Page 70 of Omega

“Excuses?” I asked.

He didn’t bother answering. He just pushed me up against the bed. Before he bent me forward, however, he pressed himself up against me, erection nestling between the heavy globes of my ass, pulled me backward so my head rested on his shoulder, and kissed me, traced my lips with his thumb. He bent at the knees, his hand cupping my throat, holding me against him, and his cock nudged against my entrance.

“Oh god. Nick…”

“You want it, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Jesus, yes.”

“Say it, Layla.”

“I want your cock inside me, Nick. I want you to fuck me.”

He kissed me once more, and then his cock filled me with one hard thrust, and a scream ripped out of me.

Oh holy fuck.

This was going to be incredible.

13

FUCKED

One short, hard thrust, and his cock was fully seated inside me, filling me, stretching me. Still standing up, his hand gently gripping my throat to keep me in place—as if I was trying to escape—I was rendered helpless. Totally helpless. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The only thing that existed in my whole universe was Harris, big and hard and hot behind me, his dick inside me, his hand on my throat, the other strumming my nipple like a guitar string.

He didn’t move. Time stood still, and the only sound was my ragged gasps and his steady breathing. His lips touched my temple, and I trembled.

What the fuck was he doing?

To kiss a body is sexual, to press lips to chest or hip or cock or pussy or belly, that’s sex. To make out, that’s sex.

To kiss one’s face, one’s cheek, one’s forehead, a temple, a jaw…that is intimate and personal.

I didn’t do intimate.

I didn’t do personal.

To quote a certain fictional phenomenon, “I fuck. Hard.” I didn’t connect with those particular characters on any level, except for the intimacy factor. Even with Eric, my one real serious boyfriend, the only man I ever lived with, the only guy I ever let see even a hint of my true inner self, even with him I didn’t really do intimacy. Sex was sex. Eric and I fucked. We boned. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Eric. A lot. I dated him for a long time, and lived with him. But I didn’t do intimacy with him. There was no pillow talk. There was no kissy-face hold me afterward and tell me your deepest thoughts and share your most tender emotions.

He never kissed my temple.

Harris kissed my temple, one brief, slow, and utterly confusing touch of his lips to the side of my skull, and I was lost.

Not like, falling in love lost, or drowning in his touch lost, but thewhat the fuck is happening and where am I and what’s going onkind of lost.

And then, wildest of all, my body betrayed my heart. My hand reached up and back, and my palm cupped the nape of his neck and my head twisted to the side and my mouth sought skin and my heart was crashing and thundering and cracking and twisting and my mind was rebelling, but my body was in control. My body had hijacked the rest of me.

My lips sought skin, and found it. Found his jaw. His cheekbone. I clutched the back of his head and trembled like a dry leaf in a long wind.

And still he wasn’t moving. Seemingly content to just hold the pose, both of us standing up facing the bed, his shaft buried deep inside my slit, my body boneless and without strength, leaning with total trust against Harris’s chest.

A breath left me in a broken sigh, and I sank down, letting my weight fall just a bit, pushing him deeper. I couldn’t take the motionlessness, couldn’t take the shredding intimacy of his breath on my cheek, his wordless possession of me. I couldn’t handle the memory of that kiss to my temple. I needed…more.

“Nick…” I murmured.

“I know,” he said, and pushed me forward.

Willingly, gladly, I bent over the bed, spread my feet shoulder-width apart, braced myself with arms straight, elbows locked, hands on the mattress. I waited. Breathless with anticipation, with bated breath, with every other cliché you can think of, I waited.