OmegaMine (3 page)

Her pussy throbbed, hammering inside and out while her clit
pulsed. It was a miserable ache, one that caused her to writhe against the
blankets and sheets. Never before had she wanted a man so terribly. With her
ex-fiancé, Martin, she’d made love slowly, cautiously. But now she wanted to be
reckless and wild, uninhibited and free.

As if sensing her thoughts, Diskant pulled away and pressed
that clever mouth against the corner of her lips, then her jaw, neck and the
hollow of her throat. The gentle fingers he placed on her collarbone went down
until her breast rested in his palm. His thumb came over the thin lace covering
the nipple and rotated, around and around, driving her mad as he stroked her.

“Christ, you smell good,” he rasped against the delicate
curve of her shoulder. “I want to taste every single inch of your skin,
starting at your mouth and working my way down.”

Her only response was an amiable whimper of consent and
agreement. Even if it was dangerous, and even though she knew better, she
wanted the same thing.

Abruptly Diskant’s head lifted and his fingers stilled. Her
body screamed at the loss of his touch, demanding that she reach out and bring
him back to her. The rim of her nipple prickled where he maintained contact,
and the wet path he created with his lips and tongue was white hot yet
impossibly cool.

A voice called out from below, the sound muffled. “D!”

“Shit.” He rose in a quick motion that belied his size. “I
didn’t expect anyone for another hour.”

Ava stared up at him dumbly, thoroughly aroused and achy.
Her body clamored for release, her insides literally quivering for it. He
turned and walked from the small space as if she wasn’t sitting in a laughable
heap where he left her. Anger followed the curt dismissal and allowed her to
focus on the matter at hand rather than her raging hormones.

She became fully cognizant of her surroundings, taking in as
much as she could see. She was in a closet, partially clothed, in an unknown
location. The hound from hell was still standing guard outside the door, his
large brown eyes attentive. The sound of a nearby door being slammed was
immediately followed by the distinct click of a lock being turned. Diskant
reappeared in moments with an annoyed scowl on his face.

“I’m sorry.” His expression changed when he peered down at
her. “It’s my turn to host game day.”

Diskant glanced at a few sweaters hanging on either side of
the closet as if he were grappling with something. Then he turned his full
attention to her and his gold irises flared yellow. Some kind of decision was
made in those short seconds because there was a flash of possessiveness in his
stare that wasn’t there before.

“Put this on.” He pulled his sweatshirt over his head,
baring a tanned, chiseled torso and washboard abs, and tossed it in her
direction. “Don’t take that off, no matter what you do. I have to go downstairs
and tell everyone I’ll be indisposed. While I’m down there I’ll grab you
something to eat and get your clothes out of the dryer, all right?”

Her heart slammed into her throat and her stomach did a
sickening flip-flop that made her queasy and lightheaded. She said a silent
prayer of thanks that Diskant was too busy choosing another shirt from the closet
to pay her any attention. It was difficult enough to institute the exercises
she used at the bar to keep fear at bay, taking deep breaths through her nose
and exhaling through her mouth. The sleeve marking—much like a tattoo—that ran
from his shoulder to his wrist told her what kind of shifter she had nearly
fallen into the sack with, and it wasn’t good. Not good at all.

An Omega.

The intricate design was a mystical thing she’d read about
while doing research on the paranormal after accepting the bartending job at
Club Liminality. She knew if she looked closely she would find each of the
shifter breeds in the design of the marking, their bodies etched into the skin
just as they were embedded within the body and soul. Only those chosen to take
over for the presiding Omega were gifted with the mark that arrived at
maturity. A darkening of the skin like a tattoo that started at the wrist,
covered the left arm and wound across the shoulder toward the heart.

Diskant Black was the Omega of the New York area. She’d
heard the name while on the job but had never met the shifter. That cloud of
confusion was long gone, leaving stark clarity in its wake. How in the hell had
she gotten herself into this?

Silently, she slid on the overlarge garment, bringing as
little attention to herself as possible. His scent was damning, imploring her
not to listen to her mind but to her body and soul.

“I won’t be long,” he promised as he slid a black turtleneck
over his head.

Rational thought kicked in. If she was going to get out of
here she had to strategize. He thought she was human, without any knowledge of
his kind. It was best to play stupid, wait for him to leave and then get the
hell out.

“Can you take Oscar with you?”

His smile was nearly her undoing, both sexy and playful, and
her insides wilted as another wave of heat attacked all of the erogenous zones
of her body. He adjusted the collar of the formfitting sweater and returned to
her, kneeling down.

“Yo, D!” the deep voice from below bellowed. “Where you at?”

Diskant cursed, lowered his head and stole a quick kiss
before lurching to his feet. He walked to the door, stopped and turned on his
heel. “I won’t be long.” She was about to remind him about the dog when he
said, “Come on, Oscar.”

The moment he left the room and the outer door closed with a
double snick she was on her feet and all but barreling out of the closet. The
light came from a window in the left wall, and she made haste to the venetian
blinds. After hiking them up, she pressed her face against the cool panel of
glass and sighed in relief. The fire escape was ready and waiting. She glanced
down at her bare legs, contemplating her choices. Now she just needed some kind
of protection against the elements.

She hurried around the end of the massive four-post bed and
came to a matching antique dresser. The first drawer consisted of neatly folded
black boxer briefs, the second was full of thin white T-shirts and the third
was stocked full of black socks. It was the essential fourth drawer that
delivered pay dirt. Jeans were folded neatly inside, along with a few pairs of
black sweatpants.

She hiked a pair of the cotton pants out and slung them on.
When she finished tying the cord snugly at the waist she bent over, folded the
material and rolled the legs up until she could walk without falling. Her New
Balance sneakers were placed at the end of the bed along with her messenger bag
and she scurried over to them. Crouching down, she worked her feet inside the
shoes and picked up the tote.

Opening the window was easy, and she understood why after
she climbed down the chute and took the ten-foot plunge to the concrete below.
Bright red bricks clashed against the blue sky from one end of the building to
the other. Diskant Black, the Omega of the New York Boroughs, lived in an old
fire station.

She wanted to laugh but decided it was best saved for the
subway ride home. Holding on to the bag draped across her chest, she took off
in a dead run, winding through the cars that indicated she was in some place on
the Upper East Side.

And she didn’t look back.

* * * * *

His body was humming, his blood was on fire and his balls
were ready to explode. Diskant reached down and shifted his throbbing cock,
grimacing as the rough texture of his jeans chafed the skin. A cold shower
wouldn’t do shit now. One taste, one tiny fucking sample of what pleasures lay
in store and the female upstairs had him wrapped around her little finger.

Pinkie, indeed.

It had taken all of his control to take it slow, to allow
her take the lead and set the pace—and fucking hell, what a pace. She was
everything a woman should be: hot, soft, willing, eager. Best of all, she only
needed one tiny kiss and a few lingering caresses to make her sweet pussy weep.
The aroma of her arousal as she surrendered to him had almost broken his
resolve. He could almost taste how delicious she’d be, hot and musky, with a
hint of cinnamon and spice.

His mouth had watered at the prospect of going down on her,
especially upon his earlier discovery when he’d cleaned her up and put her in
his bed. While removing her clothes to launder, he’d inadvertently snagged her
lacy panties in her jeans, and, well, he couldn’t help but look. She was
completely bare downstairs, as smooth and silken as a baby’s bottom. A triangle
of blonde curls would be nice but seeing her hairless pink lips got him hotter
than a wolf during the mating heat.

Christ.

Diskant followed the scent of his visitor, hooking a right
past the kitchen with Oscar on his heels. The entire firehouse had been gutted
after he purchased it. Aside from the large garage, upstairs bedrooms and two
stainless steel poles, it was as posh as his place in Miami. The rooms were all
modernized, including the kitchen and bathrooms. And of course, there was the
one room the pack loved most. Fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, the
basement housed a sixty-inch plasma television, a wraparound couch and a
regulation-sized slate pool table. There was more than enough space to
accommodate the dozen or so pack members who came to enjoy the game, as well as
any females they brought along for shits and giggles.

“There you are, man.” Trey lowered a keg to the floor and
moved away from the bar. “I was just stocking up for the game. Nathan has the
eats. He said he should be here in thirty.”

Diskant’s oldest and closest friend was also the werewolf
Alpha of New York and, consequently, ruled over the largest pack in the
northeastern portion of the United States. That made him one bad motherfucker.
Trey was dressed in his usual football gear—New York Giants jersey, jeans and
scuffed sneakers. Though nowhere near as tall as Diskant’s six feet, six
inches, he still stood imposing at a nice, even six-foot-two. His body, while
lithe and lean, carried the scars that proved he knew how to scrap in a fight.

As an Alpha, learning to fight was as essential as a diver
learning how to swim.

Trey brushed his hands over his short brown hair. He
stopped, his honey-colored eyes inquisitive. “What’s with the sweater? And why
do you look ready to kill someone? Did things go shitty with the stray?”

“You could say that.” Diskant tried to cool his ardor by
accepting what he’d tried to deny the past twelve hours. He looked Trey in the
eye and said, “I’ve found my mate.”

Curiosity was quickly replaced with shock. “Come again?”

He shook his head and lowered his eyes, staring at the
Berber carpet. “Last night after I took care of the stray, I came upon a
scuffle. Two vamps versus one human female. I got rid of the leeches, went to
check on the girl and the next thing I knew all of my beasts are fighting for a
place at the front of the line. I brought her home, cleaned her up and tried to
stay as far away from her as possible. But when she woke up and I went to talk
to her…
fuck
.”

Diskant walked to the bar, reached over the counter and
snagged a bottle of Grey Goose. If he couldn’t bargain with his raging cock, he
could at the very least attempt to appease it with a good, mind-numbing buzz.

“Let me guess,” Trey said from behind him. “You couldn’t
keep your hands off her?”

“Hell no,” he answered as he began unscrewing the bottlecap.
“I was like a kid in a candy store.”

Trey leaned against the bar. “She’s here? Right now?”

“Affirmative.”

Trey snatched the bottle before he could take a swig,
causing the clear liquid to splash from the neck of the glass container. “Then
what the fuck are you doing down here with me?”

Diskant lifted his head, meeting his friend’s amused stare.
What
was
he doing down here? His female was waiting upstairs for him,
clothed in nothing more than a cotton sweatshirt and her underwear. The image
of her flushed face came to mind. Lips swollen, pebbled pink nipples erect,
dark blue eyes clouded with desire and confusion. And he’d left her inside the
closet like nothing more than a discarded blanket, with her body needy and her
pussy dripping.

Like a goddamn asshole.

Fuck.

“Tell everyone that upstairs is off limits. Let yourselves
out. I don’t plan on coming downstairs any time soon.”

Trey extended a hand, nodding. “I’m happy for you, D. Things
like this don’t happen often for our kind.”

Accepting the gesture, Diskant took Trey’s hand in his own,
shook and agreed. “You’re right. They don’t.” Alphas stayed single the longest.
No one knew why. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense as mates grounded and
centered a male. It wasn’t fair, especially for someone like Trey, who had
waited centuries.

“So what’s her name?” Trey released his hand, bent across
the bar and returned the bottle to its proper place.

As a male, Diskant had never experienced shame—until that
question. The other half of his soul waited just upstairs, the woman he would
spend eternity with, and he only knew her by a nickname he’d bestowed.

“Pinkie.”

Trey grinned. “Pinkie?”

“Don’t ask.” He motioned to the mutt sprawled at his feet.
“Can you take care of Oscar while you’re here?”

“Fugly?” Trey smiled when the dog lifted his head and
growled. “Sure.”

Diskant quieted the dog by patting him on the head. “Thanks,
man. I’ll call you later.”

He left the room and went directly into the kitchen. The
food he’d prepared earlier in the morning was in the microwave—ham, biscuits
and scrambled eggs. He nuked the plate while he retrieved the butter, raspberry
jelly and a container of orange juice. After tossing it all on a tray, he
exited the kitchen and went directly for the bedroom, forgoing a trip to the
laundry room. To hell with her clothes. She wouldn’t need those for a while.
After she ate it would be his turn to feast. And he planned to take his time
enjoying every single nook and cranny of her body.