Page 73 of Omega

“Come for me, Layla.” The command was quiet, but spoken with razor sharpness, rife with intensity.

I shattered, twisting and pinching my nipples as the orgasm ripped through me.

“Finger your clit. Right now, while you’re coming.”

I kept one hand at my breast, twisting and pinching, and my right hand delved down in obedience to Harris’s quiet order. I put my middle and ring fingers to my hardened clit and rubbed myself in circles, so aroused I needed no buildup, already coming so all I had to do was swipe at my hypersensitive clit hard and fast.

“FUCK!” The word was a plea, yanked out of me as the orgasm spiraled through me and out of control, making my entire body gyrate. “Oh god, Nick, Nick, NICK!”

I glanced at him through slitted eyelids, and saw a small, pleased smile on his lips as he drove into me over and over. And I realized he still hadn’t come.

“Your turn, Nick,” I said.

The smile spread, turned feral. “My turn, is it?”

“I need to feel you come, too.”

He set me down, unwrapped my legs from around his waist. Made sure I had my balance, and then climbed onto the bed. Rested his head on the pillow, and just stared at me. Waiting.

“Ride me,” he ordered.

I took a moment to just drink in his body. So fucking sexy. Lean, corded with iron-hard muscle. Lupine, primal. Dark, curly, masculine hair dusting his chest and stomach, trimmed close around his junk. God, his cock. Glistening wet with my essence, hard and thick, the very slight curve that felt so perfect inside me, hitting me right where it felt the best.

His eyes followed my movements as I twisted in place and climbed on the bed. My heavy breasts swayed as I crawled over him, and I fuckinglovedthe way his eyes just devoured my body, the way his gaze seemed to speak a thousand, million words decrying my beauty, all in silence, a poem in glances, a song in gaze. He didn’t need to say a single word, and I knew I was gorgeous, to him.

But then he did speak, as I straddled his hips with my thighs. “Layla, you are…so fucking beautiful.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

He reached up, his knuckles brushing my cheek. And then he gathered a handful of my curly, tightly-kinked, ink-black hair, and pulled my face down. It was a rough jerk, tugging my face down to his, but the expression on his face somehow made the gesture seem…tender. I wasn’t sure how he managed that but it was effective. My heart was leaping in my chest, thumping painfully hard. Trying to escape, trying to get away from what I perceived in him.

“No, Layla,” he said, and nipped my lip with his teeth. “I don’t think you get it. You are absolutely perfect.”

I had nothing to say to that. I couldn’t speak, even if I had possessed the words. I was choked up, throat tight. This was raw terror pounding through me.

Perfect?

Godno.

I knew I was good looking, but more because of my body than because of my face. When you’ve got dimensions like mine, you don’t need to have a beautiful face. Most guys told me I was hot. Sexy. That I had a bangin’ body. That my tits were the best thing they’d ever seen. That I had a ghetto booty so fine they could fuck it for hours. More cushion for the pushin’; legs for days. I’d taken those compliments to heart, and I stayed in shape to keep it that way.

But no guy had ever told me how beautiful I was, not without qualifying it in relation to my body in some way.

And you know what? That kind of hurt, down deep. Knowing my beauty was only because of my body? It was the kind of hurt you don’t know how to express, even to yourself.

But in that moment, when Nick told me I was beautiful, that I was “absolutely perfect”? That framed it for me in a way I could finally understand.

I waited for the qualification.

It never came.

And my defenses were on high alert.

Danger, Will Robinson.

I slid up his body, dragging the tips of my breasts across his chest, brushing his face with them, swaying them over his lips, across his eyes. “Yeah? You like these, don’t you?”

He lifted up and captured a nipple in his mouth. “Yes, I do.”