Page 62 of Broken Arranged Mate
I reach for him with my other hand, wanting to draw him into the tub with me, to feel his weight and strength against me. But he pulls back, shaking his head.
“You don’t have to hold back,” I whisper, a wave of desire rushing through me, making me let out a little moan, that particular spot inside me aching for his touch, for the pressure only he can provide.
“Ash,” he says, his voice already rough in a way that makes my body respond immediately. “I want to take care of you.”
“Thisistaking care of me,” I insist, taking his hand and guiding it into the water. “Please, Oren.”
He complies, and the first touch of his fingers against me in the water nearly makes me come undone for him. He lets out a low noise, dropping his chin to his chest, and explores me, his fingers sliding through my slick with ease, pressing against my clit, finding my opening.
When he slips a finger inside me, I grip onto him, the first, tentative orgasm rolling through me like the smell outside a restaurant, a hint of what’s to come.
“Okay,” he rasps, his hand tightening at my hip as I tighten around his finger, body coiling up in pleasure. Even as the orgasm recedes, I can feel another one waiting on the horizon. “Okay,” he says again, his eyes flying to mine. “Would it also be taking care of you if we went to the bedroom?”
“Yes,” I practically whimper, tightening my arms around him, and when he lifts me from the bathtub, water cascades from me, dripping along the hallway.
Neither of us worries about bothering with a towel.
Chapter 35 - Oren
I wake to the sound of Ash’s quiet whimper beside me. The alarm clock on the nightstand tells me it’s after three in the morning.
After Ash fell asleep last night, I stayed up and did some research on heat, and realized the full truth of what I did to her when I left her before. The pain that she must have been going through, especially because her body expected to have me throughout the heat.
Now is my chance to make it up to her.
The light from the moon brushes over her flushed face, showing some of the faint freckles on her cheeks. Her dark hair is thrown into a bun, still curly and wild from the night before, but now slicked back with sweat. She’s like a furnace beside me, radiating heat.
I can smell the way her heat has intensified in just a few hours, her skin burning and sticky where it presses into mine, the scent of her filling this room, likely the entire house. It’s intoxicating, arousing, but I force myself to focus through the scent of her heat, the scent of what we did earlier.
Right now, everything about her makes me wild, the intoxicating blend of desire and fertility making my wolf strain toward her.
But right now isn’t about me. This is my chance to do just what I told her I would—my chance to spend the rest of my life showing her I can be the man she deserves.
“Ash,” I whisper, drawing the back of my hand over her forehead, brushing away a few damp strands of her wild hair. “Honey, wake up.”
She whimpers again before her eyes open, blue irises nearly swallowed by dilated pupils. I watch her as recognition passes over her face, then relief, then the tensing of pain.
“Oren,” she rasps, closing her eyes again. “It hurts.”
“I know, baby,” I murmur. “Let me help you.”
From what I learned online, an omega’s heat can vary greatly in the experience. Some get unlucky enough to only have pain, but most have a mixture of the two. Arousal coupled with a deep, physical ache that builds until it becomes nearly unbearable. The worst of it comes in waves, and from the trembling of her limbs, I can tell she’s riding the crest of one now.
Carefully, I disentangle myself from her and slide from the bed, cracking open the window for her like I did last time. The desert night is cool against my bare skin, a stark contrast to the fever-heat radiating from Ash. She reaches for me instinctively, a small sound of protest escaping her.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, leaning down to press my lips to her forehead before turning and walking down the hall. The house is quiet and cool, the bones of her many projects scattered around, and I can’t wait to see what it will look like when it’s finished.
In the kitchen, I fill a glass with water and wish I had more supplies. Electrolyte drinks to keep her hydrated. Special tea blends to lessen the pain. Many families have recipes they develop just for their blood—I wonder if Dorian might have access to any of their grandmother’s old journals, anything to help us find what works for Ash specifically.
When I get back to the bedroom, Ash is curled into a tight ball, the sheets twisted around her legs. Her eyes track me as I set the drinks on the nightstand and kneel beside the bed.
“Come here,” I say, sliding in and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Sit up.”
Ash leans heavily against me as I help her upright. The thin T-shirt she wears—one of mine—clings to her skin, darkened with sweat along her spine. I hold the glass to her lips, and she drinks greedily, water spilling down her chin.
“Easy,” I murmur, wiping the droplets away from her bottom lip with my thumb. “Small sips.”
At the touch of my thumb to her lip, she glances up at me, her eyes going dark. “Take care of me again?”
