Page 46 of Fallen Omega

That scent makes me want to mold her hot, wet cunt to my dick. I want to fill her with my seed. I want to take her in the hardest, longest, most mindless and satisfying rutting the world’s ever seen.

Never in my fucking misguided life have I ever wanted to do that. Just take her. No games. No fun denial torture. Just straight down and dirty fucking. The animalistic kind.

I meet her dark melting gaze, and from here I can see the mark Knight left.

She didn’t bite him. They didn’t rut.

Thank fuck.

All he did was be the lucky bastard to slide his fingers into her pussy.

Christ, he’s lucky I didn’t take his head off his shoulders when I caught him licking at his fingers later. Much later. Which meant he’d sucked her slick from them already and he still wanted seconds or thirds, or let’s face it, probably fifths.

Because her scent clung to him.

I breathe out heavily, keeping my gaze guarded, cold, unreadable. It’s taking everything I have not to claim her. Everything I have to keep the erection at bay.

His mark should lessen her appeal to me.

It doesn’t.

A part of me wonders if his mark heightened her allure,but that’s not how things work. But who knows. We’re not exactly a pack that follows the ‘rules.’

Lizette frowns, and though I know she hurts, and her eyes are getting fever-bright and pupils so wide the expression is a siren’s call of an invitation to smash myself against her rocks, I don’t give in. I don’t move.

“I asked you a question,” I say. “I expect an answer.”

“You think I want…this?” She throws back the covers and swings her feet over the side of the bed and runs a hand in the air along her body. “To be this? Feel this? Be reduced to fodder to basically be sold as a baby making machine?”

“That’s your choice. I don’t give a fuck. You do what you want. And as far from here as we can get you.”

Her eyes flash. “It’s easy, isn’t it, for you? Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Turn me into the Council?”

I don’t reply immediately. My first instinct is to believe in her innocence, that she’s not a trap. But it’s fucking lust whispering to me, not common sense.

Common sense says flatly it’s one hell of a coincidence she turned up here. And I’m not sure how what Reaper found out fits in with her, but it does. Has to.

They were following her.

“Who’s Jake?” I ask.

Her expression turns mulish, and she shifts, half stands but her legs wobble and she sits, dress riding higher.

There are fading purple bruises to match the ones on her face and they tell me Knight was right. The fucker, Jake, tried to rape her. She’s just lucky he didn’t. And that he didn’t mark her, claim her, own her, tie her to him.

Or maybe she’s his honey pot for us? Who the fuck knows except for her, a dead man, and the missing Jake.

“Who the fuck is he?” I press.

“He told me he was gay.” She doesn’t look at me, but hercheeks tell the story of her shame as they turn red. The decent part of me, that small part, wants to tell her it’s not her fault.

I don’t.

“He got me a drink and?—”

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