Omega (Alpha #3) (32 page)

“But you know what else, Layla?”

I took the bait. I had no choice. “What, Nick?”

“I won’t
just
fuck you.”

“No?”

“Oh no. I’m going to show you what it means to be possessed by me. To be treasured. To be the object of devotion, and passion.” He moved, slowly, deeply, rhythmically. Gently. Tenderly. “I’m going to show what it means to be
mine
. And you’ll never want anything else again.”

Little did he know, I already didn’t want anything else. So ruined. I was so ruined.

Then the bastard messed me up even more. Right when I knew he was on the edge, and I was there too, he pulled out.
 

“I’m going to kill you,” I snapped.

He didn’t answer. He rolled us so I was on top, let me find my balance, and then slid his body down until his face was underneath me. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth—whatever the fuck
that
bullshit phrase even means—I sat on his face. His tongue speared into me, and I gasped. Then his tongue flicked my clit, and I moaned. And then he sucked my clit into his mouth, shoved three fingers into my slit, reached up and twisted my nipple…and I screamed.
 

I rode his face like he was a goddamned penny pony at the grocery store, and he took it and ate me out until I was screaming nonstop and frantic and grinding my clit on his mouth like I’d die if he stopped. I just might have, you never know.

But the bastard wasn’t done. He just
had
to up the ante, because he was a bastard. The best kind of bastard, but still a bastard.

What did he do, you ask?

He put one in the stink. Not the pinky of the left hand he was three-fingers deep inside my pussy with, either. No, he reached around my hip with his right hand and pressed his middle finger against my asshole. Already cresting the edge of orgasm, this was nearly too much. But just because I’m a glutton for punishment, I held myself back. I wanted that finger in me, first. I forced myself to relax and open for him as he massaged the rosebud of muscle.
 

I grabbed his hand, pulled it up to my face, and spat on his fingers.
 

No shame in my game, bitches.

I heard as well as felt the bass rumble of his laughter.
 

He smeared my saliva against my rear entrance until I was nice and coated, and then pressed his finger in, gently, slowly, carefully. One knuckle, pulsing rhythmically in and out, tongue slowly working my clit, keeping me at the edge but not pushing me over. I rocked my hips, and got another knuckle’s worth for my effort. I couldn’t stop the moans from escaping then, and didn’t try. He increased the pace of his mouth over my core, tongue flicking in quickening circles, fingers sliding in and out of my hot, wet slit, long thick middle finger now fully inserted, his palm flat against my flesh. Couldn’t be a comfortable position, his wrist curled around like that. I let myself go, then.

I felt it start in my belly and in my chest, my muscles tightening, my heartbeat going wild, my thighs trembling from the effort of holding myself aloft over him. I cursed and started convulsing, grinding on his face arrhythmically, wildly, rocking against his fingers, the one and the three, which he used to great effect, thrusting them in and out of me in a steady rhythm.
 

The scream when I came probably woke up people in China.
 

He still wasn’t done with me.

Still coming, I had no choice but to grab onto his shoulder for balance as he slid out from beneath me, rose to sit on his shins, and lifted me up. My thighs were done, toast, jelly; I had to cling to his neck, shaking all over, quaking with tremors of the orgasm that still had me in its grip.

Harris wasted no time, no motion or energy. He palmed my ass cheeks and lifted me up, and I, savvy to his intentions, reached between us and guided him home.
 

Fuck. Did I really just think that? Home? There was no home. I had no home.

But this felt like it. Holding onto Harris’s strong neck and broad shoulders, wrapping my legs around his waist and letting myself sink down around him to sit on his thighs…that felt like home.

Clutching Harris for all I was worth, still ripped by waves of climax, feeling him deep inside me, one of his corded forearms beneath my buttocks, the other gathering my hair into a ponytail and gripping it at the base of my skull and roughly jerking my head back so I
had
to look at him…

I was
HOME
.
 

Goddamn it.
 

He just held me like that. Seated on him, my head tilted back so I was staring down at him past my nose, my hands clawed into talons gripping his shoulders. So deep. So thick inside me. Throbbing, hot. My cunt pulsed around him, oozed essence. He didn’t move, just stared at me.

“You feel us?” He thrust once, hard.

“Yes,” I breathed, and tried to close my eyes.

“Fucking
look
at me, Layla.” He gave my hair a jerk. “Tell me what you feel. Out loud, right now.” Another thrust, this one slow but forceful, lifting me up with the power of his thighs.

“I feel us. I feel you.” I ground my hips on him, needing more, even though he couldn’t go deeper and I’d already come so hard I was still out of breath, but there were the facts: I needed
more
, and I hated myself for it. Hated my weakness for the drug that was Nick.
 

“Copout.”
 

“It’s not a copout, that’s what I feel.”
 

He pulled on my hair until I bent backward, so my tits thrust into his face. He latched onto my breast, licking first the wide dark brown circle of my areola and then flicking his tongue over my nipple. A thrust, once again hard and slow, lifting me up. He was doling out the thrusts like they were in short supply, and it was working, making me want them all the more for how few I was getting.

“No shit you feel us, Layla. I’m inside you. I can’t go any deeper.” He bit my neck, my throat, kissed my chin, keeping a firm grip on my hair so I couldn’t move to even kiss him back. “I know you feel us. Tell me what’s inside you.”

“You are.”
 

He laughed. “True. But you know what I mean. Don’t be a pussy, Layla.”
 

“Tell me what
you
feel, then, Mr. I’m In Touch With My Feelings.” He may not have heard the capital letters on that, but they were there.

“I’ve fucked a lot of women in my life—”

“Wow. Great to know while you’re inside me,” I snapped.

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “None of them have ever made me feel even a fraction of what you do, Layla. You’ve ruined me for other women. You’ve ruined me for sex with anyone else, ever again. And you know how we talked about being scared every time I went into combat? Well, I’m not ashamed to admit the way you’re making me feel emotionally has me all kinds of fucked up in the head. I’m scared of you. You scare the shit out of me.”

“How many women have you fucked, Harris?”

“You’re jealous?”

“No. God, no.” I totally was. I didn’t want to be, but the theme of this whole mess with Harris was me at war with myself.

“You are.”
 

“No, I’m not. It’s just a dick move to brag about how many women you’ve fucked while you’re in the middle of fucking a woman.”

“I wasn’t bragging. Just stating a fact.”

“Why are we having this conversation?” I asked. “Why now?”

“Because you’re trying to avoid me. You thought you could avoid me by going down on me.” Just to make sure things stayed…relevant, he pushed up into me, pulling a gasp from me. “You can’t avoid this. It’s real. It’s happening. It’s
been
happening.”

“I’m not avoiding anything.”

“You’re a shitty liar, Layla.”

I was, though. The man knew me. I was a bad liar, and I was lying.

“Goddamn it, Nick. What the hell do you want from me?”
 

“I want you to admit this is more than just outrageously incredible sex. It’s more than just a good hard fucking.” He pulled my hair again so I was leaning backward, spine arched, and he leaned backward as well, reaching between our bodies to caress my clit. He fucked me, then, moving hard and fast, pounding into me over and over, driving up with all of his considerable power so our bodies crashed together with a
slapslapslapslap
of flesh on flesh.

My tits bounced roughly on my chest, my ass hit his thighs and shook like gelatine.
 

God, I loved it.
 

“You like that, don’t you, Layla?”
 

“Fuck yes,” I admitted, breathless.

“You like it when I fuck you so hard you can’t see straight.”
 

“Don’t stop, Harris. Please, don’t stop.”
 

He stopped.

He let go of my hair and tipped me backward so I hit the mattress, and then he was over me, above me, still inside me, his hand on the back of my knee stretching my leg up toward my chest, splitting me open, pushing deeper and deeper. He pinned my knee in place with his arm, and his free hand brushed my hair out of my face.
 

And he moved, slowly, gently, with a rhythm so smooth there was no way for me to know where the thrust in stopped and the pull out began.

“How about this?” he asked. “Do you like this?”
 

I whimpered in answer. Lifted my hips to meet his. “Yes,” was all I could say.

“Is this fucking?”
 

I shook my head. “No.”
 

He let go of my leg, and I wrapped my heels around his back. He braced himself with his hands beside my face, and just moved, plain vanilla missionary. It had never felt so good.
 

Or so intimate.

“What about this?”
 

“Shut up, Nick.”
 

“What am I doing to you, right now? What is this, Layla?”

“Goddamn it.” I knew what he was doing, and I didn’t dare say it.

He lifted a palm and did his thing, cupping my cheek, brushing a thumb over my lips. Bent, kissed my chest, between my breasts. The slope of one breast. Licked a nipple, crossed to the other side and kissed the slope of that one, the wide dark areola and the thick, nearly black nipple.

“What am I doing, Layla?” he demanded.

I clawed my fingers down his back in equal parts ecstasy and anger. Bit his shoulder until I knew it had to hurt like a motherfucker, but he didn’t even flinch, just let me bite him.
 

“What is this thing happening between us, Layla?” He kissed my cheekbone. My forehead. My temple. Always moving, slowly, smoothly, rhythmically, beautifully, and perfectly. “Say it, babe. I want to hear it.”

I shook my head.
 

“No?” he said.
 

I shook my head again, refusing to betray myself by speaking. If I did, my voice would break. I’d be forced to admit…shit, a lot of things I didn’t want to admit.

The motherfucker pulled out and got off the bed, breathing hard, eyes blazing, green orbs fiery and angry, chest heaving, sweat sheening his skin.
 

I threw a tantrum, kicking my feet and flailing my hands, screaming in anger. “
Goddamn
it, Nicholas! Don’t do this to me!”
 

“Why not?”
 

“Why can’t it just be sex?”
 

He was so hard it had to be painful, his erection flat against his belly, leaking from the tip, my essence smeared and glistening on the beautiful shaft of his goddamned perfect penis. I wanted it. I wanted it back in me. I wanted to feel him finish, feel him let go, wanted his breath on my skin, his weight on my body. I wanted his seed dripping out of me and sliding down my thighs. I wanted his arms around me. I wanted to wake up with him and share the intimacy of not having sex, of just talking, sharing, touching, having coffee and being together. I’d never wanted that before. I hadn’t thought I ever would.

I was fucking terrified of how badly I wanted all that.

And Nicholas motherfucking Harris, the man I wanted and needed more than I’d ever wanted or needed anything in my entire stupid life—he wanted to know why I was so scared.
 

“Why can’t it be more?” he pushed. “What the hell are you so scared of?”
 

“EVERYTHING!” I shouted. “I’m scared of how much I need you, how suddenly it happened. I don’t believe in insta-love. I don’t even believe in love at all! I don’t believe in anything except my own ability to take care of myself. I don’t need anyone. I’ve never needed anyone. I don’t
want
to need anyone. But I—I fucking need you, and I hate it. I
hate
it. And I hate you for making me need you. For being so fucking amazing that I don’t just need you, I
want
you. I
crave
you. And I hate that too.”
 

“Why? Why is it so bad to need someone?” He wasn’t sitting down, and his massive erection wasn’t fading.

“Because.”

“What are you, three? Give me a real answer.”

“Or what?”
 

“Or nothing. Or I’ll take you back to Detroit and post a guard you’ll never see on you. You’ll never see me again. You can have your lonely, workaholic, pathetic life, if that’s what you want. I’m not going to force this out of you.”
 

“But you are.” Even in the midst of having my feelings ripped out and put on display, I couldn’t take my eyes off his cock. Harris’s penis was just right, thick enough to stretch me, long enough to fill me. Almost as if…

Fuck it. I knew I had to finish the thought:

Almost as if it had been custom-made specifically for me, to fit me like a puzzle, to complete me, to pleasure me and me alone.

I choked on my own emotions.
 

Finally, I sat up, put my feet on the floor and folded my hands on my lap, wringing them together, squeezing until my knuckles protested. Kept my eyes off his, on the floor.
 

What did I want? Him? This?
 

Or my life back in Detroit?