Page 92 of Feral Omega

I nod mutely, too far gone to protest, to cling to the shreds of dignity and pride I usually wrap around myself like armor. The need is too great, the desperation too all-consuming.

Plague rumbles low in his chest, the sound sending fresh shivers racing down my spine. Slowly, with aching tenderness, he lowers me back onto the thin mattress and begins to strip away the clothes I was already clawing at, without even realizing it. The heat seems to grow each second and the fabric becomes a torturous prison.

I tense at first, my instincts screaming at me to fight, to flee. But he soothes me with murmured reassurances, his touch light and reverent as inch by inch, he bares my overheated flesh to the cool air, taking extra care with my arm.

When I'm finally naked beneath him, he pauses to simply look. To drink in the sight of me, as if committing every dip and curve to memory.

"So beautiful," he rasps, the words little more than a worshipful exhalation.

His hands roam—one gloved, one not—tracing patterns of delicious torment across my feverish skin. The contrast between the leather and his skin is maddening. Each caress stokes the inferno raging through me higher, the pressure building to an aching crescendo.

And still he denies me what I need.

"Plague," I whine against his lips, writhing helplessly beneath him. "Please, I can't... I need..."

"Shh," he soothes, running a circle around the hardened peak of my nipple with his thumb. "I know what you need. Just let me take care of you."

My fingers grip his shirt as he maps a scorching path down my body. I want him to take off the mask, to kiss me, to press his naked body against mine and devour me whole, but even though all he's doing is touching me with one ungloved hand, he's eliciting feverish sensations from my body with clinical precision.

A soft purr rumbles in my throat before I can stop it. It’s jarring, since I can’t remember the last time I purred, but not quite enough to make me put the brakes on.

“What a lovely sound,” Plague murmurs as the heat roars through my veins like wildfire, each featherlight caress of his long fingers feeding it.

My back arches, a desperate whimper escaping my lips as he torments me with maddening precision. He knows just where to touch, just how much pressure to apply to keep me teetering on that razor's edge between agony and bliss.

I've never actually wanted an alpha to touch me before. Even in the throes of heat, the pain is always so much sharper than the pleasure, but this is… different. It hurts, there's still a deep, gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach begging for relief, but rather than amplifying it, his touch soothes it. Only temporarily, only for as long as he's in contact with any given spot, but still.

This is new.

"Please," I beg again, fingers twisting in the sheets as he continues to circle my nipple with his thumb. The friction is exquisite torment, the barest brush of his skin against mine enough to make my toes curl.

He rumbles deep in his chest, the gravelly vibration sending delicious shivers racing across my oversensitive nerves. "Patience, Ivy," he rasps, leaning in. "Let me take care of you properly."

Those sinful fingers trail lower, tracing the curves and valleys of my body with a tenderness that seems at odds with the ruthless killer I know him to be. He maps every inch of my fevered flesh, as if committing the terrain to memory through his touch alone.

When he finally reaches the slick heat between my thighs, I cry out—a broken, desperate sound ripped from the very depths of me. He chuckles darkly, the rasping purr seeming to reverberate through my very bones as he parts my folds with agonizing slowness.

"So wet already," he murmurs, voice pitched low with that same hushed reverence. "Such a good girl."

The words should shame me, should have me recoiling in outrage at being addressed like a pet praised for a trick well-performed. For rolling over and showing my belly. But from his lips, they're pure sin given sublime voice, and I can only whimper as he circles my entrance with one blunt fingertip.

"Look at you," he rasps, pulling off his mask to reveal eyes full of the same dark desire I've so thoroughly succumbed to. He takes the tip of the glove on his free hand between his teeth and tears it off, and I've never envied a piece of fabric so much in my life. He trails his newly ungloved hand up my body to cup my breast and roll the hardened nipple between his fingers. "The way you writhe in desperation is poetry in motion."

I moan, arching helplessly into his touch as he finally—finally—breaches me with one long finger. The stretch is pure bliss, every nerve ending aflame with sweet, burning ecstasy as he works me open with excruciating care.

"More," I beg, hips rolling in a frantic bid for deeper penetration. "Plague, please..."

"Shh," he soothes, thumb finding my swollen pearl to tease tight, maddening circles around the bundle of nerves.

"That's it," he croons. "I've got you, little omega. Let me have all of you."

I moan again, back bowing off the mattress as he curls his fingers in a come hither motion that has stars bursting behind my eyes. He swallows each desperate sound with a hungry kiss, his free hand roaming to tease and torment every last inch of my trembling flesh.

Plague's touch ignites every nerve ending, my body a livewire of sensation. His fingers work me open with exquisite precision, stroking places inside me I never knew existed. Each caress sends shockwaves ricocheting through my core, building and building until I'm trembling on the knife's edge of release.

"That's it," he rasps against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Let go for me, little omega. Show me how good it feels."

His thumb circles my clit faster, pressure increasing until I'm thrashing, writhing beneath him. The coil of tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, ready to snap at any moment.

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