Chapter 2

He didn’t speak. He just filled the doorway, a shadow of raw power that stole the air from my lungs. His scent, the one that had been a promise from the hallway, was now a physical assault in the small room. It was so much stronger, so much more real—dark spice and clean rain and a primal, masculine musk that made my inner walls clench in a desperate, empty ache. My body, my traitorous, desperate body, didn’t see a threat.

It saw an answer.

He took one step inside, and the door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in the dim, fevered space. His gaze dragged painfully over my naked, trembling body. It wasn’t just looking; it was claiming. His eyes lingered on my heaving breasts, my peaked nipples, and then dropped lower, to the mess of slick between my thighs. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory satisfaction that vibrated through the floor and up my spine.

“Please,” I whispered, the word a ragged plea, though I had no idea if I was begging him to leave or to stay.

He crossed the room in two long strides, erasing the distance between us. He didn’t touch me, not yet. He just loomed over me, his sheer size making me feel delicate, small, and utterly female. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as he drew the scent of my heat into his lungs. His eyes, which I could now see were the color of storm clouds, flared with a hunger so intense it was terrifying.

“Omega,” he breathed, the single word a rough caress that sent a fresh gush of wetness down my thighs.

Then his hand moved. It was so large, the fingers thick and calloused. He didn’t grab me or force me. He simply cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse in my neck. The touch was gentle, but it was a brand. A possession. I leaned into it, a soft moan escaping my lips as my body surrendered to the simple comfort of his touch.

His other hand, however, was not gentle. It slid down my body, his palm tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, until it reached the source of the fire. He cupped my mound, his long fingers delving into my slick folds with ease. I cried out, my back arching off the cot as his thumb found my clit, circling the swollen nub with a pressure that was both a torment and a satisfaction.

“Look at this,” he murmured, his voice a low, dark rumble. “Soaked. So ready for me.”

He withdrew his hand, and I whimpered at the loss. But he brought his glistening fingers to his own lips, his eyes locked on mine as he tasted me. A shudder wracked his powerful frame, and a look of absolute, feral possession crossed his face.

“Mine,” he snarled, and then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claiming. His lips crushed mine, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth, tasting me, devouring me. It was a kiss of dominance, a promise of the possession to come. I could taste myself on him, sweet and desperate, and it only fueled the fire. My hands, which had been limp at my sides, rose to clutch at his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms, pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming in harsh pants. With one hand, he tore his own shirt over his head, revealing a chest carved from stone and shadow, covered in a dusting of dark hair that narrowed into a line leading down to the waistband of his jeans. My mouth watered. I wanted to trace that line with my tongue.

He saw the hunger in my eyes and gave me a dark, satisfied smirk. He knelt on the edge of the cot, his knees bracketing my thighs, and then he lowered his head. I thought he was going to kiss me again, but instead, his mouth closed over the peak of my breast.

The sensation was electric. His tongue was rough, wet, and he swirled it around my nipple before sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth. His teeth scraped the sensitive flesh, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to send a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to my core. I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair, holding him to me as he lavished the same attention on my other breast, leaving them glistening and aching.

He kissed a path down my stomach, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. My body was no longer my own; it was a vessel for this pleasure, a string he was plucking with expert mastery. I was writhing on the cot, my hips lifting, offering myself to him in a silent, desperate invitation.

He finally settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them wider, opening me completely to his gaze. He looked his fill, his eyes darkening as he stared at my slick, swollen folds. I felt a moment of self-consciousness, but it was washed away by the sheer, undisguised hunger on his face.

“Perfect,” he breathed, and then he lowered his head and tasted me.

The first touch of his tongue against my clit was pure bliss. It was a slow sensual lick, and my entire body bowed off the cot, a scream tearing from my throat. It was too much and not enough. He growled against me, the vibration adding another layer of sensation, and then he feasted. He was relentless, his tongue exploring every inch of me, lapping at my slick, fucking me with it, then returning to my clit to suck and flick until I was a sobbing, writhing mess. The pressure built, a tight coil in my belly, winding higher and higher until it snapped.

I came with a silent scream, my vision whiting out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me. It was a release so intense it was almost painful, and it left me limp and trembling, my body buzzing with the aftershocks.

But he wasn’t done.

He rose up over me, his body a magnificent, predatory shadow in the dim light. He quickly unfastened his jeans, and I heard the rasp of his zipper. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic beat of fear and anticipation. He freed himself, and my eyes widened. He was thick and heavy, jutting out from a thatch of dark hair, the head already glistening with moisture. He was huge, and a part of me, the sane part, wondered how I would possibly take him.

But the omega in me, the part of me that was burning with fever, only saw one thing: relief. Salvation.

He positioned himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against my slick, sensitive flesh. He didn’t enter me, not yet. He just rested there, a heavy promise.

“Last chance to say no, little omega,” he rasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

I couldn’t speak. I could only lift my hips, a silent, desperate plea.

With a guttural groan, he thrust forward, burying himself inside me in one long, powerful stroke. The sensation was overwhelming. A sharp, stretching pain that was immediately eclipsed by a profound, earth-shattering rightness. He filled me completely, stretching me to my limits, touching a place deep inside me that no one had ever reached. He was home.

He gave me a moment to adjust, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot against my lips. Then he began to move.

His pace was punishing, a deep, hard rhythm that stole my breath. Each thrust pushed a cry from my lips, each withdrawal left me desperate for more. The sounds of our bodies meeting—the slap of skin against skin, my desperate whimpers, his low, possessive grunts—filled the small room, a lewd, beautiful symphony. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing more.

I could feel something happening, a new pressure building at the base of his cock. It was swelling, growing larger with each thrust, stretching me even further, creating a friction that was driving me insane.

“That’s it,” he gritted out, his rhythm becoming erratic. “Take my knot. Take all of me.”

The pressure became intense, a delicious, full ache as his knot locked into place, tying us together. The feeling of being completely and utterly possessed, of being physically connected to this powerful alpha, sent me over the edge again. I shattered, my inner walls clamping down around him, milking him as he buried himself deep inside me with a final, triumphant roar. I felt the hot, powerful pulses of his release as he flooded me, his seed marking me from the inside out, his scent and mine mingling until they were one.

We collapsed onto the cot, a tangled, sweaty heap. He was still inside me, his knot a heavy, grounding presence. I was boneless, sated, and for the first time in my life, the fever was gone. In its place was a profound, terrifying, and exhilarating certainty.

I was his.