“I know what you need.” I release his wrists and hook my fingers into his waistband, pulling his pants down his thighs. He’s already slick, heat soaking through his briefs. I slide the ring from my pocket. Oliver’s eyes lock on it, his scent surging so strong my vision swirls.
I ease the ring onto my cock as Oliver reaches for me, pulling me close as his legs wrap around my waist. The ring catches against his rim as he drags me closer, and the sound he makesfills the small space, his head falling back on the pillow, his hands balling in my shirt.
“There.” His voice cracks. The ring swells inside him from the pressure, and his body clenches, arching against me. “Fuck, Wilson, right there.”
I drive my hips forward, feeling the ring pulse against my heartbeat. Oliver’s mouth finds my neck, lips pressing into the tendon beneath my jaw.
I cup the back of his head as I fuck into him, hard and fast, knowing that this spike needs urgency rather than exploration.
Oliver's orgasm hits me in a wave as his body tightens around the ring with such force that my vision fractures. He cries out against my neck while his nails drag down my arms and his cock pulses between our bodies. The sensation triggers my own release, the ring swelling to full size as I come inside him.
When it subsides, Oliver rests his head on my chest. His breathing gradually evens out as the spike fades, his scent mellowing toward its usual warmth. I wrap my arm around his waist and press my mouth against his hair, before moving lower to meet his lips.
I keep the kiss unhurried and soft, my hand cradling the curve of his jaw. Oliver hums against my mouth while his fingers trace intricate patterns on my chest through the fabric of my shirt. When I pull back, his eyes have cleared, the glazed urgency of the spike replaced by something tender and aware.
"I like when you kiss me first," he says, voice still slightly rough.
"Yeah?"
"You rarely kiss me first."
"I did just now."
Oliver grins until the glitter on his cheeks creases in the light. My arm tightens around his waist as I pull him against my side, and his head tucks perfectly under my chin. Several minutesof comfortable silence pass before my phone vibrating in my pocket ruins it.
I fish it out with one hand as Oliver mumbles a protest about my movement. The screen illuminates with a text from an unknown number.
Wilson. It's been a long time. I hope you're well. I'd love to catch up sometime. You know where to find me. — S
My lungs empty completely.
Oliver's head lifts from my chest before I've processed what's happening as his eyes search my face. "Wilson? What is it?"
"Nothing." The word emerges hollow in my throat. When I scroll to the contact information, I find only an unknown number without caller ID. That single initial burns at the end of the message, though, like a brand pressed into glass.
Sebastian never texted during our three years. He communicated through his physical presence, through calculated silences, through precisely measured doses of distance and attention.
Texting would have seemed beneath him. He would only resort to it when the message itself served as a weapon, when reaching through a screen to land in my pocket would demonstrate that no distance could truly separate us.
The phone clicks as I lock it and push it deep into my pocket. Oliver watches me closely, his expression hardening from tenderness to suspicion. "Wilson." His voice carries a warning.
"I said it's nothing." Pressing my lips to his forehead, I linger until the sweetness of his scent begins to push back against the cold spreading through my chest. "Let's get cleaned up."
The sweet moment is overshadowed by the sudden panic climbing through my chest, Oliver trying to peel back the curtain of what just happened. But it really is nothing. Or it might be something. Or it might be the one person I thought I had put behind me.
“How are you feeling,” I manage as we right our clothes, Oliver having pulled some spares from a small bag in the corner he must have stashed earlier. “Do you think your heat is starting?”
Oliver just glares at me. “I’mfeeling fine but I know something is wrong. Who texted you?”
“An unknown number. Oliver, please. Random numbers have been calling since that article and everything, okay? I block them and move on but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
That seems to satisfy my Omega as we return to the floor. Hours pass as I mechanically move through my tasks, more sure by the minute of who sent it.
At 9:37 PM, Sebastian Cavallero walks through the front door, which I only know from staring at my phone at that text again seconds before he materialized. He looks exactly the same, that’s the first thing my body processes before my brain catches up.
His hair is styled with the precision that used to take him forty-five minutes in the bathroom while I waited in the bedroom, wondering what was taking so long. His jaw is clean-shaven, and his posture carries the particular authority of an Alpha who considers every room he enters already his.
His scent reaches me before he’s ten feet inside: cold metal and smoke, slicing through the crush of forty bodies, the heat, the alcohol, and the lingering sweetness of Oliver’s spike clinging to my skin.
