Page 97 of Omega

All the while, his hips were driving his cock up into me, over and over and over, harder and harder.

I felt myself climbing toward climax again, and felt him nearing the edge as well, felt it in the way his pace became frantic and his grip on the back of my neck tightened. I felt it the way his pace faltered then, and his breathing went ragged.

I clenched around him with my pussy and held on, and felt him groan against my skin. “Say it, Nick,” I breathed. I struggled against his grip on my wrist, but he refused to let go. “Say it. Fucking say it. Say you’re mine.”

I wasn’t sure why this was suddenly so important, but it was. It was everything. I needed to hear it.Hadto hear it.

I came, hard. I saw stars and heat blasted through me and I sobbed, buried my nose in his hair and rode the wave of orgasm, rode his cock, chanting my demand—say it, say it, say it, say it.

And then he thrust in, once,hard. Again, groaning. I felt him come, felt his cock throb inside me and felt the hot rush. “Yours…” he growled, “I’m yours, fuck—I’m yours, Layla.”

He let go of my hands then, and they flew to him, burying my fingers in his hair, clutching him to me, riding his last surges and then tilting his face to mine and eating his breath and feeling him whisper it into my mouth:

“Yours…yours…yours…” over and over again, like the refrain of the song sung by our joined bodies.

It should have been degrading, being fucked up against a wall in an alley; my skirt rucked up around my hips, his pants unzipped. It should have felt base and coarse and rude. But in that moment, his face in my hands, his breath on my tongue, hearing him tell me he belonged to me…it was deeply intimate, and beautiful.

The words just…dripped out of me. Were torn from me.

In a perfect world, it would have been said in a romantic moment, during a candlelight dinner, or in the afterglow of slow, tender lovemaking.

The world isn’t perfect, and I said it to him as he shot his come into me, after fucking me hard and raw in an alley behind Starbucks, each of us claiming the other.

“I love you—” I choked as the three words I’d never said to a man fell from my lips. “I—god, Nick…Nicholas Fucking Harris. I fucking love you. Goddamn it, I love you.”

He was still hard inside me, throbbing as the last of his seed dripped hot out of him. He thrust again, and I gasped. And then he cupped my face in both hands, thumbs brushing over my lips as if to smear the words I’d just said over my mouth. He kissed me.

This kiss was…like no other. Slow but forceful, deep, yet tender. Endless, breathless. He said it then, silently, with the kiss, before he broke away and spoke.

“I love you, Layla.” He said it simply, easily.

I fell against him, cut deep, torn open. He let me down, pulled out, and fixed both my skirt and his pants with one hand, and then pulled me into his arms.

He said it.

My mother never told me she loved me.

Mario sure as fuck never did.

None of the boys or men I’d slept with ever said it. One guy started to say it to me, but it was just to get me to try anal, so I shut him up before he could say it and let him do it anyway. He didn’t mean it, and I knew it, and he knew it, and I didn’t want to hear it.

Kyrie said it to me, but that wasn’t the same because neither of us were bi-curious.

Nick said it.

He kissed my cheekbone, the shell of my ear. I felt his lips move. “I love you. I love you.” He buried his fingers in the mass of my curls and tugged my face around to kiss me again, this time with delicacy and tenderness. “I love you. And I’m yours.”

“God, Nick.” I kissed him back, again and again, until we were lost in the kiss and out of breath.

He pulled away. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner.”

He took me to a fancy steakhouse and I visited the bathroom to clean up, and then we had a long dinner during which neither of us drank much. Unusual for me, not so much for Harris, I didn’t think.

He picked a hotel somewhat at random, a nice one but not the best—intentionally, he said, to avoid being found easily. Not the cheapest, but not the most expensive. Middle of the road.

He led me to our room, unlocked the door, picked me up, wrapped my legs around his waist, and was inside me before the door closed behind us.

And then he told me he loved me exactly eighty-three times in a row, as he fucked us both to orgasm against the door. And then another four times as he carried me to the bed and stripped me naked, and told me he loved me seventy-seven times as he kissed every inch of my body, top to bottom, front and back. And then when he was hard again, I rode him reverse cowgirl and I told him I loved him so many times I lost count at ninety-two.