Omega (Alpha #3) (28 page)

He glanced up as he hooked his fingers into the side of the thong, preparing to rip it off.
 

I grabbed his hand. “Don’t. It’s the only pair I’ve got.”
 

“I brought you clean clothes from the
Eliza.
They’re in my bag,” he said, and then ripped the thong apart anyway.

Jesus. You read about a sexy brute of a man ripping a girl’s underwear off, but the reality is a little different. It kind of hurts a little, where the strap on the opposite side digs into your hip with the pressure of the pull, until it gives. And then there’s the fact that it kind of creates a bit of camel toe. But then the string parts and you’re bare, naked, completely bare. And that was what he did, just ripped it off, tore my underwear right off. It snatched my breath away.

Yeah, it is exactly that sexy.
 

And then his mouth was over my core, his tongue spearing into me, and I had to grab his shoulders for balance. “Holy shit, Nick.”

I went from turned on to orgasm in the space of a heartbeat. One swipe of his tongue against my clit and I was ready to come apart, aching, throbbing, a spear of raw intensity cutting through me.
 

“Come now, Layla,” he said.
 

He reached up and twisted my nipple sharply, and then slid three fingers of his other hand into my pussy. No buildup, no adding them one at a time, just a quick rough thrust and I was shredding into a million pieces. He sucked my clit between his teeth and flattened it against the roof of his mouth, twisted my nipple, withdrew his fingers and fucked them back up into me.

“Fuck, Jesus, Nick.
Fuck
.” I tried to push him away. “I need a shower, I stink.”

“Don’t fucking care,” he murmured. “Now…I told you to
come
, Layla,” he growled.

“I am—oh…holy
fuck
—I’m coming, Nick.” I felt everything clench, felt my muscles contract, felt the heat blasting through me, a wordless moan escaping my lips. I squeezed hard with my PC muscles, clamping down as hard as I could on his fingers, trapping them inside me. He groaned at the pressure on his fingers, glancing up at me with an appreciative glint in his eyes.
 

Abruptly, he was standing up in front of me and he was kissing me, pussy on his breath and his tongue demanding mine, commanding and insistent. His fingers dug into my hair, trying to undo the rubber band keeping it in place.
 

“It’s an actual rubber band,” I murmured, breathless from his kiss. “Gonna be a bitch to get out.”

He reached into a pocket and I heard a
snick
of a pocketknife as he pulled my head toward him. “Hold still,” he ordered.

I sank to my knees instead, and got to work on his pants. I felt him playing with the bun on the top of my head, looking for the best spot. I unbuttoned the fly, and tugged his pants down, and they fell to the floor at his feet with a
thud
. He was utterly focused, though, I had to give him credit for that. Even as I pulled his black briefs down and bared his cock, he was focused on my hair, cutting away the rubber band piece by piece until he could shake my hair free.
 

Only when my hair was loose around my shoulders did he fold the knife and glance down at me. “Still got my shoes on,” he said.
 

“True.” I leaned closer to him, teasing him, mouth close enough to his cock that he could feel my breath as I unlaced his boots one at a time and helped him tug his feet out of them.
 

He toed his socks off, kicked the pile of clothes away, tossed the pocketknife onto the pile.
 

And then he waited.

I took a moment to admire his penis; it was a lovely organ, long and thick with a very slight inward curve to it as it stood flat against his belly. That curve, I couldn’t wait to have it inside me, pushing against me just right, hitting that spot as he thrust into me….
 

I wrapped both hands around it and stroked him, and then leaned over him, wrapped my lips around the head.
 

I got one good suck in, and then he was lifting me to my feet. “Later, Layla.”

He twisted me in place and guided me to the bathroom, turned on the shower stream, adjusted the temperature so it was somewhere between cool and warm. Normally, I like scalding hot showers, but for once I was simply too damn hot and sweaty to be able to tolerate a hot shower.
 

Here’s a thing: shower sex isn’t actually sexy. It’s hard to have good shower sex without anyone getting hurt, and someone is always left out of the water stream so they get cold, and there aren’t really any good positions that don’t involve feats of acrobatics or powerlifting—especially when you consider that I’m not exactly dainty.

Harris seemed to recognize all of this. He pushed me so my back was against the wall, the water beating against my front. He had a bar of soap in his hand, and proceeded to scrub me with it, all over. He started with my face, telling me in a gruff whisper to close my eyes, then washed my face and rinsed it carefully. He moved to my neck and shoulders, tugging me forward to wash my back while kissing me between my breasts. Then he roamed over my breasts with the soap bar, and god, that was sexy, intimate, tender…too much to handle. I closed my eyes and let him wash me. Thighs, core, ass, all over, kissing me clean everywhere. I was breathless by the time he was done, and tried to take the soap from him, but he just knocked my hands away and pulled me under the water to wash my hair. He had bottles of complimentary hotel shampoo and conditioner, and used them both on my thick, curly black hair, working them in one after another, massaging my scalp.
 

I was finally clean, head to toe.
 

I reversed positions with Nick, and did the same for him, washing him from head to toe, but I made sure to avoid his erogenous zones at first. Meaning, I washed his hair first, and then ran the soap over his lean, hard, toned body, only touching his cock at the end. By this time his erection had subsided to a drooping semi, but I made short work of this sad fact. I lathered soap onto my hands and then worked it onto his cock and balls, massaging gently, just washing him at first, and then as I rinsed him clean began stroking him to full erection.
 

God, the man had a lovely cock. Seriously. I’ve seen and handled a lot of cock, and his was—objectively speaking—the best I’d ever gotten my hands on. I mean, it wasn’t about sheer size. I’d seen bigger. But there
is
actually such a thing as
too
big, in my opinion at least. It’s more about overall shape, for me. Size factors in, clearly, and Nick had size in spades. He wasn’t hung like a horse in any literal sense, which was perfect for me. I could tell as I explored his dick with my hands that he’d fill me enough that I’d feel pleasurably stretched. Big, thick, long, but just perfectly shaped, mostly straight but with a very slight curve, and that curve…I shivered with anticipation—when he was inside me he’d hit me just right, and I was looking forward to it.
 

Like, a LOT.

I may have gotten a little carried away, stroking him in the shower. The water had gone cold, but I didn’t care. It felt good, the cool water on my skin. I had both fists around his cock and was stroking him, not trying to get him off, just…playing with his length, pausing now and then to cup and massage his heavy balls, rolling them in my palms. No mouth, this time, I just touched. Learned. Explored.
 

And he let me. He watched, head leaned back against the tile, hands on my shoulders, thumbs circling on my skin in idle affection. And that idle touch, it was enough to make me almost panic, because it was unconscious, the kind of touch that means so much, more than any sexual touching. It was like the way he had of brushing his thumb across my lips. Tender. Affectionate. Meaningful.
 

When I had him breathing hard and had his hips fluttering with the smooth, slow strokes of my fingers around him, Nick lifted me to my feet, shut off the water, and indicated with a push that he wanted me out of the shower. He made quick work of drying us both, and then hauled me into the bedroom. Hot humid air immediately coated my skin. Nick’s eyes roamed down my body, and his lip curled up in a hungry smile.

“Now we’re both clean. No more excuses.”

“Excuses?” I asked.
 

He didn’t bother answering. He just pushed me up against the bed. Before he bent me forward, however, he pressed himself up against me, erection nestling between the heavy globes of my ass, pulled me backward so my head rested on his shoulder, and kissed me, traced my lips with his thumb. He bent at the knees, his hand cupping my throat, holding me against him, and his cock nudged against my entrance.
 

“Oh god. Nick…”

“You want it, don’t you?”
 

I nodded. “Jesus, yes.”

“Say it, Layla.”

“I want your cock inside me, Nick. I want you to fuck me.”
 

He kissed me once more, and then his cock filled me with one hard thrust, and a scream ripped out of me.

Oh holy fuck.

This was going to be incredible.

13

FUCKED

One short, hard thrust, and his cock was fully seated inside me, filling me, stretching me. Still standing up, his hand gently gripping my throat to keep me in place—as if I was trying to escape—I was rendered helpless. Totally helpless. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The only thing that existed in my whole universe was Harris, big and hard and hot behind me, his dick inside me, his hand on my throat, the other strumming my nipple like a guitar string.
 

He didn’t move. Time stood still, and the only sound was my ragged gasps and his steady breathing. His lips touched my temple, and I trembled.

What the fuck was he doing?

To kiss a body is sexual, to press lips to chest or hip or cock or pussy or belly, that’s sex. To make out, that’s sex.
 

To kiss one’s face, one’s cheek, one’s forehead, a temple, a jaw…that is intimate and personal.

I didn’t do intimate.
 

I didn’t do personal.

To quote a certain fictional phenomenon, “I fuck. Hard.” I didn’t connect with those particular characters on any level, except for the intimacy factor. Even with Eric, my one real serious boyfriend, the only man I ever lived with, the only guy I ever let see even a hint of my true inner self, even with him I didn’t really do intimacy. Sex was sex. Eric and I fucked. We boned. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Eric. A lot. I dated him for a long time, and lived with him. But I didn’t do intimacy with him. There was no pillow talk. There was no kissy-face hold me afterward and tell me your deepest thoughts and share your most tender emotions.
 

He never kissed my temple.

Harris kissed my temple, one brief, slow, and utterly confusing touch of his lips to the side of my skull, and I was lost.

Not like, falling in love lost, or drowning in his touch lost, but the
what the fuck is happening and where am I and what’s going on
kind of lost.
 

And then, wildest of all, my body betrayed my heart. My hand reached up and back, and my palm cupped the nape of his neck and my head twisted to the side and my mouth sought skin and my heart was crashing and thundering and cracking and twisting and my mind was rebelling, but my body was in control. My body had hijacked the rest of me.

My lips sought skin, and found it. Found his jaw. His cheekbone. I clutched the back of his head and trembled like a dry leaf in a long wind.
 

And still he wasn’t moving. Seemingly content to just hold the pose, both of us standing up facing the bed, his shaft buried deep inside my slit, my body boneless and without strength, leaning with total trust against Harris’s chest.

A breath left me in a broken sigh, and I sank down, letting my weight fall just a bit, pushing him deeper. I couldn’t take the motionlessness, couldn’t take the shredding intimacy of his breath on my cheek, his wordless possession of me. I couldn’t handle the memory of that kiss to my temple. I needed…
more
.
 

“Nick…” I murmured.

“I know,” he said, and pushed me forward.
 

Willingly, gladly, I bent over the bed, spread my feet shoulder-width apart, braced myself with arms straight, elbows locked, hands on the mattress. I waited. Breathless with anticipation, with bated breath, with every other cliché you can think of, I waited.
 

And Harris, he kept me waiting. Didn’t give me what I wanted, didn’t do what I expected. Instead of thrusting hard, pushing into me, he leaned over me and pressed his lips to my spine, right at the center of my back, ran his palms up my sides. I shook so hard I had to clench my teeth. What the actual fuck was he doing?

Another caress, downward this time, from armpits down my sides to cup my hips, then his palms circled my ass cheeks. He pulled back, withdrawing. I bit my lip, waiting for the rough slam…

He pushed in gently, slowly, and I sagged, at once defeated and exhilarated. So good. So fucking good. The feel of him, moving in me. The sweet wet slide of his cock pushing into me, I groaned with delight.

He leaned over me as his hips pressed flush against my ass. His lips touched the shell of my ear. “Rough…or slow?”
 

“Rough,” I answered immediately.
 

He bit my earlobe. Hard.

I shrieked in surprise and twisted my head to look at him in shock, and he just grinned as he straightened behind me, running his palm down my spine to grab a handful of butt cheek. “Rough?”

I nodded. “Rough.”

“How rough you want it, Layla?”
 

“Fuck me hard, Nick.”
 

He pulled back so the tip of his cock rested just barely inside me, caressed the left globe of my ass with his left hand, gripping the crease of my right hip with his right hand.