Page 59 of Break Me Knot

Thank fuck I studied omega biology because it’s given me the insight I need to help her. Her breathing has deepened, little catches in her throat that go straight to my groin. I want to taste those sounds, to draw them out until she's drowning in pleasure. Want to show her how good touch can be when it's given with care, with consent. She needs to trust first. To heal. And I need to be patient.

But gods, the way she smells—like summer storms filled with fresh blossoms and exquisite, sweet temptation.

She smells like home.

Sheishome.

This is the power of an omega. Not just any omega, but our gods-sworn scent-matched omega. Our souls were made for each other before our bodies entered this physical world. Wherever she goes, we’ll follow.

We can’t do anything else.

She doesn’t realize the power she has. We’ll move worlds if she wishes it, and she has no idea.

Her thighs soften, tension melting away as I work her muscles. The denim between her legs darkens with slick, and the sight makes my mouth water, my instincts roaring to taste her. Her scent is intoxicating. My thumbs trace slow circles on her inner thighs, and she whimpers. Each tiny sound sends electricity down my spine.

“May I kiss you, omega?” My voice is hoarse.

She meets my eyes. A flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath that threadbare sweater. “Yes,” she whispers, and that single word unleashes something boundless in my chest.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to change her mind, watching her face for any sign of hesitation. When my lips meet hers, every sense explodes into overdrive. Her taste is addictive. Sweetness and sin. The soft whimper she makes against my mouth sends a jolt straight to my cock. My hands tighten on her thighs as her omega pheromones flood my system.

She’s everything I've ever craved. My tongue traces her bottom lip, asking permission, and when she opens for me, I have to fight to maintain control. My knot throbs, demanding more, but I keep the kiss gentle, exploratory. Let her set the pace. Show her what it means to be cherished rather than used.

Her small hands come up to grip my shoulders, her trust making my alpha side roar with pride. The way she yields to me, soft and pliant, triggers every protective instinct I possess. I deepen the kiss slightly, drinking in the little sounds she makes, memorizing every reaction. This is what she needs, gentle pleasure to replace the pain, to show her that touch can heal instead of hurt.

Another wave of her slick hits my nose and it takes everything in me not to growl. She smells divine. Ripe. Ready. Every cell in my body screams to claim, to mark, to make her ours completely. I force those instincts down, focusing instead on the soft slide of her lips against mine, the way her scent blooms with pleasure rather than fear.

Her fingers tighten on my shoulders as I trace her bottom lip with my tongue again, and the small sound she makes nearly breaks my control. She's responsive in a way that makes me wonder if anyone has ever kissed her properly before, ever taken the time to give her pleasure without demanding anything in return.

My hands skim up her sides and over each delicate rib beneath that ratty sweater. She's so small, my hands span her entire waist. I settle my palm against her stomach as a tremble works through her body. The contrast of my large hand against her tiny frame makes my alpha roar with the need to provide, to nourish, to strengthen. I massage gently through the worn fabric, watching her face carefully for any sign of discomfort. Her breathing has gone shallow, but her scent remains sweet with arousal rather than sour.

“Is this okay, omega?” I murmur against her lips, needing to hear her consent.

“It…yes,” she says, the word catching.

I trail higher, letting her adjust to each new touch. “May I touch your breast?” I ask, my thumb already brushing the soft underside through her sweater. She arches slightly into the touch, and the movement sends another wave of her arousal-scent crashing over me.

Her “yes” is barely audible, but her scent speaks volumes. I cup her breast carefully, the weight small in my palm. When she whimpers softly, the sound goes straight to my groin. My knot pulses, needing friction, but I keep my hips right where they are. This is about her, not me. I want to worship every inch of her, to replace every bad memory she has with pleasure.

I brush my thumb across her nipple, and it hardens through the fabric. Her lips part on a soft gasp, pink and swollen from our kisses. I can't resist capturing them again, drinking in her little sounds of pleasure. She's intoxicating, every response pure and unguarded, like no one has ever taken the time to worship her properly. As an omega of her stature should be worshipped.

When I skim my fingers in the space where her sweater has risen on her waist, she groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me straight to my throbbing dick. I keep myself firmly leashed.

“Is this okay, Little One? Can I remove your sweater so I can touch you better?” I whisper against her lips. She hesitates, and I immediately slow my movements to let my touch trail across her ribs, letting her set the pace. Be in control.

Because she is.

Nothing happens without her consent.

“Please,” she finally whimpers, arching into my touch. The desperate need in her voice is music to my ears. “Please touch me, Alpha.”

I lift her sweater, slowly drawing it off her frame. She tenses. The bra she wears is threadbare, gray and shapeless from too many washes. Shame colors her scent, sharp and acrid, but all I see is her strength. Every worn item of clothing tells a story of survival, of fighting against impossible odds.

“You're incredible,” I murmur, pressing soft kisses along her jaw. Her skin is silk beneath my lips, and I have to resist the urge to mark her. “Do you know how strong you are? How brave?”

She shakes her head, disbelieving, but I continue between gentle nips at her lips. Each kiss is a testament, a prayer. “You survived. On your own. Do you understand how remarkable that is?” Kiss. “How resilient?” Kiss. “How clever?” Kiss. My hands span her tiny waist, thumbs stroking softly over her ribs.

“I'm not…” she starts, but I silence her with another kiss, pouring all my conviction into it.

---