by Grey, Aspen
He thrust deep and let all of his weight drape against my body, halting his thrusts for a moment and letting his dick rest inside of me. I reached back with one hand to stroke his hip.
“Mmmm, getting close, baby?”
His breath was deep and strong against my ear, and I caressed his body as he lay there inside of me. I pressed back against him, urging him to keep fucking me, but he refused and instead, held his cock where it was like the slightest movement might cause him to tip over the edge and blow his load too soon.
“It’s okay if you want to come,” I told him. And I wasn’t lying. It actually made me proud that I’d been able to get him so close so quickly. “I like it.”
I ground against him again, but felt something that made my eyes pop open as I realized what had really just happened.
He wasn’t close, he wasn’t holding back to keep from coming too soon. He was asleep.
Chapter 2
Sawyer
As I stared out the window of my office that overlooked all of downtown San Diego, watching the lights of the cars as the sun began its journey from the sky down towards the ocean, I felt like the goddamn king of the world.
My firm, Cooper, Moyer and Reynolds, had just won the biggest case of our entire career, a victory that would not only make all of us rich, but would firmly establish our dominance as the top legal firm in the city. We’d just won a major lawsuit for a local indie author who’d had the plot from their latest book completely ripped off by one of the big Hollywood studios. The film had gone to earn almost half a billion dollars domestic, and twice that at the international box office. They’d thought no one would notice or care about some lowly self-published author’s complaints about plagiarism. They were wrong.
The guy would never have to work again for the rest of his life—not unless he wanted to, which he would, of course. He was an artist and wanted his work to be seen by the rest of the world, not just sit back on a chunk of change and do nothing into his old age. But our percentage of the settlement was substantial, as we’d taken on the case pro bono with expectations of a win. And boy, had it paid off.
What a journey, I thought as I looked at my reflection in the plate glass. I still couldn’t believe what I saw: a tall, handsome, twenty-nine-year-old man wearing a designer suit and equally expensive leather cap-toe Oxford shoes. I’d come a long way from the lost, teenage runaway I’d been some fifteen years ago.
Originally from Modesto, I came from a household of abuse, drugs and drinking, and all-around horrific energy that swirled around me all day every day. Mom and dad fought like mortal enemies, and with the house being as small as it was and me being the only child, I found myself caught in the middle of everything—every time.
So, at fourteen, I had myself emancipated and got the Hell out. Unlike others who had done the same, I kept my head down and focused, worked my way through school while crashing out on couches and spending occasional periods in shelters. I eventually ended up with a scholarship to Stanford where I got my law degree. I was passionate about law and it wasn’t long before I became partner. It was the proudest moment of my life—up until this one.
“There he is!” Voices exploded behind me as the door to my office flew open and the boys rushed in. I spun around to see Tyson, Scott and Becker with grins on their faces and hands in full salute as though I was their commanding officer. “All hail the conqueror!”
That was Tyson, the most verbose and jester-like of the crew. He was wearing one of his almost over-the-top suits with pinstripes and clapped me heavily on the shoulder. I couldn’t help but laugh as we all shook hands. I couldn’t have imagined a better birthday treat than winning the biggest case of my career thus far.
“Drinks!” Becker cried out. “Time to hit the town!”
“Drinks and booty!” Scott laughed.
The next thing I knew, I was being carried out of my office, into the elevator, down into the parking garage and thrown behind the wheel of my own car.
“The captain drives!” Scott roared as I thumbed the “Engine Start” button and whipped the sports car out onto the downtown streets. The orange glow of the sun finally coming to rest behind the Pacific was in the corner of my eye as palm trees whisked by as we sped towards some unknown destination.
“Left here!” Tyson pointed at the very last second, causing me to swerve past a Prius and jump a yellow light. “Now right!”
“Where the fuck are we going?” I bellowed. “You’re shit at directions!”
“Drinks and booty!” Scott repeated. We whizzed through downtown, the boys hooting and hollering like a frenzied pack. I half wondered if they were all going to take their panther forms right then and there. Thankfully they didn’t, and Scott aimed his finger to a scuzzy-looking parking lot with an option slot. “Slide this big ol’ dick of yers in yonder slot!”
I whipped the car into the open space and switched off the engine. The crew spilled out, patting me on the back and cheering as they led me to the entrance of a club I’d never seen before.
The Cockpit. That was its name, flashing loud in pink neon that hung above the door.
“After you, sir,” Scott said, saluting again as I stepped through the door into a hilarious dive that was sort of half-club/half-strip-club at the same time. A laughably out-of-shape guy pranced around a pole at the end of the room, while a handful of betas (probably his friends) threw about twenty dollars’ worth of ones at him, scooped them back up off the “stage,” and threw them again.
“This way,” Tyson told me, steering me towards the bar. He slammed his credit card down and roared at the bartender. “Start a tab, chief!”
The bartender, a gruff-looking, no-bullshit kind of guy, threw him a sidelong glance but took the card and gave it a swipe.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Four vodka tonics!” Becker cried out before Tyson could reply.
“What?” he snapped back. “What kind of pussy-ass shit did you just order?”
“Shut up, douche,” Becker scoffed. “We’re not doing frat-boy vodka Redbulls tonight.”
“Frat boy?” Tyson retorted as the bartender started our drinks with a roll of his eyes.
“You heard me!”
I let their argument wash over me as I turned around to examine the crowd. Thankfully, The Cockpit didn’t stink of smoke and stale beer, and I caught the scent of several sweet-smelling omegas, and one beta who was standing in the corner by himself waiting for the bathroom. I felt my dick start to rise as I thought about just how sweet it would be to celebrate my birthday and top off this incredible victory by burying my dick in some nice tight ass.
“See anything you like, captain?” Scott asked me, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “You point ‘em out, and I’ll scout ‘em.”
“You think this guy needs you to wingman for him?” Becker laughed.
“I’m all right, Scott,” I replied with a grin, taking my vodka tonic from him, squeezing the lime and taking a sip. “I can pull my own.”
“Pull your own pecker!” Becker roared. But as we stood there, the beta waiting for the bathroom caught my eye. He was medium height and build, but had a long haircut and was wearing a real tight pair of jeans that showed off an impressive bulge. He even had a bit of a hipster look with a pair of brown suspenders and no belt. By the way he was looking at me, he was hoping he wouldn’t be headed into the bathroom on his own.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, handing Scott my drink. “I think I’m all lined up for the night, boys.”
“Go get ‘em, captain,” Scotty told me as I began threading my way through the tables, doing my best to ignore the amateur gyrating from the guy wobbling around the pole. The beta hung his head for a moment as I approached, but he knew what I was up to, and as I reached his side and saw him look back up, I knew it was going to be a great night.
* * *
Want more? Get Book 1 of the SoCal Cuties series here!: An Omega For Two
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Grey, Aspen, Three Ways to Destiny: SoCal Cuties — Book 5
