Page 53 of Omega's Formula

This time he doesn’t rush. Rolls his hips in a steady rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in, deep and thorough. Every stroke drags against my sensitive walls, sending sparks up my spine. I’m dissolving, melting, becoming nothing but the place where we’re joined.

“Look at me,” he says.

I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine, expression fierce and tender and utterly focused.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs. “I want to see your face when you come.”

The intimacy of it is almost too much. This isn’t just heat-fucking anymore. This is something else. Something I don’t have a name for, something that scares me more than the heat ever could.

But I can’t look away. Can’t close my eyes. Can only stare into his as he moves inside me, as the pleasure builds and builds until I’m shaking with it.

“Erik—” His name comes out broken. “I’m going to—”

“I know. I’ve got you. Let go.”

I shatter.

It’s different this time. Slower, deeper, radiating out from my core in waves that seem to go on forever. I’m crying—actual tears streaming down my face—and I don’t know why but I can’t stop. He follows me over the edge, and I feel it, feel him pulsing inside me, and that just makes me come harder.

Afterwards, he holds me while I shake. Doesn’t ask about the tears. Just wraps himself around me and strokes my hair and presses kisses to my forehead, my temples, the wet tracks on my cheeks.

I should say something. Explain. But I don’t have words for what just happened.

I’m not sure I want to find them.

We rest sometimes. Brief windows where the fever recedes enough to breathe, to eat the food Erik brings me, to shower together under water that’s never quite cold enough.

The shower becomes its own kind of torture.

He washes my hair, gentle despite everything, and I lean against his chest and let him take care of me. It’s such a strange thing—being cared for. I’ve been taking care of myself and Ellie for so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have someone else’s hands on me with no agenda except tenderness.

“How long?” I ask at some point. My voice is hoarse from sounds I don’t entirely remember making.

“Four days.” His lips brush my temple. “Maybe longer. I stopped counting.”

“Is there food left?”

“Some. I can order more.”

I turn in his arms, press my face against his neck, breathe him in. He smells like me now. Like us. Like something I could get dangerously used to.

His hands slide down my back, cup my ass, pull me closer. I can feel him hardening against my hip.

“Already?” I ask, lips moving against his throat.

“With you? Always.”

It should be a line. Should sound practiced and hollow. Instead it sounds helpless. Like he doesn’t understand it any better than I do.

I reach down between us, wrap my fingers around him. He hisses, head falling back against the tile.

“Nolan—”

“Shh.” I stroke him slowly, watching his face. “Let me.”

He braces one hand against the wall, the other gripping my hip. Water streams down over us, warm and endless. I work him with my hand, finding the rhythm he likes, twisting on the upstroke, running my thumb over the head.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Your hands—”