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The call comes late at night.
She just got home, her muscles sore and aching after a long day of training and drills, but instead of letting herself fall face-first into bed, she sits on her couch, a cup of tea clutched in her hands, waiting. She's already pulled her hair out of its regulation bun, and the long locks frame her face, brushing her shoulders.
The phone buzzes, and she picks it up without bothering to check who it is.
"Hello?"
There's a moment of silence followed by heavy, uneven breathing.
"Pip-squeak, it's me."
The voice on the other end is strained, almost hoarse, but she'd know it anywhere.
"Caleb," she says, sitting up straighter. "I thought you were on your mission for another month."
"We wrapped things up early. I'm on leave until the next assignment, but I can't stay at the base right now. Can I come over?"
His tone makes her frown, an unexpected edge in his voice. She takes a sip of tea, hoping the warmth will calm her suddenly queasy stomach.
"Of course," she says, trying to sound upbeat. "But what's wrong?"
"I'm... going into heat," he mutters, the words so quiet and strained, she can barely make them out. "And there's no suppressants at the base. They're all still on the way. I didn't think..."
He trails off. "It hit me earlier today."
Caleb always been able to control his pheromones, hiding his nature. His fellow officers think he's an alpha, and they'd never question it—it's the only way he'd have gotten the promotion to Colonel. If he's calling her...
"How bad is it?" she asks.
"Bad." He breathes the word, his voice thick with an emotion that's hard to place—it's not fear, exactly, or shame, but something deeper. Darker. "I didn't want to call, but..."
Another pause, this one longer.
"Please, Pip-squeak."
It's not his nickname for her that gets her, nor is it the plea itself. It's the desperation underlying his tone, like he's clinging to her name.
She knows why. She's a beta, which means her scent is neutral, unobtrusive. Caleb won't be able to smell her the way he could an alpha or another omega. She's not a threat to him. She's the perfect person for him to come to in this state.
"Of course," she says, getting up to set her mug aside. "You can crash on my couch, and we can hang out until the meds arrive. I'll even cook you dinner, since you're back. How does that sound?"
"Good. Thank you." She can hear the relief in his voice, and it's followed by the sound of a car door slamming shut. "I'm already here."
"Already—"
Her front door opens, and Caleb steps through, looking tired and worn. He's in civilian clothes: a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans, the outfit molded to his broad shoulders and strong legs. His hair is a mess, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, and she can see a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.
He must've been sitting in his car for a while, pondering whether to call her.
"Hey," she says, walking toward him. "Why don't you—"
Before she can finish, his arms close around her.
"Pip-squeak," he murmurs into her hair, his body shaking against hers.
He's holding her so tightly it hurts, and his heart is pounding like he's run a mile, his skin fever-hot. But when he buries his nose against her neck and inhales deeply, she feels the tension go out of him, his body relaxing against hers.
The scent of a beta, especially a familiar one, is soothing to an omega. She won't be able to help him with his heat—only an alpha can do that, and Caleb's not the type to seek out an alpha, no matter how intense the symptoms get—but she can keep him company and take the edge off.
"It's okay," she whispers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and running her fingers through his hair. "I'm here. It's going to be fine."
They stand like that for a long moment, then finally he pulls away. He looks better, a little more relaxed. His pupils are dilated, his cheeks flushed.
"You should have a seat," she says, tugging him toward the couch.
His mouth twists, an expression of pain or discomfort flitting across his handsome face.
"Can you sit with me? Just for a moment."
He's still holding her hand, and she lets him pull her down until she's perched beside him, her knee resting against his. He closes his eyes and exhales shakily, his grip tightening.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
He doesn't look like himself.
Caleb's the strongest person she knows, someone who's always calm, cool and collected. But his gaze keeps shifting around the room, his posture stiff. There's an energy to him that's unfamiliar and unsettling, an edge of need, a restless, feverish hunger.
"It's nothing," she says, giving him a gentle nudge. "You look like you could use some rest."
"I can't." He swallows, the muscles in his throat working. "My skin is too tight. I can't stop... feeling things. I'm too aware of everything, and my head's all cloudy."
He pauses, his hand curling into a fist. "I hate this. It's been years, but I never get used to it. Being an omega. Not having control over my own damn body."
He's never spoken like this before. Even as children, they never discussed his nature. It was just a part of him, like the color of his eyes.
She can count the number of times she's seen him like this—vulnerable, unsure—on one hand. Caleb doesn't allow himself to be weak, not in front of her, not in front of anyone. He's spent most of his life pretending to be an alpha, hiding his real identity from the world.
He's never let anyone close enough to see him.
"I'm sorry," she says, not sure what else to say. "I wish I could help."
"You are." He turns his head and meets her gaze, and there's something about the heat in his eyes, the way they darken as they roam her face, that makes her pulse stutter. "This is why I came. You know that, right? No one else would've been safe. Everyone else would have... tried something."
She can't imagine what that would have done to him. She can't imagine what would happen if he lost control, his body and mind ruled by instinct. As a beta, she can sense the difference in him, the subtle shift in his scent, but she's not affected by it.
An alpha would be.
And the idea of someone trying to take advantage of him when he's vulnerable, forcing him to act on his instincts, making him do something he'd hate himself for the next morning makes her throat close up, her chest tight with anger.
"You know I'd never try anything, right?" she asks quietly. "Even if I wasn't a beta. You're my friend, and I respect you. Nothing will ever change that."
Caleb makes a strange, choked sound, something that's almost a bitter laugh.
"Friend," he whispers under his breath, and she thinks she sees his mouth twist, a flicker of an emotion she can't place passing over his features. "Right."
She has no time to ponder what he means by that, because in the next moment he's pressing his face against her neck. She holds her breath, not daring to move, as his arms come up to wrap around her shoulders, his body trembling as he breathes her in.
"Thank you," he says, his breath warm against her skin.
"For what?" she manages.
"Being you."
She wants to ask what he means by that, but when his lips brush her collarbone, the question dies on her lips.
"You smell good," he whispers, his arms tightening. "Like... like home."
"Caleb," she manages.
He lifts his head and meets her gaze, and the expression on his face is like nothing she's ever seen before. There's something wild and broken in his eyes, his pupils dilated, the irises glowing, an otherworldly light radiating from the violet depths.
"I can't stay away from you," he says, the words coming out like an accusation.
She knows she should pull back, put some space between them. But Caleb's looking at her with such desperate, hungry longing, his hands clutching her shoulders, that she can't bring herself to move.
"I shouldn't have come here," he continues, his gaze dropping to her lips. "But I can't help it. I want..."
When his voice trails off, she doesn't prompt him. She's not sure if it's the fever making him talk, or if it's the fact that he's safe here, with her, his instincts telling him he can trust her, but he's being honest, open, in a way she's never seen before.
"What do you want, Caleb?"
He leans closer, his breath tickling her cheek.
"I don't know." He sounds helpless, and his gaze flickers back to hers, the glow in his eyes growing brighter. "You."
"You have me," she whispers. "You've always had me."
"No, I don't," he says, his voice cracking.
He sounds anguished, the words coming out raw and strained. And suddenly she realizes—the reason why he's kept his distance all these years. The reason why, despite their friendship, despite the way he looks at her sometimes, he's never let himself get close.
It's not that he doesn't trust her. It's that he doesn't trust himself.
"Yes, you do," she says firmly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
For a second, he looks like he might pull away. But then his lashes flutter shut, and his body sags against hers.
"I don't know what to do," he whispers, and there's an edge of panic in his voice. "I feel like I'm going crazy. My skin is burning, and I can't think, and all I can smell is you."
"It's going to be fine," she says, trying to sound reassuring. "You've been through this before, and you got through it, didn't you?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"I've never... It's not usually this bad," he finally says, his gaze flickering up to meet hers. "I usually just take the pills, and they keep the symptoms at bay. I've never spent a heat with someone."
For someone like Caleb, who's spent most of his life pretending to be an alpha, the idea of revealing his true nature would be mortifying. Especially when the heat makes him needy and desperate, his instincts taking over. He probably would have locked himself away, enduring the discomfort alone until the medication kicked in.
"Caleb, if it gets too much, you should call someone." She runs her fingers through his hair. It's sweat-damp, the soft strands slipping through her grasp. "We can still call Zayne or—"
"No," he cuts her off. "Please."
"There are services specifically for—"
"No," he repeats, his arms tightening around her. "No strangers. I don't trust anyone else but you. I just need..."
His voice trails off, but she doesn't miss the unspoken words.
"What do you need?"
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they're glowing, the violet irises eerily bright, lit from within.
"You. Only you. Please."
It's not a request, not really. It's a plea. A desperate, helpless entreaty.
And even if she'd wanted to say no, she can't refuse him. Not when he's looking at her like this, his gaze fever-bright, his face pale.
His hands slide up her arms, his fingers tangling in her hair, and then he's pulling her closer. His lips hover above hers, his breath warming her mouth.
"Kiss me," he whispers.
"Caleb."
"Just a kiss." He gives a ragged, shuddering exhale. "Please."
He looks so lost and desperate, and she can't find it in her to say no.
"All right." She brings her hands up to his cheeks, cupping his face. "Just a kiss. Okay?"
"Okay," he echoes.
She's the one to close the distance.
She keeps the kiss light and brief, barely a touch of the lips, but Caleb inhales sharply, his eyes closing, his grip tightening in her hair. He's still for a second, his chest rising and falling, his breath warm against her skin. Then, his lashes fluttering, his gaze snaps open.
And before she can say anything, his mouth is on hers.
This time the kiss isn't light.
It's demanding and hungry, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, and when she parts them, his teeth nip her bottom lip. His tongue sweeps inside, sliding against hers, the taste of him overwhelming her. She understands now why omegas are irresistible, the way they can make even an alpha bend to their will, their pheromones intoxicating, their bodies a promise of pleasure.
Because this feels good. Too good.
Caleb kisses her like he's starving for her, and she can't help but respond in kind, her arms twining around his shoulders. Her head is spinning, her pulse roaring in her ears. Her lips are tingling, her whole body feeling fever-hot, like his heat is contagious.
When Caleb pulls back, they're both breathing hard, and he's shaking like a leaf.
"I can't stop," he whispers, pressing his face into the curve of her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't... but I want..."
She can feel the tension in his body, the way his hands are fisted at his sides. He's trying to hold back, to not take more than she's willing to give, to not give in to his instincts.
"I know," she says, and brings her hand up to cup his jaw, urging his head up. "Look at me."
"No," he mutters, his eyes screwed shut. "If I look at you, I'll—"
"I want you to."
She feels his breath hitch. Then, after a moment, he does as she asks, his eyes opening.
"There you are," she whispers.
"Don't," he says, his voice catching. "Don't be nice to me."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes this harder." He swallows. "Everything about you makes it harder. The way you smile at me, the way you smell. Your voice, your hair, your goddamn laugh. Every time you look at me, every time I hear you call my name, all I can think about is how much I want you."
"Caleb."
"You make me feel like... like I'm a person. Like I'm normal. When I'm with you, I'm not thinking about hiding my scent or wearing blockers or pretending to be someone I'm not. When I'm with you, it doesn't hurt." He pauses, his mouth curving into a humorless smile. "I didn't want you to know, but it's like the heat strips away everything else. All the control I have, all the walls, all the ways I hide what I am. It takes away all my choices."
"You don't have to hide with me."
"Yes, I do," he says, his jaw clenching. "This is why."
He's struggling to keep his breathing under control, his shoulders tense, his fingers digging into her back.
"Pip-squeak." The way he says her nickname is almost reverent, his tone achingly soft. "If I keep kissing you, I'm going to ask for more. If I keep touching you, I'm going to beg and plead and lose every ounce of my pride, because that's what it does. That's what a heat does to an omega. It strips us down until we're nothing but need and desperation. Until we'll do anything for someone to touch us, just once."
He swallows.
"If you don't want me to do that, you need to tell me right now. Because I can't..." He lets out a shaky exhale, his body trembling against hers. "I'm trying to hold back. I really am. But my body isn't listening. The heat's taking over. I can feel it."
"I know."
He's not asking her for permission, and not giving her an ultimatum. He's giving her an out, telling her that he understands if she wants him to leave, if she can't bring herself to watch him struggle against his own body.
She could send him away, tell him to come back when the medication has taken effect. She could let him bear this burden alone, like he has every time before.
But something makes her pause.
Maybe it's because he came here, to her, instead of holing up in his apartment. Maybe it's knowing that she's the only person he trusts. Or maybe it's the way he's looking at her, his gaze so nakedly vulnerable, his expression filled with such painful hope, his whole body coiled like a spring, like he's ready to snap and break apart at any moment.
Whatever it is, it makes her take a deep breath. Makes her reach up and brush the hair out of his eyes.
"I'm not an alpha, Caleb. I can't help you through the heat, but I can... ease the discomfort. For a little while."
She has no idea if she's making sense, or if he can even understand what she's saying, because his pupils are blown wide, his gaze fixed on her mouth. But when he doesn't react, she presses her lips to his, kissing him softly.
He goes completely still.
"Is that okay?" she murmurs against his mouth.
"No," he replies, the word sounding ripped from his throat. "Not okay. You should tell me to go."
"Do you want to?"
"God, no." He leans into her, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes screwed shut. "I've been dreaming about you. That's why I had to leave. That's why I stayed away."
She doesn't have time to process his confession, because in the next moment, he's kissing her again, his lips brushing hers, the touch almost chaste.
"I don't know how to stop," he whispers, his mouth hovering above hers. "Help me."
There's no time to think, to consider the implications, to figure out what any of this means. She's acting on instinct, on the need to soothe him, to ease his pain, her hand sliding down his neck and resting over the steady thud of his pulse.
"Please," he whispers, the word ending on a gasp as her fingers slip beneath his shirt and graze his bare skin.
His whole body jerks, and then his mouth is crashing into hers, the kiss rough and needy, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She responds in kind, her lips parting, and then her fingers are fumbling with the hem of his hoodie, pushing the fabric up and over his head.
Caleb lifts his arms, helping her remove the garment, and it hits the floor with a muffled thud, the sound lost beneath the sound of their harsh breathing.
She runs her hands up his bare torso, marveling at the smooth, golden skin, the sculpted muscles that flex and jump beneath her fingertips. His heart is racing, the beats thudding like the steady, powerful cadence of a war drum, his body so warm that she feels like she's touching an open flame.
"Wait," he manages. "Hold on."
"What?"
"If you're going to do this, there's something you should know." He lifts a shaking hand, running it through his hair, the messy strands falling back over his forehead.
"What is it?"
He meets her gaze, and in the eerie, fey light of his eyes, she can see the uncertainty.
"I've never done this before. Not with anyone. And not because I was saving myself or something stupid like that. It's just..." He swallows, looking away. "I've never trusted anyone enough to let them."
"Oh."
She doesn't know what else to say.
"Yeah." Caleb gives a low, choked laugh. "Surprise."
"Does it... is it..." She hesitates. "Do you know what to expect?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have to be nervous." She cups his cheek. "It's just me."
"That's why I'm nervous."
She stares at him, confused, and then it hits her.
He's not nervous because it's sex. He's nervous because it's her.
Caleb's watching her with those luminous, fever-bright eyes, his expression painfully open. And before she can overthink it, she leans forward and brushes her lips against his.
"I'm going to take care of you, okay?"
He inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling.
"Okay."
And then she's reaching for him, and his arms are wrapping around her, and their mouths are colliding. The kiss isn't gentle, isn't soft, but urgent and needy and desperate. She can taste the fear, the edge of panic, the underlying tension. But there's also desire, a bone-deep longing that makes her breath hitch, her pulse roar in her ears.
As she deepens the kiss, Caleb makes a helpless sound, his lips parting, his tongue sliding against hers. His arms tighten around her, his hands tangling in her hair. He's breathing hard, his fingers trembling, his body shivering like he's freezing.
"More," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
She responds by pushing him onto the couch, and Caleb goes willingly, sinking back against the cushions. His hands don't leave her, though, his fingers finding their way into each exposed sliver of skin, as if he can't bear to be separated from her for even a second.
"What do you need?" she whispers.
"Your hands. Your mouth. Everything." His words are coming out in a rush, tripping over one another, his voice low and husky. "God, I can't—please. Just touch me. Anywhere. Everywhere. I don't care. Just touch me."
She's already unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them off his hips. Caleb lifts his body to help her, his chest heaving, his breath hitching when she slips her hand inside his underwear.
"Wait," he gasps, grabbing her wrist. "Stop."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Everything."
"Are you—"
"I'm fine."
"Then why did you—"
"Because this is fucking embarrassing," he grits out, his face flushed, his eyes closed. "I'm leaking all over the place, and you're about to touch me, and if you do, I'm probably going to come on the spot. In case you were wondering how pathetic I am."
He sounds utterly mortified, the words clipped and tense, his fingers gripping the sofa cushions. And as his cheeks flush a deeper red, he turns his head to the side, his expression twisting into a grimace.
She can't help it. She reaches out and gently tugs his chin back.
"Caleb."
He opens his eyes, looking up at her with a mixture of humiliation and need.
"Don't," he says raggedly. "Please. Don't make me—"
"I'm not." She leans forward, her fingers brushing his cheek. "If you don't want to—"
"I do." His hand flies up, grabbing hers, holding her in place. "I really, really fucking do. That's the problem. If you touch me, it's over."
"That's kind of the point."
"Pip-squeak."
She kisses him then, cutting off his protest. She kisses him until his breath hitches, and his grip on her wrist goes slack.
"Stop thinking," she says. "Let me help you."
When she slides her hand into his briefs, his body jerks. His eyes are open, his pupils dilated, the glowing violet almost swallowed up by black.
"Look at me," she tells him. "Stay with me."
And then she's taking him in her hand, her fingers wrapping around his length, and Caleb makes a choked sound, his head falling back against the couch cushions. He's slick, dripping wet, and she strokes him once, twice, her hand gliding easily along his shaft.
"God, don't stop," he gasps.
So she doesn't.
She keeps her hand wrapped around him, watching the emotions play across his face. The pleasure, the relief, the aching, bone-deep desperation. There's also guilt and shame, a lingering embarrassment that's impossible to ignore.
"It's okay," she says. "It's just me."
"Don't," he pleads, his voice breaking. "Don't look at me like that. I can't—you're killing me, Pip-squeak."
He's struggling to hold back, she realizes. Struggling to keep his composure. Even now, on the verge of losing himself, he's fighting against the pull. Fighting the urge to give in, to let go.
"Don't hold back," she murmurs, stroking him. "Just let go. It's okay."
"You have no idea what you're asking." His breathing is ragged, his eyes screwed shut, his hands clutching the sofa cushions.
"You want to let go," she whispers, her fingers tightening around him. "Don't fight it."
"I can't." He makes a guttural sound, his hips jerking, his face flushed.
"Open your eyes."
"No."
"Caleb." She brushes her thumb over the head of his cock, rubbing circles into the slick skin. "Look at me."
With a visible effort, he obeys, his lashes fluttering. And when his eyes finally open, he meets her gaze, his irises burning bright, the violet nearly eclipsed by black. She strokes him again, harder this time, her grip firm, and the noise that comes out of his mouth is a half-sob, a low, desperate plea. His whole body shudders, and his eyes roll back, the glowing irises disappearing beneath his lids.
"Stop thinking," she says, leaning forward, pressing her mouth to his. "It's okay. I promise. I'll catch you."
She kisses him then, softly and sweetly.
And the next time her hand strokes his length, Caleb moans into her mouth, his fingers digging into her hips.
"More," he pleads. "Please, more. Harder. I want..."
She responds by tightening her grip, stroking him harder, faster, until the slick noises fill the air, drowning out the sound of their harsh breathing. She breaks the kiss and leans back, looking down at him. He's flushed from head to toe, his skin shining with sweat, his eyes closed, his mouth parted. She can see his pulse hammering in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, his chest heaving.
For the first time, she's glad to be a beta, glad not to have the instincts that would normally compel her. Because if she was an alpha, she would lose control. She wouldn't be able to think, to plan, to stay one step ahead of his needs.
She wouldn't be able to see him like this.
Beautiful and open and unguarded, his whole body strung taut, his spine arching off the couch cushions. It's an aching, painful sort of beauty, the kind that makes her heart feel too big for her chest.
"Come here," he whispers, his voice hoarse.
She obliges, leaning down to press her lips to his, and his hand finds the back of her head, holding her in place.
"Touch me," he breathes against her mouth.
"I am."
"My neck. Here."
"Caleb, I can't mark—"
"Just bite me. Please. Do it. Bite me. Right there."
"It won't mean anything. Not if I do it."
"It will to me."
The desperation in his voice breaks her resolve, and when her teeth graze the skin of his neck, he makes a sound that's halfway between a sob and a moan, his body tensing beneath her. She bites him gently, not enough to leave a mark, and the noise he makes is pained, his breathing erratic.
"Harder."
"Caleb, I can't—"
"I want to feel it."
"It won't last. You know that."
"It's okay."
"It's not fair," she whispers.
"It's all I have," he gasps. "Please."
So she bites him, hard enough that his whole body arches off the sofa. His eyes roll back, the violet swallowed by black, and the groan that comes out of his mouth is broken, pained. She can feel him pulsing in her hand, his cock throbbing as his climax rips through him. And then he's coming, hot and wet, his release spilling over her fingers.
She stays with him, her hand moving along his length, helping him ride it out, until he's a shivering, trembling mess, his eyes closed, his mouth open in a wordless plea.
When she finally withdraws, her hand coated with his seed, his eyes open, his gaze focusing on her. He's still panting, his breath hitching, and there are tears in his eyes, his features twisted into an expression of raw, aching need.
"Pip-squeak," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Fuck. I need—"
"I'm here."
"Hold me," he manages.
So she does, her arms wrapping around him, pulling him close. She can feel him trembling, his body slick with sweat, the heat radiating off his skin. He's gasping, his lungs fighting for air, and when he buries his face in her shoulder, the scent of him fills her nose, thick and cloying, like caramel.
"It's not enough," he sobs. "I can't... I'm still..."
He's shaking violently now, his body wracked with tremors, the shivers rolling through him. The heat is building, she realizes, cresting like a wave, crashing over him and pulling him under.
"Help me," he begs.
So she does, her fingers pushing down the waistband of his briefs. He doesn't protest, doesn't hesitate, lifting his hips to help her.
When his erection springs free, his cock heavy and leaking, he lets out a low, desperate sound, his body curling in on itself. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face pinched, and there's a flush spreading across his cheeks, his skin so hot to the touch that it feels like she's burning her fingers.
"Caleb."
He doesn't respond, and when she cups his face, he leans into her, the motion instinctive, as if seeking comfort.
"Hey," she whispers, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at me."
"Please," he gasps, his eyes glassy. "I'm going to die. This is how I die. Fuck, I can't—"
"You're not dying," she reassures him.
But his breathing is labored, his lungs fighting for air, and she can hear the edge of panic in his voice, the fear, the helpless desperation.
She slides her fingers between his legs, searching for the slickness. Caleb lets out a soft noise when she presses a finger against his ass, his eyes fluttering closed. He's so wet, so open, her finger slipping inside without resistance. He lets out a groan, his face screwing up, his hips shifting restlessly.
"Please," he pants, his breathing ragged. "More. Harder. Anything. I just need—"
She complies, adding a second finger, her hand pumping in and out of his ass, the noises coming out of his mouth growing increasingly urgent. He's pushing back against her, riding her fingers, his head thrown back.
"Fuck, yes," he moans.
She can't take her eyes off him, his body straining towards her, his face a mask of pleasure, his eyes squeezed shut, his expression a mixture of pain and relief. She can feel the heat, the feverish warmth, and she knows that this isn't enough, that no matter how good it feels, the ache won't go away.
He needs an alpha.
The thought makes her stomach twist.
The truth is, she doesn't want anyone else to see him like this. Vulnerable and desperate, on the verge of falling apart. It's an oddly selfish feeling, and it makes her feel guilty, a twinge of unease settling in her stomach.
But when she thinks about someone else seeing him like this, of an alpha taking advantage of his vulnerability, something ugly rears its head. Something dark and possessive.
Her fingers move faster, and he lets out a choked sound, his body jerking. He's so wet, his ass dripping with slick, and the noises her fingers are making are obscenely loud, a steady, slick, sucking sound. Caleb's panting now, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and when she slips a third finger inside him, his hips buck, his body arching off the sofa.
"God, yes," he moans, the words trailing off into a groan. "Fuck."
His cock is dripping, leaking onto his belly, and when she takes him in her other hand, his eyes fly open, a strangled gasp tearing out of his throat.
"Wait," he manages.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No," he groans. "But I'm... fuck, I'm gonna come."
"Good."
She starts to stroke him, her hand gliding up and down his shaft. He's slick and throbbing, and when her thumb brushes the sensitive spot beneath the head of his cock, he shudders, his whole body quaking.
She doesn't have any right to be possessive, she knows. She's not an alpha, and he's not her omega. He doesn't belong to her.
But the ugly, selfish feeling rears its head again, and before she can overthink it, she's sliding her mouth down the length of his cock, taking him deep into her throat.
Caleb gasps, his hands flying to her hair, tangling in the strands.
"Wait," he manages. "Stop."
She ignores him, taking him deeper into her mouth, her fingers moving in tandem. And then he's coming, his body shuddering, the pleasure ripping through him, a white-hot bolt of electricity arcing up his spine. She doesn't pull away, her mouth working, swallowing his seed. He tastes sweet, almost candy-like.
When he finally stops convulsing, his body going limp, she releases his cock with an obscenely wet pop, her mouth glistening with his seed. He's still hard, despite the climax, and when she leans forward, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock, he makes a helpless, keening noise, his hands tightening in her hair.
"Please," he whimpers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "More."
He hates himself for begging, hates himself for being so weak. But the heat is burning him up from the inside out, the fire scorching his veins, and all he can think about is her mouth on him, her fingers inside him.
He's never felt anything like this, the raw, aching need, the overwhelming desire. It goes beyond mere physical pleasure, the carnal lust, the biological urge to mate. It's a soul-deep need, an inescapable compulsion, like a hook buried deep in his chest. He's wanted her for so long, and now that she's finally here, it's like all the pent-up yearning has spilled out, overiding his primal instincts.
He wants her because she's her, because she's the only person he's ever truly let in. Because he trusts her, implicitly, and he needs her, more than anything or anyone else.
Caleb can feel the guilt gnawing at him, the shame coiling in his gut. He doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve her compassion, her tenderness, her patience. He doesn't deserve the way she's looking at him, her expression soft, her gaze full of understanding.
He doesn't deserve any of it.
But as her fingers slide in and out of him, he can't bring himself to care. He can't bring himself to push her away, to stop her from touching him. Not when it feels so good, so right. Not when the only thing worse than letting her touch him is not having her touch him.
The realization makes him feel sick, disgusted with himself. But the heat is burning through him, the flames licking at his insides, and he's already too far gone, the need consuming him, devouring him.
She leans down, pressing her lips to his. Caleb can't help the whimper that escapes his throat, the pitiful, desperate sound. Her mouth is soft and sweet, and he can taste himself on her tongue, his own seed, and it sends a jolt of desire straight to his core.
She kisses him gently, her lips barely brushing his, and he wants to wrap his arms around her, to bury himself in her embrace.
Her fingers slip out of him, and he makes a noise of protest, his hips rocking, his ass clenching around nothing. He's empty, hollow, and it's a painful, aching sort of emptiness, a bone-deep yearning.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "Let me get undressed."
He can't find the words to answer, his throat tight. So he nods, his body going slack, his lungs fighting for air. He watches her strip off her shirt, her bra, her jeans. His gaze trails over the smooth planes of her body, the curve of her breasts, the subtle flare of her hips. She's beautiful, perfect, and the sight of her bare skin sends a surge of arousal through him, his cock throbbing, his ass clenching around nothing.
He wants to touch her, to run his hands over every inch of her body, but he can't seem to move, his limbs heavy and useless. When she's fully naked, she crawls onto the sofa, her knees on either side of his hips, straddling him. He can feel her, the heat of her, and when she leans down to kiss him, his arms finally obey, wrapping around her.
His hands move along the bare skin of her back, tracing the contours of her muscles, the curve of her spine. She's soft and warm, and he can't stop touching her, his palms sliding down the slope of her ass, the backs of her thighs. When his fingers brush the wet heat between her legs, she makes a soft noise, her hips jerking, and the smell of her is intoxicating, the scent filling his nostrils, coating his tongue.
His fingers are slick with her arousal, and when he pushes a finger into her, the walls of her sex clench around him, her body welcoming him in. She's so tight, so hot, and when he adds a second finger, his cock throbs, the ache in his ass intensifying.
"Please," he manages, the word coming out in a strangled gasp. "Fuck me. I need you."
Her hands find his cock, her fingers wrapping around him. She strokes him, her movements slow and deliberate, and the feeling is exquisite, the pleasure radiating through him, a low, burning heat. He's past the point of rational thought, the haze of the heat clouding his mind, his entire body aching for her.
"Please," he begs.
And then she's guiding his cock to her entrance, the tip sliding against her slick folds. His body jerks, his hips bucking, his back arching.
"Fuck," he groans, the word drawn out into a long, low moan.
When she sinks down onto him, taking him deep inside her, his vision goes white, the pleasure blinding him. She's tight and hot, and he can feel her walls clenching around him, the muscles of her sex rippling along his length. He can't breathe, his lungs burning, the air trapped in his chest.
His hands find her hips, gripping her tight, and when she starts to move, rocking against him, his eyes roll back, his head falling back against the couch cushions. Her hands are on his shoulders, holding him steady, and the feeling of her body wrapped around him is almost too much to bear, the pleasure bordering on pain.
Is this what it's like for alphas? Is this what it feels like to be inside an omega? To feel them, the slick heat, the clenching muscles, the tightness surrounding their cocks. It's almost too much, the sensation overwhelming, and he's teetering on the edge, the pressure building, the heat pooling in his gut.
She leans foward, her lips to his, and when she starts to ride him, the pace increasing, the angle changing, his hips thrusting up to meet her, the friction making him gasp, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. He can't stop moving, his body acting of its own volition, his spine arching off the couch.
"Look at me," she says, her voice a soft command.
He does, his gaze meeting hers, his eyes locking onto her. And the sight of her is enough to send him over the edge, his cock throbbing, his ass clenching, his release spilling inside her. She kisses him, swallowing the moan that escapes his lips, and the pleasure washes over him in waves, the sensation rippling through him.
He's dimly aware of her coming, her body shuddering, her walls pulsing around him, the wet heat of her release coating his shaft. She's panting, her breathing ragged, and when she collapses against him, her forehead pressed to his, the sweat-slick skin sticking together, the warmth of her seeps into him, easing the ache in his bones.
It's a fleeting reprieve, the feeling passing all too soon, the fire reigniting inside him. The heat is relentless, the feverish need returning, and the guilt follows, the shame coiling in his gut, the bitter taste of self-loathing rising up the back of his throat.
His hips are still moving, his cock pumping in and out of her, chasing the friction, the pleasure. He can't stop, the compulsion too strong, the biological urge overwhelming. He needs her, needs this, the carnal connection, the raw, animalistic need.
She moves with him, her body rolling against his, and when she captures his mouth in a kiss, he surrenders, letting her take control. He's helpless, his body pliant and yielding, the tension leaving his muscles, his limbs going slack.
He can't think, can't breathe, his mind going blank, the world narrowing down to the feel of her body, the weight of her pressed against him, the taste of her on his tongue, the smell of her filling his nostrils. It's a sensory overload, his senses flooded with her, and he's drowning, the pleasure dragging him under, the heat burning him up from the inside out.
Caleb reaches up, his hands cupping her face, his fingers tangling in her hair. She kisses him deeper, harder, her teeth nipping at his lower lip. He groans, the sound muffled by her mouth, and his hips are moving faster, the pace increasing, his body moving on its own.
She meets him thrust for thrust, her own hips rolling against his, and the feeling is indescribable, the friction making him gasp, his fingers tightening in her hair. She's grinding down against him, and the pressure is building, the heat pooling in his gut.
"You're gonna make me come again," he gasps, the words coming out between ragged breaths. "I can't—"
His words are cut off by a moan, his eyes rolling back, the pleasure cresting, the pressure building, the heat rushing through him.
She's relentless, her hips grinding against his, her mouth hot and hungry, her teeth nipping at his lips. And he's lost, his body surrendering to her, the pleasure dragging him under, the release tearing through him, the fire scorching his veins.
When he comes, it's like being consumed by the flames, the ecstasy searing him, the feeling radiating out from his core. His cock throbs, the pulses rippling through him, the rush of his climax washing over him in waves.
He can't breathe, the air trapped in his lungs, and when he finally breaks the kiss, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, her name falls from his lips, spilling out like a prayer.
She doesn't answer, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. She's still riding him, her hips moving in time with his, and the sensation is almost too much, the friction overwhelming, the pleasure bordering on pain.
"Stop," he manages. "It's too much."
But she doesn't stop, her hips grinding against his, her body moving against his, her muscles rippling along his length. She's so tight, so wet, and the feeling is exquisite, the sensation indescribable.
She's looking down at him, her eyes fixed on his, and the intensity of her gaze makes him shiver, a chill running down his spine. There's something predatory about her expression, something hungry and wild, and he realizes, with a sudden, sickening jolt, that he's completely at her mercy. And he likes it.
"Please," he whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
But he knows, on some instinctual level, that the fight is over, the struggle ended. His body is hers, his surrender complete, and the realization sends a bolt of arousal through him, the pleasure mingling with the shame.
He can't believe how quickly he gave in, how easily she took control. He's always prided himself on his self-control, his ability to stay cool under pressure. But now, he's naked and vulnerable, laid bare before her, and there's a part of him that can't help but feel like he's been defeated.
It's a bittersweet kind of humiliation, and the feeling makes his stomach clench, his pulse racing. But the shame is tempered by the sense of belonging, the knowledge that he's where he's supposed to be, that this is where he was always meant to end up.
He doesn't want to think about the implications of that, the deeper meaning. He doesn't want to consider what it means, that his desire for her, his need for her, is so strong, so all-consuming. That he would willingly submit to her, surrender his autonomy, give himself over to her completely.
But as the heat rises in his cheeks, his face flushing, his heart pounding in his ears, he can't help but feel like he's teetering on the brink of something, the precipice of a decision, the edge of a realization.
The realization that, perhaps, he's not as strong as he thought he was, not as untouchable. That maybe, just maybe, there's a part of him that's always been hers.
Caleb is dimly aware of his surroundings, the faint scent of coffee, the softness of the sheets, the gentle sunlight spilling through the window. He's not sure where he is, his mind fuzzy and hazy, the memories blurry and indistinct. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the brightness, the unfamiliar surroundings slowly coming into focus.
He's in her bed, the sheets tangled around his bare limbs, his naked body bathed in the morning light. He can feel the ache in his muscles, the soreness in his joints, the dull throb of his pulse. But the pain is distant, muted, the feeling filtered through a fog of contentment.
He remembers the night before, the heat rising inside him, the feverish need burning through his veins. He remembers the feel of her hands on him, the heat of her mouth, the press of her body against his.
He remembers the way he begged, the way he pleaded, the way he begged her to fuck him, the way he cried for her to let him come.
Caleb can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the flush of shame coloring his skin. He's never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and the memory of his surrender, his submission, is both mortifying and exhilarating.
He rolls over, burying his face in the pillow, and the scent of her fills his nostrils, the smell of her skin, her hair, her sweat. It's intoxicating, and the ache between his legs returns, the desire kindling anew.
But the heat has subsided, the fever breaking, and he knows, deep down, that she's done what she promised. She's given him the relief he needed, a temporary respite.
And, if he's honest with himself, more than that. She's given him something he didn't even realize he was craving, something he didn't know he needed.
She's given him a glimpse of what it could be like, the two of them together.
He can't help but think about the future, the possibilities stretched out before him. What if they did this again? What if they made a habit of it? If he came to her, when the heat rose inside him, would she help him again? Would she ease the ache? Would she be there, when the need was sated?
He wants her to be. He wants her to be there, by his side, through the highs and the lows.
And it terrifies him.
Caleb has spent his entire life keeping people at arm's length, putting up walls, keeping his distance. He's never let anyone get close, never let anyone see the cracks in his armor.
But she's already seen them. She's already seen the cracks, the fractures, the places where the façade has started to crumble.
And he's not sure, now, how he's supposed to keep her out. How he's supposed to keep her at bay, when she's already slipped beneath his skin, already made herself at home.
It scares the hell out of him.
Caleb pushes himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. His body aches, the soreness clinging to his muscles, the bruises darkening his skin. He can feel the sting of the scratches, the bite marks, the places where her fingers dug into his flesh. He touches his neck, his fingers grazing the marks, and a shiver runs through him, the memories returning, the feeling of her mouth on his skin, the heat of her breath, the sting of her teeth.
As a beta, she can't leave the same permanent marks as an alpha. But her bite still burns, the pain lingering, the imprint of her touch branding him, marking him as hers.
His hand strays lower, his fingertips tracing the line of his collarbone, the swell of his pecs, the ridge of his abdomen. The bruises are scattered across his body, the proof of her touch, the evidence of her desire.
Caleb feels cherished, adored. Wanted. And it's a heady feeling, one he's not used to. One he's not sure he deserves.
With a grunt, he forces himself up, his muscles protesting, his body aching. He finds his discarded clothes and dresses, his movements slow and stiff, the bruises and scratches flaring with pain.
By the time he makes his way downstairs, the smell of coffee is stronger, the aroma wafting through the air. She's at the stove, a pan sizzling in front of her, the smell of cooking bacon mingling with the scent of the coffee.
She's dressed in an oversized t-shirt, her hair loose, her feet bare. She looks softer, somehow, younger, like this, without the armor of her uniform. She looks less like a soldier, more like a girl.
A girl who can make him beg, can make him cry out, can make him forget his own name.
Caleb clears his throat, his hand going up to rub the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the tender flesh, the bruises blooming beneath his skin.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough, his throat dry.
She glances over her shoulder, her gaze raking over him, and Caleb shifts his weight, the ache between his legs intensifying, the heat rising in his cheeks. She turns back to the stove, her attention returning to the pan.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asks, her voice casual, as if nothing had happened between them, as if she hadn't spent the night fucking him senseless.
"I, uh, I'm not picky," he replies, crossing the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.
"How do you take it?"
"Black, no sugar."
She nods, cracking the eggs into the pan, and he's suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to touch her, to close the space between them. To slide his arms around her, press his body against hers, bury his face in the crook of her neck.
Instead, he sips his coffee, the bitter liquid coating his tongue, the heat of the mug warming his hands.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, her tone neutral, her eyes fixed on the pan.
He considers the question, his hand straying up to his neck, the bruises beneath his skin, the bite marks stinging on his flesh.
"Better," he admits, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sore."
The heat is still there, simmering beneath the surface, the need still coiling in his gut. But it's bearable now, the ache dulled, the fever tempered.
"Thanks," he adds, his gaze falling to the floor. "For last night."
The words seem woefully inadequate, but he doesn't know what else to say.
"You're welcome."
The silence stretches between them, the tension thickening, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
"I got you some suppresants," she says finally, her gaze fixed on the stove, her attention on the eggs, the bacon, the toast. "They're on the counter."
He spots the pharmacy bag, the orange plastic standing out against the white tile, the foil packets inside. Suppresants. The little pills that'll stop the heat from rising inside him, the urges from taking hold. The little pills that'll allow him to function, to focus, to pretend this never happened.
He wants to be relieved, to feel the sense of control, the reclamation of his autonomy. But instead, the words send a pang through him, a sharp twist of emotion that catches him off-guard.
He can't quite name the feeling, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, the sting of disappointment, perhaps. Without the heat, the excuse is gone. Without the heat, there's no reason for him to stay.
He sets his coffee aside, his hand straying to the suppressant pack, his fingers closing around the plastic. He should take them now, swallow the pills, quash the heat. Put an end to this.
But he hesitates, the pills clutched in his hand, the urge to take them warring with the urge to throw them aside.
"Caleb?"
He glances up, the sound of her voice bringing him back to the moment, his gaze meeting hers.
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
He swallows, the knot tightening in his throat, the words sticking in his chest.
"I, uh..."
She turns to him, her eyes narrowing, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," he says, forcing a smile, the pills still clutched in his hand. "I'm fine."
Her eyes dart to the suppressants, her brow furrowing, and he can see the understanding dawning in her eyes.
"Are you going to take them?" she asks, her tone careful, measured.
"I should," he admits, the words slipping out before he can catch himself.
"Why haven't you, then?"
He swallows, his grip tightening on the pill packet, the pressure of her gaze like a weight bearing down on him. What can he say? That he doesn't want this to end, that he's not ready to give her up, that he wants to hold on to the fantasy a little longer?
"Caleb." Her voice is soft, her expression inscrutable. "Look at me."
Those words remind him of the previous night, when she'd commanded him to look at her while she fucked him, her hips rolling against his, driving him to the edge over and over. He'd obeyed then, and he can't help but obey now, his eyes lifting, meeting hers.
"Why haven't you taken the suppressants?"
There's no judgement in her tone, only curiosity, and Caleb feels a surge of gratitude.
"I don't know," he admits, the truth slipping out. "I guess I just... I'm not ready to go back yet."
"Go back where?"
"To reality." He gives a rueful laugh. "To the way things were before."
Her expression is serious, her eyes fixed on his.
"You mean, before last night."
"Yeah," he breathes, the word barely more than a whisper.
"Why?"
Caleb swallows, his throat suddenly dry, the knot of emotion lodging in his chest.
"Because," he says, his voice hoarse, his gaze falling to the floor. "Because I've wanted this. Us. For a long time. Before I even presented. And I never thought it could happen. I certaintly never thought it'd happen like this."
He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the shame curling in his gut, the admission hanging heavy in the air. It's the truth, but that doesn't make it any easier to say.
"And now that it has," he continues, the words coming out in a rush. "Now that we've done this, I'm not ready for it to be over. I'm not ready to go back. So if being in heat gives me an excuse to stay here, to be with you, then... I'll take it."
The words are out now, the confession laid bare, and Caleb can't bring himself to meet her gaze, the fear and shame warring inside him. He doesn't know what he'll find there, what she'll think of him now. But now, he's laying it all out, showing her the cracks in his façade. Showing her the part of him that's hungry, desperate, needy.
He's afraid she'll reject him, that she'll push him away, that she'll shut him out.
When her hand comes to rest on his cheek, her touch gentle, her skin soft, he can't help but lift his head, his eyes meeting hers.
Her expression is unreadable, her features carefully schooled, her gaze searching his. But there's a tenderness there, a softness, and Caleb can feel the tension uncoiling inside him, the knot of emotion easing, the fear fading.
"Is that what you want?" she asks, her voice low, her thumb brushing against his cheek, her fingers curling around the nape of his neck. "To stay?"
"Yes," he whispers, the word a breath, the admission tumbling from his lips. "But only if you want me to."
She's silent for a moment, her eyes searching his, and the fear returns, the uncertainty rising up inside him. What if she doesn't want him? What if she's only doing this out of obligation, or pity, or some sense of duty? What if she doesn't feel the same way he does?
"I do," she says finally, her grip tightening on his neck. "I've wanted this, too. You. For a long time."
Her words send a jolt through him, the confession hitting him like a punch to the gut, the realization that she's felt the same way, all this time.
"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks, his voice strained, his heart racing.
"Becaise I'm a beta, Caleb." There's an edge to her tone now, a bitterness, and he can see the pain in her eyes, the hurt she's kept hidden. "Because I couldn't offer you what you needed, what an omega would need. I can't mark you, can't claim you. Can't breed you. I could never give you what an alpha could."
"I don't care about any of that," he insists, his hand reaching for hers, his fingers curling around her wrist.
"You might not care about it now," she says, her gaze dropping to the floor, her jaw clenched. "But someday, you might. Someday, you might want a partner who can give you all that. Who can satisfy your instincts."
He stares at her, the words echoing in his mind, the idea that he could ever want anyone else, that he could ever choose another partner, an alpha, over her. It seems unthinkable, impossible, and the idea fills him with a cold, sinking dread.
"Never," he whispers, his voice rough, his throat dry. "I'd never choose anyone else. I've only ever wanted you."
Her gaze lifts to his, her eyes searching his, and Caleb can see the conflict, the turmoil, the uncertainty.
"How can you be sure?" she asks, her grip on his neck tightening, her fingers digging into his skin.
"Because I love you." The words spill out before he can catch himself, the emotion bursting forth, his feelings laid bare. "Because you're the only one I've ever loved, the only one I'll ever love. Because the idea of anyone else touching me, making me theirs, makes me sick."
He can hear the words coming out of his mouth, and he knows they're the truth, the unvarnished, undeniable truth. He's never said it before, never admitted it, not even to himself, but now that the words are out, he can't deny them. He can't take them back.
"So what if you're a beta?" he continues, the words spilling out, the dam broken. "So what if you can't mark me, can't claim me, can't breed me? I didn't fall in love with you because of what you could do for me. I fell in love with you because of who you are. Because you're kind, and strong, and loyal, and you make me laugh, and you push me, and you never let me get away with anything. Because you challenge me, and encourage me, and you're the best fucking soldier I've ever seen."
He's breathing hard now, his chest heaving, his pulse racing.
"Fuck the rest of it," he says, the words fierce, his voice thick with emotion. "Fuck the rules, and the expectations, and the goddamn stereotypes. They don't matter. You're the one I want, and nothing will ever change that. Nothing."
She's silent, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and Caleb can see the emotions flitting across her face, the conflict, the doubt. He wants to reach out, to take her in his arms, to kiss her, to show her how he feels, but he doesn't dare. He doesn't want to break the spell, to shatter the moment, to lose the chance to finally tell her how he feels.
"If you don't feel the same way, if you don't want this, then I'll walk away." His voice is hoarse, his throat tight, the words cutting through him like a knife. "I'll take the suppressants, and we'll pretend this never happened. We'll go back to the way things were before."
She draws in a sharp breath, her hand trembling against his cheek.
"But if you do feel the same way, if you want this, if you want me, then I'm yours. Completely. I've always been yours."
She's silent, the seconds stretching out, the tension mounting, the air heavy with unspoken words, the fear and doubt clawing at his insides.
Then, suddenly, she leans in, her lips finding his, the kiss soft, tender, full of emotion. It's not the passionate, hungry kiss of the night before, but something deeper, more meaningful, an answer to his question, an affirmation of her feelings.
Caleb melts into the kiss, his body pressing against hers, his hands sliding up her back, drawing her closer. The heat is rising inside him, the desire pooling in his core, but it's different this time, less urgent, more intense.
He doesn't know how long they stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, their bodies pressed together, their lips moving against each other, but when she finally pulls away, he can see the tears glittering in her eyes, the emotion on her face.
"I love you, too," she breathes, her voice breaking, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
He's never heard anything so beautiful.
The words wrap around him, warm and soft, like a blanket, and he leans in, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his heart full.
"I love you," she says again, the words still raw, still new. "I've always loved you. I'll always love you."
He's not sure how long they stay like that, wrapped in each other's arms, lost in their own world, but when they finally pull apart, her hand strays down, her fingers tracing the marks, the bruises, the evidence of their passion, of their connection.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice soft, her expression apologetic. "I didn't mean to leave so many marks."
"Don't be," he says, the words rough, his voice hoarse. "I want them. I want everyone to see them. I want everyone to know that I'm yours."
She reaches up, her hand cupping his cheek, and he leans into her touch, the ache returning, the desire pooling in his core.
"Eat," she says, pulling away, turning back to the stove. "Before the food gets cold."
He makes a noise of protest, his body already missing the warmth of hers, but she just shakes her head, her lips curving into a smile.
"We've got time," she says, her gaze flicking to his, the meaning clear. "I'm not going anywhere."
They eat breakfast together, the meal filled with easy conversation, the tension from earlier easing, giving way to a comfortable familiarity. It feels good, natural, like they've been doing this for years. Like they've been doing this all their lives.
Afterwards, they clean up the kitchen together, moving in tandem, their movements fluid, choreographed. They've spent enough time working together, side-by-side, to know each other's rhythms, each other's patterns. And it shows.
By the time the dishes are washed and put away, Caleb's starting to feel restless, the heat beginning to build again, the urge creeping back in. She can sense it, too, her gaze lingering on him, her fingers trailing across his skin. And by the time they make their way to the bedroom, the need is pulsing through him, his body aching for her touch, his lips craving hers.
They tumble onto the bed together, the weight of her body pressing him into the mattress, her hands pinning his wrists above his head, her thighs straddling his hips. He's pinned beneath her, helpless, but the thought sends a thrill through him, the heat intensifying, his cock throbbing.
She dips her head, pressing her lips to his neck, her tongue tracing the marks she left there, the bruises, the bite marks. They will fade, in time, but she can refresh them, renew them. Mark him over and over again.
She trails her lips down his chest, her teeth grazing his flesh, her tongue laving his nipples. He's sensitive, his skin pebbling under her touch, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him. She knows his body well, knows where to press, to bite, to suck. Knows what will make him writhe, what will make him moan.
He's already close, the heat coiling inside him, the need building, and when she releases his wrists, his hands immediately fly to her head, burying themselves in her hair, holding her close, urging her on.
He's so desperate, so eager, and she can't help but smile against his skin, the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. It's intoxicating.
She slides down his body, her lips brushing over the hard planes of his abdomen, her teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his cock jerking in response. He's already dripping, the tip glistening, and she laps at it, savoring the salty taste of him. He moans, his grip on her hair tightening, and she swallows him down, taking all of him into her mouth, her lips stretched around his girth.
Caleb gasps, his back arching off the bed, his hips bucking, his cock thrusting deeper into her mouth. Her throat convulses around him, constricting, and he groans, the sound low, guttural, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Ngh, you're killing me."
His words are strangled, his voice ragged, and she hums around him, the vibration shooting straight to his core. Her head bobs, sucking him in, swallowing him down, and he's overwhelmed, consumed, his body thrumming with pleasure, the heat rising inside him.
It's too much, too soon, and he tugs at her hair, trying to pull her off, but she resists, her fingers digging into his hips, her grip unyielding. Her fingers slip between his legs, teasing his slick hole, and Caleb gasps, his back arching, his body responding instinctively.
He's already wet, ready for her, and she slides a finger into him, curling it, stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves, sending a jolt of ecstasy through him.
"Ah! Wait—I can't—"
But she doesn't wait, her head bobbing faster, her throat working around him, her finger thrusting into him, the dual assault sending him hurtling toward the edge. He's panting, gasping, his hips rocking, his cock sliding in and out of her mouth, his ass clenching around her fingers.
"I'm gonna come—I'm gonna—"
It's too late, the words a strangled cry, his orgasm crashing over him, the pleasure sweeping through him, overwhelming him. His body goes taut, his cock throbbing, spilling down her throat, and she takes it all, drinking him down, her fingers still buried in him, stroking him through his climax.
"Mmnn—"
It's too much, too intense, and he collapses back onto the bed, his body trembling, his breathing ragged. He feels boneless, drained, and he watches through half-lidded eyes as she releases him, her lips glistening with his come.
"You taste so good," she murmurs, licking her lips, her eyes locked on his.
The sight is enough to send a fresh jolt of arousal through him, his cock twitching, despite the intensity of his orgasm.
"Fuck," he breathes, his fingers still tangled in her hair.
She smiles, leaning in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, sharing the taste of him. Caleb's arms wrap around her, drawing her closer, the kiss deepening, his body already stirring, the need building inside him.
"How do you want me?" he murmurs, the words whispered against her lips.
"On your hands and knees," she says, pressing another kiss to his lips, before pulling away.
He rolls over, positioning himself on his hands and knees, his ass raised, his body exposed, vulnerable. He can feel her behind him, her hands stroking his hips, his back, her fingers trailing down his spine.
"Look at you," she murmurs, her voice soft, appreciative. "So gorgeous, so perfect."
Her words send a shiver of pleasure through him, and he arches his back, presenting himself to her, desperate for her touch, her approval.
She leans in, her tongue licking a stripe up his spine, before dipping lower, between his cheeks. He's already wet, his slick hole clenching around nothing, and she laps at him, her tongue teasing him, tasting him.
Caleb moans, his fingers gripping the sheets, his body trembling. It's too much, too intense, but it's not enough, and he pushes back against her, seeking more, seeking relief.
She obliges, her tongue thrusting into him, her hands spreading his cheeks, her fingers digging into his flesh. He's slick, wet, and her tongue slides easily inside him, stroking his inner walls, sending waves of pleasure through him.
"Ah! More, please—"
She pulls away, and he can hear the wet sound of her fingers slipping into her mouth, before pushing back into him, two fingers thrusting into his hole.
He cries out, the stretch bordering on painful, but it's what he needs, what he craves, and he pushes back against her, seeking more, demanding more.
She gives it to him, her fingers pumping into him, her free hand reaching around, stroking his cock, coaxing him back to hardness. It doesn't take long, his body responding instantly, eagerly, and soon, he's hard, dripping, the need pulsing through him, the ache consuming him.
"Please, fuck me, I need you, I need you inside me—"
But she doesn't have a cock, and he knows it, and it doesn't matter, nothing matters but her, her fingers buried in him, her hands on him, her lips brushing against his skin.
And then, suddenly, he feels something hard, smooth, pressing against his hole, and his mind stutters, the realization hitting him. She's fucking him with a toy, with a fake cock, and while it's not what he really wants, what his omega instincts are craving, it's still enough, more than enough.
He pushes back against her, desperate for more, and she presses into him, the toy sliding easily into his slick hole. It's big, stretching him open, and he cries out, the pleasure and the pain blending, sending him hurtling toward the edge.
She bottoms it out, the base flush against his ass, and then she's fucking him, one hand on his hip, holding him steady, the other on the toy, pumping into him.
"Oh, fuck—ah! Just like that, don't stop, please—"
He's babbling, incoherent, lost in the sensation, the feeling of fullness, the heat pooling in his core. His face is pressed into the mattress, the sheets damp with his sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. His cock is throbbing, leaking, his entire body taut, tense, on the verge of coming undone.
And then, suddenly, she pulls out, the sudden emptiness jarring, and Caleb whines, the sound needy, desperate. But she doesn't leave him like that for long, the tip of the toy pressing against his hole, before pushing back in, filling him up, the stretch burning, perfect.
She fucks him like that, slow, steady, deep, the toy reaching places inside him no one else ever has. His body is quivering, trembling, the pleasure coursing through him, and when her fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him in time with her thrusts, he knows he's done for.
"I'm gonna—I'm gonna come—please, don't stop, don't stop—"
His words are slurred, the syllables broken, and he can feel it, the heat coiling inside him, the tension building, ready to snap. And then, with a strangled cry, he's coming, the orgasm tearing through him, his cock spurting onto the sheets, his ass clenching around the toy, the sensation almost too much, almost unbearable.
She's still fucking him, milking him, wringing every last drop of pleasure from him, and he's lost, floating, adrift in a sea of ecstasy. He's dimly aware of her pulling out, her hands stroking his back, her lips pressing soft kisses to his skin.
"Are you okay?" she murmurs, running her fingers down his spine.
"Mmm," he manages, the sound more of a purr than a word.
"You were so good for me," she says, pressing another kiss to his shoulder blade. "So perfect."
He preens under her praise, the words washing over him, warming him.
"I love you," he murmurs, reaching out, taking her hand in his, entwining their fingers.
"I love you, too."
It's the last thing he hears before sleep takes him, exhaustion and satisfaction pulling him under, the warmth of her body pressed against his.
It's the first night of many, a new pattern emerging, a new normal. They spend their days working, training, living their lives, but their nights are spent together, locked away in their own private world.
They spend hours exploring each other's bodies, discovering what makes them gasp, what makes them moan, what makes them come. And when exhaustion finally claims them, they curl up together, wrapped in each other's arms, the connection between them stronger than ever.
And Caleb can't help but think, as he drifts off to sleep, that this is what it's supposed to be like. This is what choosing someone over an instinct, over a biological imperative, is supposed to be like.
This is what it means to be free.