Page 52 of Feral Omega

He pauses, his hands stilling on the button of my pants. "This is for your own good, Whiskey. You're too much of a hothead, ruled by your impulses. It's not safe to have you so worked up around Ivy."

Something in me bristles at that, a snarl building in my throat. I lift my head to pin him with a glare, ignoring the way the room spins at the edges of my vision.

"I've never forced myself on an omega," I bite out, each word sharp and jagged. "And I'm not gonna start now."

Plague meets my gaze steadily, unflinching. "No," he agrees after a moment. "You wouldn't. But you're still going to be useless on the field if you don't get some relief." His lips quirk in a humorless smile. "So shut up and stop complaining."

I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his relief, but the words die in my throat as he finally pops the button on my pants and tugs down the zipper. My cock springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip, and I can't quite bite back the groan that rumbles up from my chest.

"Doctor's orders," Plague adds dryly, taking off the glove on his right hand one finger at a time in a fucked-up little striptease that fucks with my head way more than it should. Proof he's right, and I really just need to get off if this asshole is doing anything but pissing me off.

Although, at the moment, he's doing plenty of both.

Then his hand is wrapping around my length and all rational thought flies right out of my rut-adjacent brain.

His grip is firm, almost too tight, his strong hand smooth and cool against my overheated skin. He gives a slow, experimental stroke from base to tip, his rough thumb swiping over the sensitive head, and my hips buck up into his fist of their own accord.

"Fuck," I hiss through clenched teeth, my eyes slamming shut as pleasure sparks up my spine like a live wire.

It's been too long since I've had anything but my own hand. An eternity of pent-up frustration and denied release. Of catching hints of Ivy's scent in the halls and feeling like I'm going to crawl out of my own skin with how badly I need to fuck her.

I hate that Plague is right. Hate that I need this so badly. Hate that it feels so fucking good to finally have someone else's hands on me, even if they belong to the biggest asshole I know.

But most of all, I hate that some twisted part of me is enjoying this. Getting off on the humiliation of being at Plague's mercy, of him seeing me so desperate.

Plague's hand stills on my cock, his grip loosening until it's nothing more than a teasing brush of fingertips. I let out a frustrated growl, my hips twitching up in search of more friction, more pressure, more anything.

"What's the matter, Whiskey?" he asks, his voice a low purr that seems to vibrate through my entire body. "Not enjoying yourself?"

I crack one eye open to glare at him, a scathing retort on the tip of my tongue, but it dies in my throat as I watch him reach for his own belt with his free hand. The clink of the buckle is obscenely loud in the quiet room, and I can't tear my gaze away as he slowly, methodically undoes his black pants.

Fuck. Is he really going to...?

My question is answered a moment later when he tugs down his zipper and frees his own cock. It's just as impressive as the rest of him, long and thick and already hard. The head is flushed a deep red, pre-come beading at the tip, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.

And it's an inch longer than mine. Because he always has to be a one-upping dick—literally, in this case.

Least I'm thicker. Not by much, but… still.

I've seen Plague naked before. Hard to avoid in close quarters like ours. But never like this. Never with his cock in his hand and that dark, hungry look in his eyes.

"See something you like?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate in my bones.

I swallow hard, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly parched lips. "Fuck you," I rasp, but it's an empty barb. We both know I'm not going anywhere.

Plague just smirks, that infuriating little twist of his lips that makes me want to punch him and do other shit to him in equal measure. Then he's wrapping his hand around both of our cocks, pressing them together, and I nearly bite through my own tongue at the sudden burst of sensation.

"Oh fuck," I groan, my head falling back against the exam table again. The metal is cool against my overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of Plague's cock against mine.

He starts to stroke us both, his grip tight and sure, and I can't help the way my hips buck up into his fist. It's too much and not enough all at once, the drag of his callused palm against my sensitive flesh sending sparks of pleasure racing up my spine.

I'm leaking like a faucet, pre-come dribbling down the side of my cock to slick the way for his hand. The obscene slicking sound fills the room, mingling with our harsh breathing and bitten-off groans.

Plague twists his wrist on the upstroke, his thumb swiping over the head of my cock, and I nearly come right then and there. My balls draw up tight against my body, my thighs trembling with the effort of holding back my release.

"Not yet," Plague murmurs, his voice strained. "I'm not done with you yet."

I let out a shaky laugh, the sound half-crazed even to my own ears. "Didn't realize this was all about you, Doc."

---