Page 120 of Run Wild Omega

His hips are between my thighs, his cock buried so deep inside me that I can feel him in my throat. My cast is propped against the dashboard, the fiberglass cool against my skin, and his hands are everywhere. Gripping my hips. Skating up my ribs. Pinning my wrists above my head as he thrusts into me with a force that rocks the entire vehicle.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against my neck, his breath hot and ragged. “I’ve been dying to be inside you. Since the mountain. Since I pulled you out.”

“Dylan,” I gasp, my back arching off the seat. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He drives into me harder, faster, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing in tight, relentless circles. I’m teetering on the edge, every nerve ending in my body straining toward release, and he’s right there with me, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and wild.

“Come for me, Sunshine,” he says. “Come on my cock.”

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me in waves, my walls clenching around him, and he follows with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts against my skin.

I wake up drenched.

Not just sweat. I’m slick between my thighs, soaked through my underwear, the fabric clinging to me. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples, and my skin is flushed from hairline to collarbone. The dream is already dissolving, but my body doesn’t know that. Every nerve ending is still firing, still chasing the ghost of Dylan’s hands and mouth and cock.

I press my thighs together and groan into the pillow.

Three days. It’s been three days since the truck. Three days since I told Dylan the truth and he kissed me like the world was ending.

Three days since I’ve seen any of them, because I’m an idiot who suggested Saturday like a coward who needed time to think.

Time to think. Right. I’ve spent every waking moment thinking, and every sleeping moment having vivid, explicit dreams about all three of them. Miles on the sofa. Dylan in the truck. Wyatt against the hallway wall. My subconscious has assembled a highlight reel and it’s playing on a loop.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My T-shirt is damp with sweat and my hair is stuck to my neck. I need a shower. I need a cold shower. I need to stop thinking about the way Dylan’s hands felt in the dream, broad and callused and confident, gripping my hips like he owned them.

A knock at the door snaps me out of it.

“Tess? Honey, you awake?”

Mom.

I sit up so fast my head spins. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m up.”

“I’m making pancakes.” A pause. “And Wyatt’s here to see you.”

Shit.

I look down at myself. Sweaty T-shirt. Soaked underwear. Hair that looks like a family of squirrels nested in it. And I smell like arousal so thick it’s probably radiating through the bedroom door.

“Tell him I’ll be right down! Give me five minutes!”

“Take your time, sweetheart. He’s having coffee with your father.”

Of course he is. Wyatt Callahan, having a casual morning coffee with Dad like he didn’t just break himself open in front of me three days ago. Like the entire trajectory of my life hasn’t shifted on its axis.

I strip the bed in record time, tossing the sheets into the hamper where Mom won’t investigate. I jump into the shower, turning the water as cold as I can stand. It helps, marginally. I scrub myself clean, wash my hair, and stand under the spray until the ache between my legs fades from urgent to manageable.

I pull on clean jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and fuzzy socks because the hardwood floors are freezing. I towel-dry my hair until it’s a damp, wavy mess, brush my teeth, and examine myself in the mirror.

I look flushed. Bright-eyed. Like a woman who’s been having spectacular sex dreams about men who aren’t currently in her bed.

Great.

I grab my crutches and head downstairs.

The kitchen is warm and bright, morning sun streaming through the windows. Dad is at the table with the newspaper, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Mom is at the stove, flipping a pancake the way she’s done it a hundred times before. And Wyatt is sitting at the kitchen table like he belongs here, a mug of black coffee cradled in his big hands, his legs stretched out under the table.