Page 63 of Run Little Omega

"I want it," I finally whisper, the admission torn from somewhere raw and honest inside me. "I want your cock to split me open. I need you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

His smile is pure alpha dominance, teeth sharp and predatory. "Listen to the filthy mouth on my little blacksmith. Open your legs wider for your alpha's cock."

He drives forward in one powerful stroke that tears a cry from my throat. The intrusion is overwhelming—his massive cock stretching me beyond what should be possible. My pussy yields to him even as my mind reels from the intensity, inner walls gripping his substantial length to pull him deeper.

"More," I gasp, the word slipping out, pulled from some primal part of me I've denied for years. My nails score his frost-marked shoulders, leaving crescents that fill with silver-blue blood. "Please."

He satisfies my plea with a groan of pure gratification and a thrust that steals the breath from my lungs.

I can't stop myself from looking down to where our bodies join—the sight is hypnotic. The base is already beginning to swell, promising to lock us together, to ensure his seed takes root deep inside me.

"Look at me while I fuck you,” he commands. "See the face of the alpha who owns this pussy."

I drag my gaze up to his face and nearly come undone. His eyes blaze with hunger, ice-blue irises barely visible around black pupils. Frost fogs the air with each panting breath. His lips pull back in a snarl that exposes elongated canines meant for marking, for claiming.

The intimacy blindsides me—being face to face, watching pleasure transform his features as his cock stretches me open. Nothing prepared me for this—for witnessing the rut-madness in his eyes, for seeing the primal satisfaction as he stakes his claim on me.

"Your cunt grips me like it was made for my cock," he growls against my ear. "So fucking tight and wet for me."

Another powerful thrust sends a fresh wave of slick coating his cock, my treacherous body preparing itself for more brutal pleasure. Each drag of his thick shaft inside me strikes places that make me sob with unwanted ecstasy. Sounds I never knew I could make spill from my lips—high, desperate cries that answer his deep growls.

His rhythm is relentless, each thrust a declaration of ownership. His hand tightens at my throat, thumb pressing against my scent gland where it pulses with need to be bitten, to be marked. His other hand bruises my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me, positioned perfectly to take everything he gives.

"Submit," he snarls, the command vibrating with alpha compulsion that makes my inner omega respond with need. "Let me hear you."

"Please," I whimper, all resistance dissolving under the onslaught of sensation. My back arches, presenting my throat in ancient omega surrender. "Alpha—more—please?—"

Words fail me as coherent thought drowns under waves of building pleasure. My thighs tremble where they're spread wide around his hips. The sounds of our joining fill the clearing—the obscene sound of his movement within me, the impact of bodies meeting, his guttural groans and my desperate cries.

It should be just biology—just alpha and omega, rut and heat, the most basic dance of dominance and submission. Yet with each powerful thrust, the bond between us pulses brighter, stronger, something ancient awakening.

When his teeth find my neck, breaking the barely-healed skin of his initial claiming bite, our minds connect with shocking clarity. The barrier between us thins as bonding hormones flood my system, memories flowing between us with greater ease than before.

I see Cadeyrn's childhood—a solemn fae infant surrounded by physicians who administer bitter medicines at the first sign of emotion. I witness centuries of isolation, of respect without warmth, of power without connection.

And he sees me—the terrified twelve-year-old hiding beneath Fergus's workbench as my first heat overwhelms me, the years of bitter herbs and iron dust to mask my scent, the deliberate cultivation of strength that no omega should possess.

The sharing deepens as pleasure builds between us. His rhythm falters as the base begins to expand, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. I feel it stretching me at my entrance, significantly larger than last night, promising fuller claiming than our first joining.

Panic flares through the haze of pleasure. "It's too big?—"

"You'll take it," he growls against my bleeding neck, driving forward with final, powerful thrust.

The knot forces past my entrance, stretching me beyond what seems possible. Pain and pleasure blur into single overwhelming sensation as it locks inside me, swelling to trap his arousal deep within my body.

Then his release begins, hot cum flooding my womb in powerful jets as the knot ensures not a drop escapes. Magic erupts through our joined bodies, not just Winter Court ice magic but something older, wilder, more fundamental. The altar beneath us hums with ancient power, moss glowing with blue-white light that pulses in rhythm with the cillae on our skin.

"Take every fucking drop," he snarls against my ear, his cock pulsing violently inside me. "Your sweet little cunt was made to be filled with my seed."

Our minds blur completely as he continues to cum, boundaries dissolving until I can't tell where my thoughts end and his begin. I feel his pleasure as if it's my own, the savage satisfaction of claiming, of breeding, of marking what he considers his. He feels my own release building, the tension coiling tighter with each hot spurt inside me.

"Mine," he growls against my ravaged neck, the primitive claim sparking my own climax with devastating force. "This pussy belongs to me now."

My body convulses around his cock, milking him for every last drop of his seed as I scream with pleasure I never wanted to feel. The rhythmic pulses of my body trigger another wave of release from him. The cycle feeds itself, each of us drawing pleasure from the other in endless feedback that’s meant to breed.

Time loses meaning as we lie joined on the altar, his weight pinning me to the stone. His knot shows no signs of receding, keeping us locked together as promised—up to an hour of enforced intimacy. The position should be uncomfortable, even painful, but some magic in the altar itself cradles us.

"You can't escape this," Cadeyrn murmurs against my throat, tongue gently tending the wound his teeth created. "What's happening between us."

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