he needed.
Gods. These fancy folk. Some of them were so soft, they didn’t have the wits to take care of themselves. It was a good thing Beckett knew how.
He brushed his lips softly back and forth, back and forth, even as he wondered why he was bothering.
When he kissed Jack it was a meeting of equals, in physical power if not in status. He might be a footman and Jack a duke, but he was as much alpha as Jack was. You couldn’t take that away from him, at least.
When he kissed Jack, it was a mighty, arousing clash. Teeth clicked, tongues thrust, hands grappled. He loved it. He loved the feel of Jack trying to dominate him.Trying. Jack felt the same. He’d told Beckett so, when they first began.
“Good,” he’d said, laughing into Beckett’s mouth as Beckett snapped at him, almost drawing blood. “Good. I like a tussle.”
They both liked a tussle.
The duch…Beckett’s weight rested on the slender body, pressing it into the dense mattress, and he moved over him in one long, slow ripple…the omega, now. You couldn’t snap at a man like this.
He’d wet himself, and not in the fun way.
Beckett continued the soft brushing, back and forth. His lips quirked with amusement when the omega hummed, like a little bee. It was a sweet buzz of sound. Oh? Liked it, did he?
Beckett flicked out his tongue. Instead of the lewd stripe he’d licked earlier, he touched it gently to the omega’s bottom lip. Once, twice. Coaxing touches, wondering if—ah.
There it was.
The omega’s hands, which had been balled into fists and held either side of his head, unfurled. One slid under the heavy fall of Beckett’s hair, curling over his nape. Beckett pulled back sharply, snatching the wrist and slamming it down to the mattress. He gave the omega a warning look.
The omega’s face was bright red. He dropped his gaze from Beckett’s without even pretending to fight. His hands were in tense fists again, and Beckett scowled. The fine tendons in the omega’s wrists fluttered. He didn’t try to pull away.
There wasn’t any point, after all.
Beckett drew first one then the other of the omega’s arms down and draped them carelessly around his waist. He went back to grazing his mouth over the omega’s. It still wasn’t quite kissing. It would be in a moment. He was enjoying the plump, wet heat beneath his own lips. He’d move on when he was ready.
(Soon, soon. Need was rising at the base of his spine.Soon.)
The omega’s hands unfurled again, and flattened on Beckett’s sides. Tentatively, he slid his fingers upward in a light stroke.
Beckett flexed, rewarding him by taking his bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a soft suck.
The omega moaned, drawing all the hairs on Beckett’s body up. He grunted in response, and rolled his hips firmly against the omega’s.
The omega’s hands coasted down his sides and in, to rest shyly at the small of his back, right over the spot where Beckett’s need coiled tight.
The light touch was exploratory. There was something hesitant and wondering in it, and Beckett scowled. The omega made a worried noise. Beckett’s eyes snapped open and looked directly into the omega’s which were fixed on his face.
The little thing did his best to maintain eye contact. Beckett ducked down for another of those lewd, pushy licks over his hot, sore mouth and that did it. The omega tipped his head back, mouth falling open, eyes shutting, and why not? Beckett slid his tongue in and along the omega’s.
The omega’s hands went to his buttocks and dug in. Like kitten claws, Beckett thought with amusement.
He’d prefer to be amused by the duch than discover things like he wasn’t smart enough to get himself water when he needed it, like he clearly hadn’t even had a man on top of him before, like he wasamazedat the feel of hot naked skin and muscle, and he wasoldto be discovering this. Years older than Beckett!
Why didn’t heknowwhat it was like already?
Beckett ground his hips into the omega’s, waiting for him to yield a bit, for his legs to fall open.
If this was Jack, now, he’d enjoy cranking Jack’s legs open, shoving up hard against him, forcing their shafts together and rubbing off on him furiously, but this wasn’t Jack, who could take it, who would welcome it. No. He didn’t want to bruise the duch. He, Beckett, was better than that.
