Page 134 of Pack Me Up
“Come with me,” I say. “Want you to milk my cock. You’re doing such a good job for me.”
She nods, frantic, and when I reach down and rub her clit, she goes off like a bomb. She screams my name, nails digging in, and I lose it too.
“That’s a good girl now take my knot deep inside you like I know you can.”
My knot swells, locking us together. I can feel her omega muscles squeezing my knot, milking me until I’m emptying inside her with a shout.
We ride it out, both of us shaking, until we collapse in a sweaty, tangled mess on the bed.
“Fuck, wild girl. You’re so fucking perfect.”
For a long time, all I hear is our breathing, in sync. The kind of silence that means everything.
I kiss her, softly, and she kisses back.
“I love you,” she says, voice tiny.
I swallow, suddenly terrified, and then say it, “I love you, too.”
It hangs in the air, the most real thing I’ve ever said. I would have died for this girl. Love isn’t a strong enough word for it.
We lie there, limbs tangled together, knotted with her head on my chest. The plush tiger is staring at us from the end of the bed.
After a while, I run my fingers through her hair and whisper, “You know, if you ever want to join the circus, I’ll go with you.”
She laughs, “I’ll keep that in mind. Being a rockstar is its own kind of circus. I think I’m satisfied with this life.”
That makes me laugh, too. I bundle her up in my arms and purr for her until she falls asleep against me, safe and perfect and mine.
I hold her, and promise myself I’ll never let her go.
Not for anything.
Brittney
PACK ‘EM UP GOSSIP COLUMN
WILL TOMMY TURNER BE THE NEXT OMEGA PACKED UP ON TOUR?
June 15th
From Toronto to Boston, Tommy decided to ride in my bus so we could work on a song together. We’ve been playing with the idea, and both of us are inspired.
I sent my mates to the nest, making them leave us alone in the front of the bus.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, my guitar balanced on my knee. Across from me, Tommy’s perched on a chair, one leg tucked up, the other tapping out the beat on the side of the table. Our sheet music is scattered everywhere. Some pages are covered in coffee stains, others scribbled over with last-minute lyric swaps, and one spot that just has “NO” in big, angry black marker.
We’re on hour three of writing, and my fingers are starting to cramp, but it’s worth it. The song is finally coming together, sharp edges blurring into something that actually sounds like us.
Tommy leans in, grinning, and mouths the count. One, two, three, four—
The sound fills the space, too loud for the size of the room, but I love it. It’s reckless and alive.
I belt out the chorus, voice raspy from lack of breaks. Tommy harmonizes, his voice lower than mine, threading in on the last word so perfectly it gives me goosebumps.
We hold the last note, letting it linger. I can feel the vibration in the glass of the bus window. For a second, there’s silence.
Then Tommy whoops, tossing his head so his hair flies everywhere. “Fuck yes! That’s it! That’s the one.”
