Page 40 of Unlikely Omega

He doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t speak again as I poke at the cut, though he does grab my wrist again to push away my hand, and even that forceful touch makes me want more of him.

I want to cry with how much I need to be touched and at how stupid this mess is.

“Sleep,” he says, lying back down beside me, and again he puts his arm around me. Doesn’t he understand how difficult this is for me?

He probably doesn’t, I think, and he obviously isn’t interested, and it shouldn’t matter as we run for our lives, but do you know how it feels to have a body out of control, and a gorgeous guy beside you that you are realizing you like and want and crave but who has made vows not to have sex, like, ever?

So unfair.

And that’s my last thought before I drift into sleep.

I come awake slowly to the sensation of a hand on my left breast, cupping it through the flimsy material of my undergarments. It feels good, sending sparks of pleasure down into my aching core. When the pad of a thumb presses down on my nipple, I gasp, arching my back.

He’s bowed over me, the tips of his silky hair tickling my neck and cheeks, his breathing ragged, one of his thick thighs jammed between my legs, almost pressing where I’m aching but not quite. He’s muttering something under his breath, I realize, but I can’t make out the words—and oh sweet goddess, he flicks his thumb over my nipple again and my core clenches so hard I gasp again.

I reach for him, place my hands on his big shoulders, and realize he’s braced on one hand by my head. It’s a thrill to run my fingers over his biceps, feeling the strength in it. It excites me more. I lift my head and my lips brush over his chin, then his mouth. Soft. Firm. He lets out a harsh exhale. His hand trails up to my neck, his thumb stroking, and he lowers his body over mine, letting me feel its weight.

A deep, low sound emanates from his chest, like a big cat’s purr, and as his thigh presses more firmly between my legs, I squirm, the pressure building inside of me.

He kisses me and it’s hard and desperate, one of his hands rising to tangle in my hair, tugging painfully, the other gripping my jaw.

Oh, yes.

I’m coming apart, from his touch, his kiss, the pressure where I need it most, the taste of him, the feel of him covering me. I moan against his lips, lift my hips, grinding against his thigh, and he shifts so that I’m pressed against the hard length straining in his underpants.

The pressure in me breaks and I shake, the relief making me want to weep, biting at his lips, not sure what to do with myself.

He jerks up, tearing his mouth from mine. Yanks his hand away from my face.

I’m out of breath, out of sorts, the release of the painful pressure inside of me leaving me dizzy and disoriented. “Finn?”

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he’s scrambling away from me and out of the cave, into a gray dawn.

Leaving me dazed and confused.

No, no… “Finn…”

“Get dressed,” he calls out briskly. “We’re leaving.”

13

FINNEN

We ride through the muddy fields, avoiding the main road going south. The rain has stopped, but the trees drip water on us if we ride too close and the horses’ hooves splash through puddles and ponds of water that the earth hasn’t managed yet to absorb. My robes are still wet, and I’m sure Ariadne has to be shivering, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

This or the other matter that I won’t even think about.

Instead, I run a series of prayers through my mind, and then a series of mantras, letting them fall into my mind one after the other like drops. Spreading circles. Rushing toward the horizon. A placid lake where the clouds are reflected.

All things I can’t see, not anymore.

I feel it, though, a bit of calm seeping through the turmoil inside my mind. I’m above the storm, riding it, I’m in control. The cold helps clear my thoughts, or rather slow them down so I can focus on my mantra. And it’s all good. It’s as if I’m on my own, like I’ve always been, no complications and no problems—no joys either, but that’s… That’s not what I’m supposed to be thinking.

Don’t drop into the storm, don’t. All it’s good.

Until she nudges her horse closer and says, “Finn, what we did last night… or was it this morning? I…”

“I don’t remember,” I say brusquely, nudging my horse forward. Is it a mare? I think it’s a mare, but I have to touch to make sure and I didn’t get the chance. It bothers me that I don’t know. Lots of things bother me because I can’t see.

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