by Hannah Haze
"Enough," she says after the third.
"No, Omega, all of it."
She shifts on the mattress, then nods curtly, and he feeds her the rest. He does it with patience, despite the rich aroma of her slick building in the air, and what she can tell is his growing hardness. He doesn’t rush her, he takes his time, watching her lips as she chews.
"On my face, Omega," he tells her when she has eaten it all and whimpers with the returning pain.
"What?"
He lies down flat on his back and gestures to her. "On my face. I'm going to eat you out."
She shivers with the filthiness of it but does as he says. She'd probably do anything he asked. She finds she likes the thrill of being ordered about by him.
Gripping the headboard, she hovers above his face and he leans up and swipes along her swollen seam with his tongue, swirling around her entrance and back to her clit where he flicks at her viciously until her thighs shake and he has to hold her aloft to stop her from suffocating him.
In the past, there was no way she'd let a man do this to her. One or two have offered, but the thought of being so closely examined down there has had her writhing in embarrassment and shame. She feels none of those things now. Just a mind blowing ecstasy as he laps at her with all the enthusiasm of a hungry wolf.
After she comes, she scurries down his body to ride him, something else she's never done before. Reckless to it all.
Later they talk.
"Why'd you say what you did last time?" he asks. She's lying with her back against him. Maybe it's easier to talk like this, when they don't have to look at each other.
"What do you mean?"
"That stuff about me not caring about other people. Is that really what you believe?"
"Yes." She pauses. "You gonna tell me that you do — that you do the shopping for little old ladies, cut the grass at the old folks' home?" She laughs.
"You form opinions about other people very easily. What can you know about me? We don't hang out."
"I've been in the college bar when you're there with your rugby team. Seen the way you give other people a hard time, tease them, harass them."
"That's bollocks."
"No, it's not. You sit around playing your drinking games and singing your misogynistic songs and it's horrible — especially the things you chant about Omegas."
"It's a bit of harmless fun. It doesn't mean anything," he says.
"It's intimidating and hurtful and it shouldn't be allowed on campus," she snaps. In fact, she's started a campaign with Rose to get such behaviour banned from the student bar. "How do you think it makes girls feel? Fun my arse!"
He rolls away from her and sits on the edge of the bed, his feet hitting the ground with a violent thud.
"You never made a mistake, I suppose?" he mutters.
"Me?" She twists to look at him.
"Never been in trouble, I bet. Never put a foot wrong."
She stares at him in disbelief. "I can't afford to."
She learnt that very early on. She'd seen what happened to the Omega girls who did make mistakes. To the ones who got wrapped up in the gangs who ran the estates where she'd lived, and to those who'd been wooed by older men with gifts and false promises. It hadn't ended well for any of them. She knows all about that. She was nearly one of them.
"Do you have any idea how precariously I’m clinging on here?" she says, and she hears the choke in her voice, wishing it wasn’t there. "One slip up, one mistake, if my grades decrease just a little, and I lose my scholarship and my grant." She tips her chin upwards and tries to calm her breathing.
It’s the truth and it’s hanging over her constantly like an axe about to fall. It’s always there, but she’s never, ever acknowledged it out loud to anyone before. He has it so easy and it’s so unfair. It makes her angry, and she knows deep down it’s why she hates him so much. She lowers her head and glares at him.
"It's bizarre how much you seem to hate people who try to do the right thing, seeing as it's what your mum does," she says and she can sense he's thinking about that, he examines his hands intently and his jaw works, but he doesn't answer. Finally she adds. "Did you tell anyone about last time?"
"No."
She nods and hesitates. "I don't want anyone to know."
She hears him swallow.
"Why?"
"It would be too weird. I…." She trails off, her cheeks burning, not wanting to admit the truth to him.
"It's fine," he grunts. "I don't exactly want everyone knowing I've fucked some frigid Omega."
She laughs. He can't really mean that, not after what they've done together.
"Is it like this when you sleep with other Omegas?"
He shrugs. "Pretty much." And she's surprised to find her heart sink.
On the Monday morning she hurries him out, although she has a strange sense that he's reluctant to leave. It must be his Alpha pride, wanting everything on his terms. Probably he considers being bossed about by an Omega humiliating.
On the doorstep he lingers and turns to face her, picking at the peeling paintwork on the door frame with his thumb nail.
"What I said about this being the same as other Omegas wasn't true. I don't know why I said that. Sex has always been…." He pauses trying to find the words and a chunk of white paint flicks into the air. "At school it was something you were expected to do, you know, unless you wanted people to say you were weird. So I did and it's kind of like having an itch, you scratch and then you're satisfied and the urge goes away for a bit." He peers up at her, elevated in the hallway. "This thing between us feels different."
It's the most he's ever said to her. The most she's ever heard him say. Her mouth goes very dry and her tongue seems heavy. When she speaks, it's a strangled squeak. "Yes, it's different for me too."
The muscles on either side of his forehead tense. "Then next time you're in heat…."
She nods. He leans a little forward and she thinks he might kiss her. When he doesn't, turning away instead, she releases her breath in a sigh of relief.
She mulls over his words as she strips the soiled sheets from the bed and scrubs the mattress. She considers them as she removes the evidence of their meals to the outside dustbin and washes up the plates and cups. She thinks about them in the shower as she lathers her skin and rinses her hair.
Rose returns early in the afternoon. "You look much better," she says.
Chapter Six
They see each other again, share another heat in the Easter break, then once right at the start of the summer vacation and once at the end.
In between they don't speak, they barely acknowledge each other's existence.
Sometimes he'll go to the cafe where she works and she'll serve him coffee silently.
Once he sat next to her in a lecture, and his leg pressed against hers as they diligently made notes.
Another time, he sat at the edge of a Junior Common Room meeting and listened to her speak about boosting the college’s efforts to improve access for students from disadvantaged backgrounds.
In late September he returns to Oxford and the weeks pass in a tangle of training sessions, reading, matches, parties and essay writing.
Then it's early November
His practice session finishes just as the sun sets behind the outline of the city and the overhead lights snap on, flooding the pitch with white light. The other players collect up the cones and drift back to the clubhouse.
"You coming?" Kyle calls to him.
"No, I’m going to stay and kick a few penalties."
Kyle grins at him. "You’re determined to get picked for it, aren’t you?"
Noah nods.
"See you at the house, then." The University has a couple of houses on the Iffley Road for those who’ve made it onto the Varsity rugby team. He’s sharing one with Kyle and four other men.
"Not until later." He groans. "I’m meeting my Mum for dinner."
"Too bad, man." Kyle chuckles. "Harry’s organising
a game of poker" Kyle waves at him and jogs away.
Noah carries the bag of balls to the line. His hair and his kit are damp with sweat from the training session, and the wetness quickly turns cold in the crisp temperature. He shivers against it. Then blows on his hands and jumps up and down on the spot, kicking his heels up off the ground and driving his knees towards his chest, trying to get the blood pumping around his body again.
When he’s a little warmer, he places the balls out along the chalked line and concentrates on kicking each one over the bar. After each kick, he moves to the next ball along the line to try from a different angle, concentrating on adjusting his body, remembering how, when he kicks with that swing of his leg or that part of his foot, it sails through the sky — too low, or too high, to the left or to the right.
When he's kicked all the balls, he sprints behind the goal line and boots them all back onto the pitch, then starts over again. He’s just preparing to kick the first ball of the second batch when Cora appears, jogging around the perimeter of the pitch out towards the towpath. She slows down, clearly watching him. It’s not the first time he’s seen her out here. It can’t be a coincidence.
He ignores her, although her hot critique as he positions himself and hammers the ball through the twin goalposts, has the hairs peppering his spine standing on end and the palms of his hand suddenly damp.
He moves along to the next ball, wiping his hands on his shorts. Training like this, finessing his actions, perfecting his skills, has always been exhilarating, a place to pour all the untameable energy that courses through his body. He’s always found it satisfying, better even than sex.
Sex has never been anything special. He's never understood why everyone else makes such a fuss about it. He knows he's good at it (what Alpha isn't?). He knows he's desired. He knows it'll never be something he really likes. Until now.
Because he likes it with her. He can’t help it. Her body is like a drug he can’t get enough off, one he keeps returning to again and again. Everything about her is a temptation. He likes the way she smells and how it makes the gland at the back of his neck tingle. Likes the earthy way she tastes. Likes the soft feel of her supple skin. And the long strangled groan she makes whenever she comes.
It's embarrassing to like these things, to need them so much and so badly. Shameful. A truth he doesn't want anyone else to know about. His sex life is usually a topic he dissects with his team mates. His time with Cora feels private and intimate, as if he's shown more of himself than he'd like to, and it won't be something he'll be sharing.
He can see her from the corner of his eye as he kicks again, her gaze eating him up as she circles the pitch like a tiger nearing his prey. He’d happily be caught, he’d happily be eaten, he’d happily surrender himself to her. But she never comes any closer and when he tries to call out to her, he finds the words won’t come. Eventually she swerves off down the path and he loses her behind the tall firs.
It’s for the best. He needs to get changed and go meet his mother. His body slumps at the thought and he gathers up the balls and stuffs them into the oversized bag, slinging it over his shoulders. The clubhouse is empty when he enters, and his hand pats along the wall until he finds the light switch. He dumps the bag in the store cupboard and heads to the changing room. It’s empty too, although the scents of his teammates still hang in the air. Aggressive mixtures of sweat, testosterone and spunk. He snorts and wipes his nose between his fingers.
In the shower, he realises he didn’t have to wait there for her. He could have been the one to catch her, to drag her into the shower with him, to push her up against the tiles and have her.
He rubs the shampoo into his scalp with force, his short nails scratching at the skin, then twists the knob to freezing and forces himself under the water, wincing against the cold, his chest tightening and his breath sharp.
Why does she ignore him? What is it about him that means she’s happy for him to fuck her but she doesn’t want to be seen with him, can barely bring herself to look at him when there’s other people around?
The shampoo runs down his face, white foam swimming over his torso and slopping onto the ground. He pumps at the shower gel and scours his body with it, scrubbing away the mud and the sweat and the grime, working at his skin so hard it’s almost painful.
◆◆◆
His mother is waiting for him in the restaurant, already at a table in the corner with two younger women he suspects are from her office, one either side. It disappoints him — he'd hoped he'd have her to himself — and so he's glad that he's late. Tardiness has always displeased her.
Her eyes flip to him as he arrives and she waves him towards a seat at the other side of the table, continuing to nod as she listens to the colleague on her right, a tall slender woman with hair twisted into a bun and red glasses that match her lipstick. The other woman is rounder with big curly hair. Both wear tight fitting dresses while his mother is dressed in a blouse and trouser suit. He feels underdressed in his dark jeans and black shirt.
Ignoring her gestured instruction, he leans over the first woman to kiss his mother but she draws away from him.
"Don’t lean over Liz like that Noah. You’ll squash her." she laughs shrilly and flaps her hand at him, shooing him away.
"Sorry," he mumbles, folding into the chair and picking up the menu, examining it intently.
"You’re late," his mother says, "so I ordered for you."
Placing the menu down on the table, he flattens his hands on its surface, spreading his fingers.
Their conversation resumes and he sits there silently, listening to them discussing how a case to alter the rights to divorce is proceeding through the High Court. At one point, the woman with the glasses turns to him and asks, "What do you think Noah?"
He can tell she’s trying to be kind, that she’s aware of his awkward bulk quietly listening, but inwardly he groans.
What does he think? What does he ever think? The thoughts in his head are always so muddled and confused, fogged by the ever present scents swirling in the air, bullied by the basal instincts he possesses to speak with his fists. He wants to home in on their words and their ideas, but the aroma of cooking meat from the kitchens, the scent of a mated couple becoming ever more aroused at the table next to them, the assaulting stink of the scented candles burning along the windowsill, and his mother’s peaking tension, all compete for his attention, dragging his mind in different directions.
He drums his fingers on the table and looks away to the window where the Oxford streets are bustling with people. "I don’t know," he grunts.
His mother huffs. "Noah’s never shown an interest in these things, despite my best attempts. Not like his brother Charlie." She twists the stem of her wineglass in her fingers. "Did I tell you what he’s working on over in New York?"
He continues to stare out the window as his mother gives her colleagues a rundown of his brother’s latest achievements.
He's bored as hell. All he wants to do is pull out his phone. Instead, he waits until finally the waiter brings their food. It’s steak and he passes the time by cutting it into many tiny pieces and then chewing each one. Over the table his mother frowns at him but says nothing, and he gulps down the wine. When he's done, he fiddles with his cutlery.
Finally, when the desserts arrive, his mother turns her attention to him. It's like an interrogation light swinging his way and he shrinks further into the chair, wanting to shield his face and his eyes.
"And what about you, Noah?" she says.
"What about me?"
Her lips tighten. "How're your studies?"
"Fine," he says, sweeping a strawberry backwards and forward through a wad of chocolate sauce. The sauce is too stiff and instead of slicing through satisfactorily, the strawberry is gradually mashing into mush.
"And your rugby?" His mother turns to her colleagues, "Noah’s on the university rugby team."
"Wow," the woman with glasses says, leaning forward onto her
elbows, running her eyes subtly down his form.
"He can never keep still." She shakes her head. "Never has been able to."
He keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, but he can hear the slight annoyance in his mother's voice. She finds his energy and his moods irritating. In fact, she's probably always found him irritating. It was a lot of 'not now's and 'Mummy's busy' growing up.
He raises his gaze. "Actually, a scout came to our game last Wednesday; from one of the premier league clubs."
"How exciting." His mother is not eating pudding; he’s the only one who is. But she's ordered a coffee and raises the white cup to her mouth, leaving the burgundy imprint of her lips on the rim. His mother is very beautiful; still, even now in her fifties. She has the same caramel eyes as him, long lashes and the type of bone structure that always catches the light in the right way. With her high cheekbones and striking jawline, the creases and wrinkles on her face are easily forgotten. "Did they spot anyone?"
He coughs and wishes his father was here. They seem rarely together these days. "Me."
His mother’s mouth forms a soundless ‘oh’ shape. "You can't be serious, darling?"
He shrugs. It had never occurred to him as a serious option before, and anyway he assumed he'd be too old for opportunities like that. But the man from the club had taken a note of his email address and said he'd be in touch about a summer training camp. He's not sure it is what he'd like to do with his future but it occurs to him it would be preferable to working in an office.
"And how about your girlfriend?"
He shoots a look at his mother, who is already waving at the waitress for the bill.
"I don't have a girlfriend."
"What happened to that girl you were seeing over the summer? I had the impression you liked her." His mouth falls open a tiny bit and he runs his tongue along the rear of his teeth. She knew about that? He'd never told her where he was going when he went to visit Cora, and he assumed she'd barely noticed his absences. But she must have smelled it on him — she is an Omega after all. Not that anyone would know. She has the petite frame of an Omega, but she acts and speaks like anything but.
