But soon I lose my focus, especially when he starts to move. I doubt he’s bottomed out. He’s thrusting in and out of me, slow, deep thrusts that steal my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Held in place, his hands leaving now bruises on my hips, he bows over me and fucks me hard, my body jolting with each thrust.
The pressure is building and building and I’m still holding onto him, my hands having slipped down to his arms, and my nails are digging into his skin. I mean, I’m holding on for dear life. He’s fucking me like he wants to break the window and send both of us hurtling through the air.
The window holds, though, and his thrusts become fast and shallow. I’m shaking, almost there at the finish line, my hips rocking but unable to get any traction in this position. He’s controlling me fully, and I both love and hate that. I want to be able to set my own pace, to ride him, but he’s in full alpha mode and only grips my hips harder.
Then he lifts me up a little, changing the angle, and I all but scream as the pleasure skyrockets. I’m coming, and I swear I see stars as the pressure explodes in my belly.
He thrusts twice more, grunting each time like a wounded animal, then pulls out and comes all over my pussy and thighs.
It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced. The insane, fully clothed sex against the tall windows, his growls and grunts, his cum all over me.
Not sure what that says about my sexuality, but I like being dominated, and that’s no surprise. I’m feisty, but in my heart, at least, I’m an omega through and through.
This feels like a marking. He’s marking his territory, marking me. A temporary scent marking, unlike a bite which is permanent, but it still makes me purr.
If I kiss him again, if I lick him, will he be mine?
Then suddenly, he unhooks my legs from his massive body and lets me slide down the glass. My feet find the floor but my knees buckle. He keeps me upright, his brows drawing together.
“This,” he says, “was a fucking mistake.”
30
ATTICUS
Her glistening pussy and thighs are covered in my cum.
That’s an image I’ll revisit in my fantasies for the rest of my life. Just thinking about it makes me hard all over again. It’s a miracle I haven’t popped a knot, I’m so damn aroused.
But then reality comes crashing down.
I’ve broken my vow to myself not to touch her, kiss her, fuck her. I said I wouldn’t, and what do I do? I fuck her against the window, with barely any foreplay, then scent mark her with my cum.
Just fucking great, Ace. You’re a genius. Delegated thinking to the small head now?
“Ace,” she whispers as I lower her to the floor. She’s flushed and smiling with post-orgasmic bliss, her legs trembling, her eyes… her eyes are the worst because they are so bright and full of hope. Hope I’m about to dash because panic is curling in my gut like a snake about to strike.
I push her back against the window and let go, even if my hands spasm with the need to keep holding onto her.
Instead, I tuck my cock inside my pants. Zip up. Avoid looking at her face like a goddamn coward. This day will go down in history as both the best and worst of my life.
I fucked up royally. How do we come back from this? How do we go back to the almost-friendship, the missed touches, the heated glances and soft words?
The answer is, we can’t.
“Ace?” Her voice is low, trembling. What she needs now, after the rough sex, is a kind word. A hug. A kiss. Aftercare. A sign of affection.
Which is why I can’t give any of that to her. This is a turning point, a point where you decide where the relationship is going, what the other person really is like.
She can’t fall in love with me. It’s time to push her away. I have nothing to offer her. This is for the best.
“Go wash up,” I say, making my voice hard. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Please, Ace.” I hear her gulp. “Don’t do this. Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
