Page 103 of Reckless: Corruption

I get it without the PowerPoint presentation. Ryker gives structure, stability, all those solid foundational things. I offer something way more combustible—the chaos that feeds Theo’s control, the edge that lets him unleash the darker parts without fear of judgment or consequences.

“Whatever you need,” I promise, meaning it down to my fucking marrow. “However you need it.”

His laugh sounds like shattered glass. “What I need is these fucking suppressants to hold off long enough for Finn and Cayenne to join us. To not let this heat consume me before we can all be together.” His voice carries frustration tinged with longing—not just for physical relief but for the completion that only the full pack can provide. I’ve scented the same yearning on Ryker these past days, all of us orbiting around the inevitable gravity of Theo’s approaching heat.

“Then use me,” I offer, letting my hands rest on his hips where the heat of him burns through fabric. “Use me to satisfy the edge while keeping your own reins tight.”

The suggestion hits him like a physical blow, his breath catching as something dark and hungry floods his expression. This isn’t new territory for us—this dance of dominance and submission has been our thing from day one. The world expects alphas to dominate and omegas to submit, but they’ve never understood that true strength comes in different forms. Theo’s artistic control and my chaotic need for containment create a perfect inversion—an omega who commands and an alpha who surrenders. It’s what makes us work, this beautiful contradiction that defies every designation stereotype written by people who’ve never seen an omega pin an alpha to a wall and make him grateful for it.

“Strip,” he orders, stepping back to give me space, his movements regaining some of their fluid grace now that he has purpose. “Then kneel by the bed. Where you belong.”

I don’t waste time with my usual striptease routine, just shed clothes like they’re on fire, letting them land where gravity takes them. My cock’s already harder than advanced calculus, responding to his heat scent and commanding tone with Pavlovian enthusiasm. The carpet burns against my knees as I take position beside the bed, hands resting palm-up on my thighs in the pose he taught me during quieter explorations of this dynamic.

Theo watches me with the intensity of a predator studying prey, still fully clothed though his shirt’s practically plastered to his skin with sweat. When he moves, it’s with the controlled precision of a dancer—each step deliberate but flowing into the next, power contained rather than restrained.

“You’ve been restless all day,” he observes, circling me like I’m a particularly interesting art installation. “Ever since Cayenne mentioned the pool. Vibrating with excess energy. Needing an outlet.”

“Yes,” I admit, because lying to Theo is like trying to bullshit a human lie detector who’s also psychic.

“Because of her scent.” Not a question, but I answer anyway.

“Partly.” The admission comes easier than expected. “It’s been... confusing as fuck. She smells like omega but isn’t. Like Cayenne but different. It makes my instincts go haywire.”

His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through it with deceptive gentleness. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t want to worry you. Not with everything else going on.”

The gentle touch transforms without warning, grip tightening until pain blooms across my scalp like fireworks as he yanks my head back to meet his gaze. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“No, Sir,” I agree, the honorific slipping out naturally, triggered by his tone as much as the position. My cock jumps like it’s been directly addressed.

His eyes darken further at the term, heat scent spiking so intensely it makes my mouth water like I’m staring at a five-course meal. “You need structure when you get like this. Boundaries. Purpose.” His free hand traces my jaw with deliberate, artistic precision. “And I need to provide them. Even—” his voice catches slightly “—especially when heat makes me want to surrender instead.”

“Win-win,” I offer with a flash of my usual smart-ass grin.

The smile that crosses his features carries equal parts affection and dark promise. “We’ll see if you still think that when I’m done with you.”

He releases my hair, stepping back to survey me with an artist’s critical eye. Despite the heat obviously pulsing through his system, his movements remain fluid, each gesture graceful but purposeful. Even now, fighting both suppressants and biology, Theo refuses to surrender control.

My cock throbs painfully, leaking pre-come onto my thigh just from watching him. It’s the most arousing thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of shit.

“Safe word?” he asks, formal despite the situation.

“Cerulean,” I respond immediately. We established this protocol long ago, but the reminder serves both practical and psychological purposes—establishing that even in submission, I retain ultimate control through the power to stop everything with a single word.

“Good.” He begins unbuttoning his shirt with artistic precision, revealing the canvas of his tattooed torso inch by teasing inch. “Tonight you belong to me completely. No bratting, no pushing boundaries, no testing limits. Just absolute obedience. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” The simplicity of the response feels like a weight lifting off my shoulders—the chaotic energy that’s been building all day finally finding a channel. Serving him. Satisfying him. Becoming the outlet he needs during this biological shitstorm.

“Stand up,” he orders once his shirt hangs open, revealing the lean muscle and intricate tattoos beneath. “Face the wall, hands above your head.”

I comply without hesitation, the position leaving me vulnerable and exposed in exactly the way that makes my skin prickle with that delicious mix of anticipation and anxiety. Behind me, I hear him moving with purposeful efficiency—drawers opening, objects being arranged with the same precision he brings to setting up his tattoo equipment.

“You’ve been difficult all day,” he observes, voice closer now. “Disobeying direct orders. Taking unnecessary risks during pool preparation. Pushing boundaries that exist for your protection.”

“Sorry, Sir,” I offer, though we both know the apology is about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. The behavior he describes is simply my nature—chaos seeking expression.

“No, you’re not,” he counters with perfect accuracy. “But you will be.”

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