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He was good at this, at letting me take charge of this. Men weren’t, in my opinion. Or maybe he’d just spoiled me for all time because he knew me inside out, had learned me like learning to play a harp, stroking—licking—the strings of me exactly the way I liked.

He let me set the pressure, the pace, the movement, and he moved only in time to complement what I did. He didn’t try to do this himself. He tried to assist me as I dragged my sensitive flesh against his tongue.

I looked down at him. He had his eyes closed, his expression reverent. He moaned as he tasted me.

I seized a handful of his hair in one hand. I tugged.

He grunted.

I wanted to cry for some reason. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted…

And then my orgasm rose up, unbidden, like the surge of a river after a storm, rushing through in a frenzy, flooding everything with its raw power, tearing out everything in its wake. It brutalized its way through me, one surge after another, and I panted and swore, and put my palm on his forehead and pushed.

He went sprawling on the blankets, looking up at me with a half-smile on his face. “I got so spoiled with how fast you come, Leo. I did not know how lucky I was.”

I was out of breath. I had forgotten this, too, really. It was easy with him. When we were teenagers, we had sex every night and it never took very long. Five or ten minutes of us pleasuring the other, just like masturbating before bed, only using each other’s bodies. We were so in tune with each other.

I thought I’d have that my whole life.

And then he betrayed me.

His smile went cocky. “You want to see me.” It wasn’t a question. He gestured to his crotch, an invitation.

I got down on the blanket and scooted over to him. I unzipped him.

He breathed, caressing my cheek, then my shoulder.

I took him out. He was thick and long and his knot was big and swollen, getting bigger and bigger as I toyed with him. I wrapped my hand around it and squeezed.

“Good girl,” he said in a soft voice. “Very good girl.” He thumbed my cheekbone. “You want to kiss it hello.” This was not a question either.

I bent down and took the tip of him into my mouth. I sucked a little.

He sighed, thumb moving affectionately against my cheekbone. “You’re so fucking good at that.”

I moved off, meeting his gaze.

He pulled me close and kissed me. “You’re so perfect, omega,” he said, his voice strained. “You’re so very, very perfect.”

I writhed in against his chest. The kiss deepened.

We rolled around on the blankets for a while, just kissing like that, him on top of me, me on top of him.

Eventually, breathless, he tugged at my shirt. “Off.”

I straddled him, yanking my shirt over my head, pulling my bra along with it.

“Oh, there they are,” he said to my breasts. “Been too long. They’re bigger.”

I snickered, finding that sort of typical and male and annoying, and yet… liking it. Liking his approval of me. Knowing that he would approve of me no matter what, that he always had.

“I missed too much,” he said, pulling me down, putting his mouth to one of my nipples. “I saw them go from little mosquito bites on your chest to round and full, and then… missed this transformation, you from young woman to fully mature.” He kissed the other nipple. “I regret that more than anything.”

That hit me strangely too, but I liked it, anyway.

“Back then,” he said into my flesh, sucking the tip of me into his mouth and then releasing it, “it was easy to tell myself you were sort of growing them for me, that the purpose of your pretty tits was for my pleasure, that they were sort of mine.”

I gasped.