Zeke And Dorian

Zeke's POV

He turned and walked and I followed because my body had already made that decision without me.

His car was black and expensive and smelled like leather and him, something warm and masculine underneath everything else that made me want to press my face into his neck and breathe until my lungs were full of it.

I settled into the passenger seat and he pulled into the street and I looked at his hands on the steering wheel and completely lost my mind.

They were enormous. Thick fingered and sure, relaxed on the wheel but controlled, the kind of hands that looked like they knew exactly what they were doing at all times. I stared at them and my brain went somewhere filthy immediately, the way it always did, except this time it went further than usual. I thought about how many of those thick fingers I could fit inside me at once. I thought about what it would feel like to have a hand that size wrapped around my throat. I thought about those fingers pushing inside me slowly, stretching me wide, curling just right while he watched my face with that unbothered expression and made me beg for more.

I was so deep in that thought that I had completely stopped pretending to look out the window and was just openly staring at his hands with my lips parted and my thighs pressed together.

I felt eyes on me.

I turned and found him looking at me, one quick glance, but enough. His gaze dropped to my hands twisted in my lap and came back up to my face and the corner of his mouth moved.

Heat flooded my face and I looked away fast and fixed my eyes on the city going past outside my window like I had not just been mentally fucking him with my eyes.

"You know," he said, his voice so low it felt like it landed in my stomach, "most people at least try to be subtle about staring."

"I wasn't staring," I said.

"You were."

"I was thinking."

"About?"

I kept my eyes on the window. "Nothing that concerns you yet."

He made a low sound in his throat that was almost a laugh and the sound of it alone made me clench. Just that. Just an almost laugh from a man who hadn't even touched me yet and my body was already embarrassing me.

I turned to look at him after a moment. "Doesn't it bother you? The whole Alpha Omega thing. We're werewolves sitting in a car and you just tried to buy a man for the night like none of that matters."

He glanced at me. "Does it bother you?"

"No," I said. "I stopped believing in moon goddess legends and fated mates a long time ago. Alpha, Omega, it's just a sub class. We shift every full moon and the rest is just stories old wolves tell themselves."

"That's a unique way to see the world," he said.

"It's the only way that makes sense," I said and looked back out the window.

I did not tell him why. I did not tell him about growing up alone and unwanted, about being told I was cursed before I even understood what a curse meant, about watching other Omegas talk about fated mates and moon goddess blessings while I stood outside all of it like my face was pressed against glass. The moon goddess had never done a single thing for me. I had stopped waiting.

His penthouse opened directly from the elevator and I stepped in and looked around and felt my brows go up in spite of myself. It was massive and dark and expensive, floor to ceiling windows showing the whole city below like he owned that too. All clean lines and quiet and the kind of space that felt like the person who lived in it had never once doubted themselves.

I moved through the room slowly, getting the feel of it, and let myself watch him from the corner of my eye.

He was even bigger indoors. That was the thing about a man like Dorian. Outside, in a crowd, he was impressive. In a room with no one else in it he was consuming. He filled the space just by existing in it, broad and tall and moving with the ease of something that had never once been afraid of anything. His sleeves were pushed up now and I could see the dark hair on his forearms and the thick vein running up the inside of his arm and I thought about pressing my lips there and felt heat pool low and insistent in my gut.

Big bad wolf, I thought. Every inch of you.

He poured two glasses of whiskey and settled into the large chair across from me like it had been built for him specifically and looked at me with those grey eyes that gave nothing away.

"How old are you?" he asked.

I picked up my glass and crossed my legs. "Twenty seven."

He nodded.

"And you?" I said.

"I'm the one asking questions."

I tilted my head. "You haven't even asked my name."

"I don't need it."

I looked at him for a moment and then I smiled because he was completely impossible and somehow that was making it worse, making the heat worse, making the want worse, because there was something about a man who was entirely unbothered that made me want to be the thing that bothered him. I wanted to crack that composure open and see what lived underneath it.

Just his voice was doing things to me. Low and even and unhurried, every word landing somewhere low in my body like he was speaking directly to the ache between my legs.

I stood up.

I walked to him. He watched me come without moving, without shifting, just those grey eyes tracking me until I was standing between his open thighs and looking down at him.

"You didn't bring me here to talk," I said.

"No," he agreed.

I put my hand flat on his chest and felt the heat of him through his shirt and felt his heart beating under my palm, slow and steady, annoyingly calm. I dragged my hand down slowly over his stomach, over the flat hard planes of his abs, lower, and pressed my palm against his cock through his trousers and felt how thick and hard he already was and my mouth actually watered.

I lowered myself to my knees between his legs and reached for his belt.

His hand came down and covered mine and stopped me.

"You have to earn it," he said.

I looked up at him from the floor, from my knees, and licked my lips slowly. "How?"

I pushed myself up, hands on his thighs, crawling up his body until my face was level with his and our mouths were inches apart and I could feel his breath warm against my lips.

"How?" I said again, quieter.

His eyes moved over my face slowly. "Come for me," he said. "I want to hear what you sound like. I want to know if your moans are enough to wake something up in me."

My stomach dropped.

For just a second I felt it, that familiar dread, the knowledge that this was exactly the thing my body refused to do on command. Chasing that edge was the story of my life and I never caught it and now this man was sitting here asking me to perform it like it cost him nothing to ask.

But then I thought about his hands on the steering wheel. I thought about the way my pheromones had surged the second he walked into that club, harder than they ever had for anyone. I thought about what just the weight of his voice did to me.

I lifted my chin. "Fine," I said. "With a man like you it won't be that hard."

One brow went up slowly. "I'm going to kiss you and use my fingers," he said. "That's all. Are you sure you can come from just that?" He paused. "I heard you're cursed."

My eyes went wide. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "You know me?"

He looked at me for one long second and then his hand came up and gripped the back of my neck and he said low and quiet, "We didn't come here to talk, sweetheart."

And then he pulled me in and kissed me like he had been thinking about it since the moment he saw me.