Page 154 of Run Wild Omega

THREE MONTHS LATER: WYATT

Ihave Tess pinned against the backseat of my truck, her good leg hooked over my hip, her fingers tearing at the shoulders of my jacket. The cast is gone, has been for two weeks. But she still favors that leg, still guards it when she’s tired, and I still check it every morning without her asking.

Right now, she isn’t guarding anything.

“Wyatt,” she gasps against my mouth, her back arching off the seat. “We’re going to be late.”

“Five minutes.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

I thrust into her, and whatever argument she was building dissolves into a moan that fogs the passenger window. Her nails rake down my back, and I feel the marks she’s leaving through my shirt, through my skin, straight into the bond that connects us.

Sunday dinner at the Hartwell house is in twenty minutes. Margaret is making roast chicken. Henry promised pie. Mara and Daniel are already there, along with Gray and Leo, and if I show up late with Tess looking thoroughly fucked, Margaret will know. She always knows. The woman has a sixth sense for post-coital dishevelment.

I don’t care.

Three months ago, I was pacing my cabin at three in the morning, asking myself what the hell I’d done. Now I’m inside the woman I love, in the cab of my truck, parked behind the Bluejay where nobody can see us, and the bond is singing in my chest because she’s happy.

Genuinely, bone-deep, radiating-through-the-connection happy.

“You feel incredible,” I mutter against her throat, my hips snapping forward.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She laughs, and the sound tightens around me in every possible way. I drive into her harder, angling her hips up, hitting that spot that makes her breath catch and her fingers dig into my shoulders. The bond floods with sensation, her pleasure echoing back to me, amplifying my own until I can’t tell where I end and she begins.

She comes first. She almost always does. Her walls clench around me, her back bows off the seat, and she bites down on my shoulder to muffle the sound. I follow her over the edge, burying myself to the hilt, my forehead dropping to her collarbone as the release tears through me.

We stay there for a moment, breathing. Tangled. Her hand in my hair, my nose against her neck where the mating gland sits, permanent and scarred and mine.

“We need to get dressed,” she murmurs.

“In a minute.”

“Wyatt. My mother is going to notice.”

“Your mother knows we have sex. We’re bonded. She’s not naive.”

“There’s a difference between knowing and seeing evidence, and if I walk in with your come running down my leg, she’s going to make that face.”

I groan and pull back. She’s right. Margaret Hartwell has a face. A very specific face that she deploys when she’s fully aware of what her daughter has been doing and is too polite to say it but not too polite to make everyone in the room uncomfortable.

I find a napkin in the glove compartment. Tess cleans up, laughing the entire time, her cheeks flushed, her hair a disaster. I try to fix it with my fingers, but I only make it worse.

“You’re useless,” she says.

“At hair styling? Yes. At everything else? Debatable.”

She shoves my shoulder. I catch her hand, press a kiss to her knuckles, and feel the bond pulse with affection so strong it makes my chest ache.

We get dressed. I button my shirt, she straightens her sweater, and I run my fingers through my hair until it looks presentable instead of thoroughly ravaged. Tess checks her reflection in the visor mirror, winces, and borrows my comb.

“Better?” she asks.

“You look beautiful.”