Page 111 of Run Wild Omega

My mouth goes dry.

I force my gaze back up to his face. His cheeks have flushed red, the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Sorry, I… it’ll go down on its own. Just ignore it.”

The words leave my mouth before my brain can filter them. “What if I don’t want to ignore it?”

The air between us snaps taut. His pupils dilate, the darkness swallowing the gray morning light. His jaw tightens.

“Tess,” he growls, and the sound of my name in his mouth, rough and threaded with warning, sends a pulse of heat flooding between my legs.

I reach out and press my palm flat against his crotch. The reaction is instantaneous. His head snaps back, his neck corded, a harsh exhale tearing through his clenched teeth. His cock twitches under my hand, hot and rigid even through the cotton.

“Fuck,” he hisses at the ceiling.

I press a little harder.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks, his voice strained and breathless, as I curl my fingers around the shape of him, stroking him through the fabric. The head of his cock is slick, dampening the gray cotton.

I rub my thumb over it.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes.

He shakes his head once.

I lean in and press my lips to the center of his chest. I can feel the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric. I drag my lips sideways, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his pectoral, before sliding my hands under the hem of his shirt. My fingers track up his ribs, tugging the cotton out of the way until my bare mouth finds his skin. I flick my tongue over his nipple before drawing it into my mouth.

He shudders. His entire body jolts, his hands flying to my hips and gripping hard enough to bruise.

“Tess, maybe we should… talk about this,” he rasps, his chest heaving.

I pull back, looking up at him. “All we ever do is talk.”

“What about Wyatt?”

The question lands between us. I know what he’s asking. He’s asking about the bond, the claim, the complicated mess of pack dynamics and territorial lines. He’s asking if touching me right now crosses a line that can’t be uncrossed.

I slide my hand along his length one more time, feeling him pulse beneath my fingers, before I let out a breath.

“Okay,” I whisper. “We can talk.”

He stares at me for a beat, his eyes dark and molten. Then he curses once before his mouth crashes into mine.

This is not the careful, analytical Miles I know. His hands fist in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. His teeth graze my pulse point before he bites down, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make me gasp. His tongue soothes the sting, and then he’s kissing me again, deep and ravenous, swallowing every sound I make.

He backs me against the hallway wall, his hips pinning me in place. I can feel every inch of him pressed against my stomach, and the raw, aggressive need radiating from him sends a thrill racing down my spine.

This is a side of Miles I never expected. Beneath the quiet intellect and the measured words and the telemetry screens, there is a man who takes what he wants with a precision that is devastating.

His hands drop to the button of my jeans. He pops it open with a flick, drags the zipper down, and shoves his hand inside without hesitation.

His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my underwear, and the first touch of his fingertips against my slick, swollen flesh tears a moan from my throat.

“You’re so wet,” he breathes against my mouth, his voice ragged. “You’re soaked, Tess.”

“Your fault,” I gasp, my hips bucking into his hand.

He slides one finger inside me, then two, pumping in a relentless motion. His thumb finds my clit and circles it tightly, and I claw at his shoulders, my head thrown back against the wall.

“I’ve been thinking about this since last night,” he murmurs against my jaw, his teeth scraping my skin. “The way you tasted. The way you felt grinding on me. I came in my pants like a fucking teenager because of you.”