Page 54 of Omega's Formula

“What about them?”

“Wanted them on me since—since the Bureau meeting.” His voice is fracturing, losing coherence. “Watched you sign the papers and thought about—thought about this—”

“Tell me.”

“Thought about you on your knees.” His hips are moving now, thrusting into my grip. “Thought about your mouth. Thought about bending you over my desk and—Nolan—”

He comes with a groan that echoes off the tile, spilling hot over my fingers, his whole body shuddering. I keep stroking him through it, gentling my touch as he comes down.

“Your turn,” he says when he’s caught his breath.

He presses me back against the cold tile—I gasp at the contrast with the hot water—and drops to his knees.

“Erik, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

He looks up at me through the spray, water spiking his lashes, and the sight of him on his knees for me makes something twist in my chest. This powerful, controlled alpha, kneeling on the shower floor with his hands on my thighs and hunger in his eyes.

Then his mouth is on me and I stop thinking entirely.

The eighth time—or nineth, or tenth, I’ve completely lost count—we don’t even make it out of the kitchen.

I’d stumbled out of the bedroom in search of water. Found him at the counter, wearing only boxers, eating leftover pad thai straight from the container. He looked up when I entered and his eyes went dark.

“You’re insatiable,” I said, but I was already crossing the room.

“Says the omega in heat.”

“The omega in heat just needs hydration.”

“Is that all you need?”

I reached past him for a glass, deliberately brushing my body against his. “Maybe notall.”

The glass didn’t get filled. I ended up on the counter with my legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on my neck, both of us too desperate to make it back to the bedroom. He took me right there, my back against the cabinets, the pad thai container knocked to the floor and forgotten.

Fast this time. Urgent. Both of us chasing release with single-minded focus. I came with my nails raking down his back, bitinghis shoulder to muffle my scream. He followed moments later, face buried in my neck, my name spilling from his lips.

“We should clean that up,” I said afterwards, looking at the spilled noodles.

“Later.”

He carried me back to bed. We left the mess for morning.

The sixth day, perhaps, I wake to something different.

My body feels... quiet. The constant thrumming need that’s been driving me has faded to something manageable. My skin doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore. My thoughts are my own again, clear and sharp-edged instead of fog-soft and desperate.

The heat is breaking.

I lie there for a moment, taking stock. I’m sore in places I didn’t know could be sore. There are bruises on my hips, my thighs, my neck—purple and finger-shaped, evidence of how thoroughly I’ve been claimed. My lips feel swollen. My throat aches from overuse.

I feel amazing.

Erik is beside me, one arm thrown over my waist, breathing slow and deep. Even in sleep, he’s wrapped around me, protective, possessive. His face is softer in sleep, younger somehow. The sharp edges smoothed away.

I should feel trapped. Should feel alarmed by how good this felt, how much I wanted it, how completely I lost myself in him. This man who might have stolen my research. This man I’m supposed to hate.