Chapter 110: Chapter 110: Fair Game

Arion’s arm wrapped around Dean’s waist like a steel band, but his mouth was soft, trailing absent kisses along Dean’s throat column. Dean was rigid, his mind a battlefield between the absolute mortification of the chat and the heat pooling low in his belly.

“Arion,” Dean managed, his voice strained. “The chat. Your cousin is probably escalating this entire disaster.”

“Mmm,” Arion hummed, the sound a low rumble against Dean’s skin. He wasn’t listening. His attention had been drawn to Dean’s frantic pulse and the scent of his omega, which was agitated, embarrassed, and intoxicatingly aroused. “He can wait.”

Dean’s mantra, ’get the phone, don’t get a boner,’ was failing spectacularly on the second part. Arion’s sleep-warm body was a furnace at his back, and the dominant alpha pheromones rolling off him were a direct challenge to every rational thought Dean possessed. He was a dominant omega, damn it. He was supposed to have better self-control.

He had better self-control. He had proved it two days ago.

He shifted, a last-ditch effort to create space and regain his senses.

It was the wrong move.

Arion took the subtle motion as an invitation. The arm around Dean’s waist tightened, drawing him back against the alpha’s body. And in that new, closer place, Dean felt it. The hardness pressed against his ass through the thin fabric of their sleep pants.

Arion was turned on.

Because Dean had the misfortune of being alive, breathing, embarrassed, and, worse, his, and apparently that was enough to make a crown prince’s body decide this morning needed a sequel.

Behind him, Arion exhaled slowly and deeply, a breath he took when something finally clicked in his mind and his body agreed. His mouth paused at Dean’s throat, lips resting there without biting, just… existing.

Dean’s ears went hot all over again.

“Arion,” he said, voice flat with warning. “No.”

Arion hummed against his skin, shameless. “Yes.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “That wasn’t a question.”

“It wasn’t an answer,” Arion corrected, and the words should have sounded smug, should have made Dean bite him out of spite, but Arion’s voice was still sleep-rough, low enough to vibrate through Dean’s bones, and Dean’s body had apparently decided it hated him.

Dean swallowed.

He tried to focus on the practical problems. The engagement party. The fact that his phone was vibrating itself into an early grave on the nightstand.

The problem was that Arion’s mouth moved again, soft kisses trailing up Dean’s throat like Arion was counting the places Dean flinched.

Dean did not flinch.

He refused.

He was a dominant omega. He did not flinch.

His body, unfortunately, did not consult his pride.

A shiver ran down his spine anyway.

Arion felt it.

Arion went still for half a second.

Then his arm tightened around Dean’s waist in a slow, controlled squeeze, like a reminder: I’m here. I felt that. Don’t lie to me.

Dean’s breath caught.

Arion’s scent stirred, vetiver rising warm and thick, restrained with effort. The ventilation hummed.

Arion was a furnace at Dean’s back, and the hardness pressing against him made Dean’s thoughts go stupidly, embarrassingly simple.

’Arion is hard. Arion is hard because of me. Arion is hard, and my body is reacting.’

Dean hated being human.

“Arion,” Dean said again, tighter now. “We are not doing this.”

Arion’s mouth grazed the side of Dean’s throat, a slow brush of lips that was not quite a kiss and not quite innocent. “Why?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Because there are people.”

Arion hummed. “There aren’t any people unless you count at least four walls.”

Dean’s jaw was a tight line of frustration. “There are people on the other side of those walls. People who will expect us to be functioning adults in approximately one hour.”

“Let them wait,” Arion murmured, his voice a low, persuasive hum against Dean’s skin. He was testing the boundaries, seeing what was fair game.

His hand, which had been resting possessively on Dean’s stomach, began to move. It was a slow, deliberate exploration, with his fingers tracing Dean’s sleep shirt hem. The touch was light, almost lazy, but it posed a question. A silent, tactile inquiry. ’Can I touch you here?’

Dean held his breath, his body a taut wire of tension. He should stop this. He should grab Arion’s wrist and remind him of a dozen very good reasons why this was a terrible idea. But his hand remained at his side, clenched into a fist but unmoving.

Arion took the stillness as consent. His fingers slipped just under the fabric, resting against the warm skin of Dean’s lower abdomen. Dean’s muscles jumped, a betraying tremor that had nothing to do with fear.

“Still no people,” Arion whispered, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below Dean’s ear.

His hand began to move again, a slow, upward glide over the taut plane of Dean’s stomach. He was mapping him, learning the terrain with a patience that was far more unnerving than any aggressive move. This was a hunter learning the habits of his prey. He was finding the places where Dean’s resolve was thinnest.

Dean’s mind raced as he tried to remember why this was a bad idea. The phone buzzed again, a frantic, distant reminder of the world beyond this bed.

But Arion’s thumb was stroking small, hypnotic circles on his skin, and his scent was a thick, intoxicating cloud, making it hard to think. The dominant omega in Dean was at war with the omega, who was rapidly succumbing to the alpha’s undeniable pull.

“Arion,” Dean warned, but his voice was weaker now, a breathy sound that lacked conviction.

“Dean,” Arion replied, a perfect echo. His hand continued its ascent, his fingers tracing the line of Dean’s ribs, one by one. He could feel the frantic beat of Dean’s heart, the shallow hitch in his breath. He was getting closer to his goal, and this time he had no intention to stop.

Then, his hand changed direction. It drifted downward, retracing its previous path, but this time with greater purpose. It slid over Dean’s sleep pants waistband and paused there. A question. A final boundary he was testing Dean on.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He was lost. He knew it. The battle was over before it had truly begun. He was a dominant omega, but he was also Arion’s omega, and in this, in the quiet intimacy of the morning, there was no fighting it.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But he didn’t stop him.

That was all the permission Arion needed.

His warm hand slid lower, palming the hard shape of Dean’s erection through the thin fabric. Dean’s hips jerked involuntarily, a sharp, helpless reaction to the direct, unapologetic contact. A choked gasp escaped his lips.

“Still no people,” Arion rumbled, his voice thick with satisfaction. He rubbed his thumb over his head, feeling the damp spot that had already formed, a sign of Dean’s body’s eager betrayal. “Just us.”

Dean could only manage a strangled sound in response. His mind was blissfully blank. The chat, the party, the entire empire… it had all faded away. There was only the alpha behind him and the hand on his cock, which touched him with a familiarity that should have been offensive but was instead incredibly good.

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