Page 51 of Feral Omega

Rather than answer, he just gives that smug little chuckle that makes me wanna stuff his mouth.

Shut. Not stuff.

The fuck?

"Don't look so scandalized," Plague chides, that infuriating smirk still playing about his lips. "It's a perfectly natural reaction. Though I have to wonder..." He leans in, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath fanning over my face. "Was it the pain that got you all worked up? Or something else entirely?"

I open my mouth, a vicious retort on the tip of my tongue, but he cuts me off with a soft tsk.

"No need to get defensive, Whiskey. I'm sure in your... delicate state with your hurt finger and shoulder, you're going to need a helping hand sooner or later."

I snarl. "Like I'd let you anywhere near my dick, you creepy son of a?—"

"Is that so?" he challenges, his gloved hand suddenly resting on my thigh as he steps closer. Between my legs now.

My cock twitches again at the close proximity of his hand. Just a knee-jerk reaction, nothing more than that.

"You've been worked up ever since our omega was brought here," he muses. "More so than usual. Is it getting to you that you can look, but you can't touch yet?"

I clench my jaw so hard I'm pretty sure something's gonna crack, but I can't bring myself to push his hand off my leg, even if that point of contact is all I can think about. I tell myself it's only because it would feel like a concession, not because I'm enjoying this.

Which I'm not.

"So what?" I ask through my teeth. "Like you're any better. You pretend like you're so fuckin' far above the rest of us with the high and mighty routine, but I see the way you look at her. You're still an alpha. And you're the one who spends all day in the room next to hers. I know it's driving you just as crazy."

I expect him to deny it. To offer some smartass remark in that hoity-toity accent of his.

"Perhaps it is," he finally concedes.

I blink, not expecting that. Not sure what to do with it.

"Maybe we could help each other out," he remarks thoughtfully, his hand traveling up the inside of my thigh. I brace myself as his gloved fingertips brush over the bulge in my pants, torturously gentle. He sure as fuck wasn't gentle when he was popping my shoulder back in a second ago.

"Fuck off," I mutter, the barb dying out in my throat as he grips my cock through my fatigues. My hips jerk violently into his touch.

He's right. Being surrounded by that omega's scent for weeks is doing a number on my sanity. It was bad enough before when I didn't have a constant reminder of what I was missing walking around. She's like a siren's song in soft, supple skin, and now that she's starting to have some curves to fill out those clothes, it's even harder to keep myself under control.

When Thane first announced we were getting an omega, I thought she'd take the pressure off. Be a sweet little release to enjoy between missions where you never know if you're coming back alive, dead, or wishing you were. Instead, it's been nothing but sweet torture.

And she fuckin' hates me, to boot.

Wish that didn't make me want her even more.

Plague's slender fingers make quick work of my belt buckle, the clink of metal on metal loud in the otherwise silent room. I glare up at him through the haze of pain and the buzz of alcohol, trying to summon some of my usual venom, but it's like trying to light a match in a hurricane.

"The fuck you think you're doin'?" I grumble, but there's no real heat behind it. We both know I'm not gonna stop him.

"Helping you," Plague replies, his voice infuriatingly calm as he tugs my belt free from the loops. "Since you're incapable of helping yourself with that shoulder out of commission."

I snort, letting my head fall back against the upright exam table with a thunk. "Right. Saint Plague, always looking out for the little guy."

Plague hums. “I wouldn't say little.”

“Fuck off,” I mutter again. Dick.

“I’m talking about your cock this time,” he replies pointedly. “And for the record, you look good. The extra padding suits you. I like it.”

I scowl warily at him.

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