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‘I liked that skirt. You look good in pink. A’
My face heats as I read the note on my kitchen counter. The handwriting is sure and blocky, like always. I could recognise it anywhere after the last few months. I think the easy curve of his words will be printed on my brain for the rest of my life.
I chew my lip and reach for the bag beside the note. As usual, it is plain black with a silk ribbon handle. The idea of this man having a stash of identical gift bags somewhere in his home almost makes me laugh. Does he keep them in a drawer? A box under his bed? Or does he buy a new one every time he visits?
I wonder what his house looks like. Definitely better than mine, cleaner, in a nicer suburb. He seems like he’d be organised a clean freak, I like to think. It’s endearing, to paint these little details like we’re old friends, when in reality, I’ve never even met him.
It started about eight weeks ago, this halfanonymous courtship. It’s not that it’s wholly unusual as an omega, it seems that men find traditional courting rituals more appealing than in other situations.
I assume it’s more a show of masculinity than an actual interest in me as a person or partner they love to feel like they can dominate something. Interestingly, it’s more betas that give a halfbaked attempt at making some kind of faux grand pass at me. But maybe that’s just because betas are more common than omegas or alphas.
My experience with betas has been dull and offputting, though. It’s like they’ve learned their role in courtship on paper but can’t seem to translate it in real life. Their ideas of omegas are lewd and insulting, like we are all so pathetic and desperate for any kind of man to swoop in and fuck our brains out. Like we are all biologically programmed to be some kind of breeding toy.
In reality, betas seem more ually driven than any omega or alpha I’ve ever met combined. They send lingerie and toys and condoms (suggestively sized XXL, which seems unlikely and statistically improbable) and scent all of them desperately, like I won’t notice and accidentally walk around smelling like beta cum for the world to think they’ve laid claim to me or something.
I try not to be too harsh in my rejections, but I’ve learned that if you don’t give no as an answer, they will assume it’s a yes. So, after inspecting the offerings and sighing out my disappointment, I usually leave them beside my post box at the entrance of my apartment building, or outside the door of my office at work, or somewhere equally intentional until the interested party gets the message and gives up.
A’s efforts have been different. It didn’t take me long to figure out that he was an alpha. Not because he felt the need to scent everything he touched (though as I become more familiar with his unique smell, I notice it on almost everything he touches), but because his offerings seemed to do what our ancestors always insisted they did.
His attentions were like a puzzle piece that finally fit, finally made sense. They weren’t intrusive or uncomfortable, as I had almost always experienced male attention (regardless of caste) to be. He wasn’t in any rush, which also made him stand out from anyone else I’d ever dealt with. He was observant and focused, somehow making his efforts seem almost lazy, like him wanting me was the most natural and blinding thing in the world, and he was content to just be a part of my life in this small way for as long as I’d let him.
Obviously, I ended up getting impatient. There aren’t strict stages to courtship, but it’s based on the ideas of comfort, safety, access and intimacy. Traditionally, anyway. These days, guys want to skip to intimacy as quickly as possible.
Most of them don’t understand that intimacy is earned and not just physical intimacy, as my grandmother once taught me, is breathing the same air as someone, living life adjacent to them, grounding each other regardless of circumstance, working to understand them deeply and fully.
Maybe I’m old fashioned and have outdated expectations. Maybe I’ve been educated from the privileged position of an omega woman from a long line of omega women. But maybe that just makes me even more drawn to A, who seems naturally dispositioned to meet them.
‘What’s your name?’ I’d scrawled on a note a few weeks back, when I’d first given him access to my apartment.
‘I’ll tell you soon. A’
Feeling flirty, I’d written the next night, ‘Fine. How tall are you?’
His response was, ‘Tall enough for you. A’
Frustrated with the cryptic responses and tipsy on the rosé he’d left one Friday evening, I left a teasing note on the back of a water bill that had arrived in the mail earlier that week.
‘I’m going to assume you’re below 6ft.’
When I woke up the next morning, groggy and cotton mouthed, I found his reply on my beside table, written on the other side of the bill.
‘Assume away, sweetheart. A’
Beside the note was a glass of water and the full amount typed at the bottom of the water bill in cash.
‘You’re going to kill me. A’
I laugh out loud at that, pressing start on my coffee machine. Last night I’d made sure to wear the pink silk pyjama set (complete with matching slippers and eye mask) he’d left for me that morning. I’d even turned up the heat so I could comfortably sleep on top of my duvet, on display for him to see.
I also may or may not have fucked myself silly with a dildo while thinking of A before falling asleep, imagining what he’d look like and what his voice would sound like as he whispered sweet things in my ear. I may have taken the liberty of smearing my juices on the door of my bedroom (left wide open, of course), the box the pyjamas came in, and the pen and pad I’ve begun to leave for him on the kitchen counter.
I just wish I wasn’t such a naturally heavy sleeper. If I were one of those dainty people who wake up from the slightest sound, I probably would have met A by now. I would know what he looks like and what his name is, what he feels and tastes like.
Despite this, I’m positive that he’s never touched me, despite slipping into my apartment most nights. He’s too much of a gentleman, too noble and patient.
Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t be, and that one night I’d awake to him already buried deep inside me, groaning my name over and over as he fucked me like nobody else has ever fucked me before. But he wouldn’t. And I’m glad.
It still pisses me off, though.
‘I hate that you live in this suburb. It’s not safe. You need to stop leaving your door unlocked. A’
A panic swoops through me at the suggestion. Not because he’s alluding to the recent spike of violence against omegas in the area, but because for a moment, I think he might be ending this.
I think over my response for the full day, hardly able to focus at work. I’m meant to be building a website for a new client, but all I can think about is the spare key I had cut months ago, sitting in the drawer of my bedside table, beneath my toys.
I’ve known that I’ve wanted to do this for a while, but I’ve been afraid of the seriousness of it all. It’s much more fun to be reckless, leaving my front door unlocked for him to slip in through, feeling safe and protected when I wake to find he’s locked it for me on his way out.
When I’m penning my note for him before bed that night, my hand trembles with nerves. I do my best not to let it show through my response.
‘You’re right. You never know what perverts could sneak in while I’m sleeping.’
I tie a pink ribbon in a bow through the hole of the key and place it on top before heading to bed. When I wake up the next morning, jittery with nerves, it’s gone.
My fist is clenched in the sheets as I bring myself to the edge over and over again. My heart is racing with caffeine and anticipation and nerves and pleasure. I won’t let myself come. If I come then I’ll fall asleep, and I’ve worked too hard to fall asleep now. The thing is, I don’t know when he usually slips in it could be 11pm or 4am.
I shouldn’t have started touching myself so early. I’m wound up so tight, I could almost believe I’ve gone into heat (it’s not due for months now, though, thank god).
I whimper and wish for the umpteenth time that I knew his name, if only to be able to moan it when I touch myself.
It doesn’t help that I’m blindfolded by the sleeping mask, which I’ve decided to wear for his privacy. I’m second guessing that moral decision, given that the darkness is pulling me towards sleep faster than I’d like. If it wasn’t the mask, though, it would be the dark of my room I don’t want him to see the lights on and not come in.
It’s almost funny, the way I am trying to trap him like a fly in honey. Acting like he’s an easily startled small animal instead of an alpha that radiates power and authority. But more than that, I know he’s too considerate for his own good if he thinks I’m still awake, he’ll not want to intrude or alarm me and won’t come in.
I know from experience.
I feel like a child trying to catch Santa Claus, but instead of waiting on the stairs watching the chimney, I’m myself with a barely satisfying dildo to keep myself up.
My brain drifts without my permission, pulling toward the magnet of sleep, when I register the click of a lock.
A lock.
The thought jolts me awake, and I have to even my breathing to listen. Just when I’ve convinced myself I’ve imagined it, the creak of the front door whispers across the floorboards, so loud but far too quiet for me to be sure.
It’s happening, this is actually happening, I think frantically, and my heart hammers out of my chest. I would be surprised if he could hear it from the landing.
His footfalls are quiet, measured. They stretch from the front door, past the kitchen and into the open plan of the living room. Then they stop.
He makes a sound in his throat, maybe a gasp or a choke or a groan, and I know he’s been flooded with my scent. My arousal.
The wetness that has begun to ebb as I drifted toward sleep is renewed with a heat I don’t expect, slickening around the dildo that’s still inside me. I can’t even smell him; if I could smell him, I’d
And then I do.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, and my entire body freezes, one hand in my silk shorts, holding the silicone base of a toy that’s wedged deep inside me. Suddenly, I feel too bold, and embarrassed, and I want to pretend I’ve accidentally fallen asleep like this, like I just so happen to love UTIs and unfulfilled orgasms, and this is all a mortifying coincidence.
But he knows. Of course he knows.
His voice is low, dark. Hungry. “Were you doing that for me?”
I inhale sharply through my nose, his woody scent blooming in the bedroom, along with my sharp arousal.
“I can hear your heart racing,” he tells me, almost reverent. “Have you come yet?”
“No,” I admit, my voice cracking from disuse. I stare at the blackness of the silk over my eyes, wishing it were gone but grateful for it for making this moment seem less real. “I was waiting for you.”
He groans at that, and it sends a torrent of slick gushing from deep inside of me. My fingers regain grip on the silicone base of the dildo, and I swirl it a little.
“Fuck,” he says again, closer, and a crowd of butterflies do the Mexican wave in my stomach. “Madison,” He says, pleading, and my name on his lips makes me whimper.
“Please,” I breathe, pressing the toy deeper, almost painfully against my cervix, “Please touch me,”
“Soon,” it sounds like it comes from through gritted teeth. This is a sentiment he’s been insisting on lately soon. It’s his answer to everything. It’s his answer even when the question is ‘how soon?’.
“I want you so badly. I’ve wanted you so badly for so long.” I tell him, and begin rolling the toy inside me in earnest.
He curses again, “I want you, too. You have no idea.”
I do, I want to shout at him, I do have an idea stop teasing me and fuck me already.
“Please,” I try again.
“You’re not ready,” he says, resigned.
“I am,” I thrust the dildo inside me to emphasise and he growls.
“Fuck. Stop it, sweetheart. You’re killing me.”
I do it again, just to spite him. Sweat is prickling against my skin and the silk.
“Madison,” he warns, and I thrust the toy inside me against, whining in a way that would have had me hanging my head in shame a month ago.
“I need you to fuck me,” I find it so unfair that he knows my name and I don’t know his. Then, an idea comes to me. “Please fuck me, alpha,”
I expect another curse, or a warning, but instead I feel the mattress dip at my feet and my breath catches.
The heat of him hits me like an electric shock, and my heart sings he’s so close he’s so close he’s so so close.
The mattress dips by my head and I almost from the intensity of his scent a heady mix and wood and earth and something sweet, like burned sugar. “Did you wear this for me?”
I nod automatically, but when I feel the pressure of his fingertips against the eye mask, I understand what he’s asking. “Can I take it off?” I try, “Please?”
He lets out a long cool breath against my neck and I shiver. “Not yet.”
“I want to see you,” I argue, knowing that I’m sounding a lot like a petulant child and not caring at all.
“You will. Soon.” He promised.
“When?” I counter, but the argument loses all heat when he presses his face into the crook of my neck and inhales deeply.
“You smell so good. I’ve thought so since I first saw you.” His lips move against my damp skin, and I clench around the toy, wishing it were him. “It hit me like a freight train.” He laughs at himself, a little selfdeprecating. It makes my heart twist.
He drags his mouth along my throat, along what I know is my mating gland. Then, he presses the flat of his tongue against it and I moan at the watery warmth that ripples through my body.
“Can I touch you?” He asks, not shy. He’s barely finished the sentence when I’m begging him again, a writhing mess.
I want his hand between my legs, but he starts at the ball of my shoulder, of all places. His touch is featherlight.
“I’ve wanted to touch you for so long,” he whispers, then firmer, “I never did. I wouldn’t.”
I smile at him and arch up, unconsciously searching for his lips against mine. “I know,” I assure him, and I do. I know he wouldn’t. The thrill of a victorious hypothesis about his character runs through me and I file it away as one more thing I know for sure about him.
He is good. He will take care of me. He will not hurt me.
I want to know his name.
“You’re so beautiful,” He pushes hair away from my face, and I think for a moment that he might take off the mask, but he doesn’t. “You’re always so beautiful.”
His hand travels to my throat, finds the shape of it in his gentle grasp, then sweeps down the centre of my breasts, over the silk of the pyjama top. He stays stubbornly between the valley of my breasts, tracing the bone, and I wriggle beneath him.
Something that sounds close to a laugh falls from him and he lowers his weight pressing his hips against mine to keep my still.
He’s wearing jeans that’s the first thing I notice. The second is that he is warm. The third is that he is exceptionally hard, and his erection is pressing into my pelvic bone.
“Oh god,” I breathe. I adjust my arm to increase contact with him, the dildo somewhat slipping out of me with my hand holding it steady. I have a hand splayed on his solid chest and the other braced against his shoulder.
“I could fuck you so nicely right now,” he murmurs, and I clench around silicone. I nod desperately, and he goes on, as if he needs to convince me, “You’d like it.”
Obviously.
“Yes. Please,”
“Not yet,” he repeats, and then even worse: “Soon.”
I groan and he strokes down my stomach to soothe me. “But you’ve been so good. So patient for me.”
I perk up at this, intrigued.
“You haven’t come,” he tells me, matter of fact. He presses his face into the sensitive skin of my mating gland again, “You smell like you haven’t come. It’s wrecking me.”
I wait a beat for him to ask me what I’ve been dying to hear him ask all night.
“Can I make you come, Madison?”
ero
