He licks away the salty trails from my temples. “Tell me what you need, Ren.”
With a needy whine, I turn my face into his throat, breathing in his pheromones. “I need to come.”
A satisfied rumble rises from his chest. “Who’s your Alpha?”
My lips clamp shut with a last bit of stubborn resistance.
Ezra’s movements still, his cock buried deep inside me. Pushing up on his elbow, he grips my chin. “Who’s your Alpha, Ren?”
My inner muscles clench around his hard length, but his hips keep me pinned in place, his message clear. With a moan, I let this last shred of pride go. “You’re my Alpha. Please let me come, Alpha.”
“I’ll give you everything, my beautiful Omega.” Leaning down, he licks into my mouth, claiming every part of me he can reach. “And you’ll give me everything. No more masks.”
His hips snap forward with enough force to make the headboard shudder on the wall. “Just you. Just me. Just us.”
The words pierce through me, sharper than any physical sensation. I’m laid bare beneath him, not only my body but everything I’ve been hiding. The vulnerability is both terrifying and exhilarating. Without my personas to protect me, there’s nothing left to stop his claim on my soul.
Our bodies move together in a dance we both remember, finding the rhythm of before with the urgency of now. The heat between us builds, pressure coiling tighter with each thrust, each breathless gasp. Ezra shifts, changing the angle, and on his next thrust, he hits that perfect spot, over and over, and color bursts to vibrant life behind my eyelids.
“That’s it.” His control frays at the edges. “Let go of everything for me.”
The command, delivered in a desire-roughened voice, pushes me over the edge. Pleasure crashes through me in waves,radiating outward from where our bodies connect. I cry out, back arching, hands straining within his grasp as I come between our pressed bodies.
Ezra follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep inside me, liquid heat flooding my channel as his cock pulses. He collapses beside me, both of us breathing hard, skin slick with sweat and the evidence of our passion.
For long minutes, the only sounds in the room are our slowing breaths, the distant hum of the city beyond the windows providing a gentle backdrop to the aftermath of our reunion. Ezra’s hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as if to ensure I don’t slip away again.
“Don’t move,” he says when our heartbeats steady, and he kisses my shoulder before rolling out of bed.
I watch through a half-lidded daze as he pads naked across the room, the tattoos on his back shifting with each movement of muscle beneath skin. He disappears, returning with a damp cloth, and he cleans us both with unexpected tenderness.
The warm sweep of the cloth allows enough time for the haze to fade from my mind. When he leaves again, the voices sweep back in, telling me I shouldn’t be here. His absence becomes a physical ache, a cold spot where his warmth should be.
Before I can panic, though, and scramble for my clothes, he reappears. This time, he carries a crystal decanter and two tumblers that catch the lamplight and break it into prisms across his skin. He fills them and sets the decanter on the nightstand.
Our fingers brush as he hands me a glass, and the contact sends a current through me even after everything we just shared.
Climbing onto the bed, he settles at the headboard. The sheets tangle around our legs as he draws me to recline against him, his arm around me, his chest rising and falling at my back. The scent of sex and pheromones mingles, the intoxicating blend filling my lungs with each inhale.
His legs bracket mine, his hold both protective and possessive, as if even now he fears I might try to escape. But for the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, I have no desire to run. His body heat seeps into mine, chasing away the perpetual chill I’ve carried since the day I left him. I melt into his embrace, allowing myself this moment of peace and belonging.
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, warming me from the inside out. It’s expensive, the kind that doesn’t need ice to smooth its edges, the kind my grandfather would save for special occasions.
“So…” Ezra’s lips brush my neck. “Aside from the age thing, what other excuses are you clinging to?”
“Excuses?” The word comes out sharper than I intend, edged with defense mechanisms as automatic as breathing.
Ezra’s arm tightens around my waist in response. “Objections, then.” His breath stirs the hair at my nape. “Let’s call them objections.”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the light from the bedside lamp. It’s easier to focus on that than to face the question head-on.
My silence stretches between us, neither confirmation nor denial.
“You’re allowed to have reasons,” Ezra says, gentler than I deserve. “But I want to hear them from you instead of imagining them for myself.”
The whiskey melts the barriers I’ve maintained for years. Or maybe it’s not the alcohol at all, but the weight of his arm around me and the way the solid support of his body lends me a sense of safety I don’t deserve.
“I’m an art thief, Ezra.” The admission falls into the quiet room, harsh despite its softness. “It’s not a safe hobby. I don’t want you dragged into it if something ever goes wrong.”