The glow of the arcade, the taste of synthetic sugar, the echo of her off-key song—it all still thrummed in my veins like a pleasant toxin as we walked the mall's quieter upper concourse. The peace was a fragile, beautiful thing, wrapping around us as we admired the abstract sculptures under soft gallery lighting. Althea swung our clasped hands, her head resting against my shoulder, a picture of contented exhaustion.
Then, she stopped dead. Her grip tightened on mine. "Oh! Haven!!"
The sudden exclamation, loud in the hushed space, sent a jolt of protective alarm through me. My senses snapped to high alert, scanning for a threat. "Hmm? What is it?"
She turned to face me, her eyes wide with theatrical dismay. "We forgot!"
"Forgot what?" My mind raced. Her wallet? Her new Polaroid? A piece of "research" from the food court?
"We need to buy you a dress!" she declared, as if announcing we'd left a child behind. "And also, we need matching pajamas! You remember?" She poked my chest for emphasis. "I said, I said on our first date at the L'Astre, when we had those fancy rare cooked food, that you would look good in a dress. And you had that whole… thing. That body thing. But I assured you! I even serenaded you!"
The memory flooded back: her admiring me at our date at L'Astre, singing of her childhood althea song made about how her "Alpha in a dress would be a amazing," trying to coax me out of a spiral of dysphoria so old and deep it felt like bedrock. She had seen the cracks in my armor, the places where the 'Alpha' mantle chafed against the woman beneath, and instead of exploiting them, she'd tried to soothe them with sugar and song.
"I remember," I said, my voice softer than I intended.
"Of course!" She beamed, her momentary dismay transforming into gleeful determination. "Since we are here, might as well, right? And I wanna see you wear a lot of stuff. Hehehe…" She grinned, a mischievous spark in her eyes that sent a different kind of alarm through me.
What is she planning now? The thought wasn't wary; it was electric with anticipation. This woman, with her schemes and her spontaneity, was a constant, delightful disruption. Maybe she just wanted to play dress-up. Maybe she had a deeper, sneakier agenda. Either way, I was hers to command. My tyrant, I thought, with a surge of possessive fondness.
"Lead the way, then," I said, allowing a small smile.
She did, with the focused energy of a general on a campaign. She bypassed the high-end boutiques with their minimalist displays and headed instead for a large, luxurious department store, a palace of consumption with plush carpets and hushed, attentive staff.
She marched straight to the women's section, her eyes scanning the racks with a critic's intensity. She pulled me past flowing silks and structured tweed, heading for a specific area. She stopped in front of a display of delicate lace and soft pastels, garments that seemed spun from clouds and innocence. She held up a tiny, ruffled blouse, her face a mask of confusion.
"Why are these so… small?" she muttered, checking the tag. "Omega Petite?" She looked at me, then back at the blouse, her nose scrunched. "Huh?"
The sound that escaped me was half-chuckle, half-sigh. God, she's adorable. The amnesia had wiped away not just our painful history, but the basic societal scaffolding of designations and their sartorial expectations. "This is the Omega section, Althea," I explained gently.
"Oh." She dropped the blouse as if it had shocked her. "Pfft. Right. Silly." But her smile had dimmed slightly. She took my hand again, a little tighter. "Lead me to the Alpha stuff, then."
I guided her to the other side of the floor. Here, the palette shifted dramatically. Charcoal, navy, black, ivory. The cuts were sharper, the fabrics heavier: structured trousers, tailored blazers, crisp dress shirts. Power suits in monotone. It was the uniform of my world.
Althea's face fell completely. She stalked along the racks, pushing hangers aside with growing frustration. "Why the hell are these mostly black? Or just, like, one single color? And so many pants!" She whirled to face me, gesturing wildly at the sea of somber power-dressing. "I want colors! I want fabric that moves! I want you in something that doesn't look like you're going to a boardroom or a funeral!"
Her outrage was so genuine, so passionate on my behalf, that it stole the breath from my lungs. She wasn't just shopping; she was staging a rebellion against the box the world had put me in. Look at this tyrant, I thought, my heart swelling with a dangerous, tender ache.
"Most Alpha-focused designers equate severity with strength," I said, a trace of my own old bitterness in my tone. "Black is powerful. Pants are practical. Color is often seen as… frivolous. A distraction."
"Well, it's stupid," she huffed, crossing her arms. "And boring." Then her expression cleared, a new idea dawning. "Don't worry, Haven. My former self must have had designers ready for me, right? To design my stage clothes and stuff. When I remember it, I will introduce you to them, I swear. They'll make you things that will make everyone's jaw drop." She vowed it with the solemnity of a blood oath. "But for now…" She turned back to the racks, her mission renewed. "Let's settle for this."
Her "settling" was a meticulous process. She rejected anything with shoulder pads that were too aggressive ("You have great shoulders, you don't need weaponized tailoring!"), anything that was too boxy ("I want to see your shape, you beautiful woman!"), and anything that was, in her words, "sad beige."
What she eventually gathered in her arms was a curated selection of dresses, all in black, but each with a subtle difference. A sheath dress with a teasing side slit. A wrap dress that promised to cinch at the waist. A sleek column dress with a plunging, yet elegant, neckline. A fit-and-flare with a skirt that would swish. And finally, a simple but devastatingly cut black cocktail dress, just above the knee.
"These," she announced to a hovering, discreet sales associate, a Beta woman with a professionally neutral expression. "We'd like to try these. In her size." She pointed at me.
"Of course, Madam. The VIP changing suites are this way."
The suite was a small, private salon away from the main floor, with velvet curtains, a tri-panel mirror, and a plush chaise lounge. Althea pushed me inside with the dresses and closed the curtain. "I'll be your audience. No peeking until you're ready!"
The first dress was the sheath with the side slit. Slipping into it was an act of vulnerability. The fabric was cool and smooth against my skin, a foreign sensation after years of wool and structured cotton. It fit perfectly, hugging my frame in a way that was undeniably feminine, emphasizing curves I usually armored flat. I took a steadying breath, feeling oddly exposed, and slid the curtain open.
Althea, who had been perched on the chaise, shot to her feet. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, Haven." Her voice was a reverent whisper. She walked a slow circle around me. "You look… powerful. But like, a goddess-of-the-moon kind of powerful. Not a CEO kind of powerful. The slit is perfect. It shows just enough leg to be devastating. You're so beautiful it should be illegal." Her eyes were shining, and her compliments weren't flattery; they were observations, delivered with the awe of someone discovering a masterpiece.
The flush of pleasure was immediate, warm and spreading. "You think so?"
"I don't think. I know. Next!"
The wrap dress came next. The act of tying it felt intimate. The V-neck was deep, the fabric soft and draping. When I opened the curtain, Althea made a choked sound. "Okay, that's… wow. That's your waist? I knew you had one under all those suits but… wow. You look soft and approachable, but in a 'I could still ruin your life if you cross me' way. It's a fantastic combination. Beautiful. Stunning. My heart can't take it."
Each word was a balm on an old, hidden wound. She was seeing me. Not the Alpha, not the Hartwell heir, not the monster. The woman.
The column dress was next. Severe in its lines, but the deep plunge made it a statement. I felt like a razor blade in a silk casing. Althea's jaw went slack. She simply stared for a full ten seconds. "Holy shit," she finally breathed. "You look like you should be on the cover of every magazine in the world. That neckline… Haven, you have a magnificent collarbone. And the way it just goes straight down… you're so elegant. So regal. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you."
I was beginning to feel drunk on her praise, on the sheer novelty of being adorned and admired in this specific way. The fit-and-flare made her clap her hands like a child. "It swishes! Look at it swish!" I gave a small twirl, and her delighted laughter filled the suite. "You look joyful! And your legs in that skirt… miles long. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful."
The final dress, the simple black cocktail dress, was perhaps the most dangerous. It was unadorned, relying entirely on cut and the body within it. It ended above the knee, the sleeves were cap sleeves, the back dipped low. It was… sexy. A word I rarely associated with myself outside of the context of dominance and possession. This was a different kind of sexy. Alluring. Magnetic.
I hesitated before opening the curtain. My pulse was a frantic drum against my ribs. I slid it back.
Althea didn't make a sound. Her grin vanished. All the color drained from her face, only to flood back in a deep, rosy blush that spread from her cheeks down her neck. Her eyes, wide and dark, traveled from the tips of my stiletto heels (which she'd insisted I keep on for the full effect) up my legs, over the curve of my hips, the narrow cinch of the dress at my waist, the swell of my breasts against the sleek fabric, and finally to my face. Her lips parted slightly. She looked… wrecked. Ravished by the mere sight of me.
Self-consciousness, a feeling I'd buried decades ago, surged up. I brought my hands to my face, peeking through my fingers. "How… how do I look?" My voice was smaller than I'd ever heard it.
She crossed the space between us in two swift strides. The air crackled, compressing with her intensity. She didn't answer with words. Her gaze locked on mine, burning with a possessiveness that mirrored my own, and she said, her voice a low, husky growl I'd never heard from her before, "You look like you're mine."
Then her hands were on me. One tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck, the other snaking around my waist, pulling me flush against her. She backed me into the changing suite, the curtain swishing closed behind us, plunging us into the intimate, mirror-lined space.
Her mouth crashed down on mine.
This wasn't the sweet, exploratory kiss from our first date. This wasn't the playful kiss in the arcade. This was a claiming. Deep, hungry, and devastatingly skilled. A moan was torn from my throat, swallowed by her. Her left hand slid down from my waist, palming my breast through the dress and my bra, her thumb circling the already pebbled peak with an arrogance that made my knees weak. She was copying me, mirroring the ways I had worshipped her body, and the student had become a terrifyingly adept master.
Her right hand was more audacious. It slid down over my hip, under the hem of the short dress, and slipped past the waistband of my underwear. Her fingers found my clit, already swollen and aching for her, and circled it with a precision that was maddening. A jolt of pure electricity shot up my spine.
"Althea…" I gasped against her lips, but she just kissed me deeper, her tongue mimicking the rhythm of her fingers. Then her fingers slid lower, dipping into my core, which was already embarrassingly wet for her. She didn't just enter; she explored, curling, seeking. And she found it—that perfect, hidden spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Fuck," I hissed, my head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud. My legs were shaking, my whole body trembling on the precipice. She held me up, her body a solid, demanding presence against mine. The sensations were overwhelming—the scratch of the dress fabric, the cool of the mirror on my back, the heat of her mouth, the wicked, knowing magic of her fingers. I was being unmade in a boutique changing room, and I had never felt more alive.
"I'm… Althea, I'm going to cum," I managed to choke out, the words a ragged whisper.
She didn't slow down. She fastened her pace, her fingers driving into me, her thumb a relentless pressure on my clit. Her eyes were open, watching my face, drinking in every twitch, every gasp. "Let go," she murmured against my lips. Her voice was a command, a promise, a caress all at once. "For me."
That did it. The orgasm ripped through me, violent and silent, my mouth open in a soundless scream as my body convulsed against her hand. Waves of pleasure, white-hot and shattering, crashed over me until I was boneless, held upright only by her arm around my waist and the mirror at my back.
As the tremors subsided, I became aware of a familiar, aching pressure lower down. My body, responding to the extreme stimulation and her overwhelming pheromones, was doing what it was designed to do. My shaft, a part of my anatomy I viewed with clinical detachment at best and dysphoric resentment at worst, materialized, hard and urgent against the confines of my underwear.
Althea felt it. She slowly withdrew her fingers, bringing them to her lips without breaking eye contact. She sucked them clean, a deliberate, obscene gesture, her tongue curling around her fingertips. A fresh bolt of lust, sharp and desperate, lanced through my spent body. Where did she learn this? When did she become this brazen, beautiful seductress?
"Can I go down, Haven?" she asked, her voice thick with desire, her eyes glazed but focused.
The question, so blunt, so eager, in this context, stole what little breath I had left. "Are you sure, Althea?" It was a feeble protest, my body already screaming its answer.
She just nodded, a determined set to her jaw. Then she was sinking to her knees on the plush carpet of the suite.
The sight alone was nearly enough to finish me. My powerful, pop-star wife, on her knees before me, her hands pushing up the short skirt of the black dress. She freed my length from my underwear, and I watched, mesmerized and horrified and utterly aroused, as she leaned in.
She didn't hesitate. She first nuzzled the base, then placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the tip. A shudder wracked my frame. Then her tongue darted out, licking a slow, torturous stripe from root to tip. The sensation was alien and intensely erotic. The wet heat of her mouth, the sight of her pink tongue against my skin… I tangled my hands in her bun, not to guide, but to anchor myself.
She took me into her mouth then, and the world narrowed to that point of contact. Her mouth was so warm, so soft, yet firm. She began to move, up and down, establishing a rhythm that was confident and eager. The sounds were filthier than anything I'd ever imagined—soft slurps, wetlicks, her gentle hums of pleasure vibrating through me. She was enjoying this. Enjoying me.
"Your voice is even hotter when you command me, Haven," she whispered, pulling off for a moment, her lips swollen and glistening. "But right now, I'm in charge. And I command you to feel good. So let go."
How dare she say that. The thought was a flash of instinctive, possessive ire. I am the one who commands. But the fire of it melted instantly into a pool of molten arousal. But shit, she's talking me through it. It turns me on more. I love being ordered by this woman. The paradox of it, the surrender within the power, was dizzying.
She took me deep again, her throat working around me. She was trying to deepthroat me, her nose pressing into my lower abdomen. At the same time, her hand found its way back between my legs, her fingers slipping inside me again, coaxing another climax from my oversensitive body. The dual sensation was mind-breaking. Pleasure coiled tight in my gut, a spring ready to snap.
"I'm cumming, Althea," I whispered, a warning and a plea.
She redoubled her efforts, her mouth sucking fiercely, her throat fluttering, her fingers curling inside me. The orgasm this time was different—deeper, fuller, a torrent rather than a wave. I came into her mouth with a broken groan, my hips jerking involuntarily. And she… she took it. I felt her swallow, once, twice, her throat working around me until I was spent, soft and trembling.
She released me with a soft 'pop' and stood up, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She looked up at me, her eyes dark and satisfied, a smug little smile playing on her swollen lips. "Haven," she said, her voice hoarse. "That's a lot."
Before I could process that, her hands went to the button of her own skinny jeans. She pushed them and her underwear down in one frantic motion, stepping out of them. She was bare, glistening. "I'm so wet, Haven," she confessed, guiding my hand to her core. "From that. And from seeing you in all those dresses earlier. Can you fuck me here?"
The audacity. The glorious, breathtaking audacity. My shy, amnesiac songbird was gone, replaced by a demanding, sensual creature who knew exactly what she wanted and was unafraid to take it. The predator in me roared in approval.
"Okay," I said, my own voice gravel. "But you need to lower your voice, though. Remember, Althea, we are in a public place. And you're a public figure." It was the last shred of my sanity, a pathetic attempt at propriety.
She pouted, a devilish glint in her eye. "Only if you call me a good girl."
A growl rumbled in my chest. "My good girl," I purred, the words dripping with dark promise. "Now bend over for me."
She obeyed instantly, turning and placing her hands flat against the mirrored wall, presenting herself to me. The sight was art. I positioned myself behind her, my hands on her hips, and pushed into her in one smooth, deep stroke.
She gasped, her head falling forward, her back arching. "Haven…"
She was impossibly tight, impossibly wet, hot silk clamping around me. I began to move, setting a steady, deep rhythm. The sounds were obscene in the small space: the slick slap of our bodies meeting, the wet sounds of her accepting me, our ragged breaths. I didn't care if anyone heard. Let them hear. I would buy this store. I would buy the entire mall. I would have anyone who dared whisper silenced forever.
I thrust into her, my focus singular. Her inner muscles began to flutter and tighten around me, a sure sign she was close. "That's it, come for me, my good girl," I grunted, increasing my pace, driving into her with punishing force.
She cried out, a muffled sound she tried to bite into her own arm, as her orgasm seized her. Her body clenched around me like a vice, milking me, pulling my own release from the depths of my being. I came with a guttural groan, my knot swelling and locking us together, filling her as I pulsed inside her. We stayed like that, joined, panting, for long minutes, the world outside the curtain ceasing to exist.
When my knot subsided enough for me to slip out, I didn't let her go. I turned her around, lifted her effortlessly, and pressed her back against the wall. I slid into her again in this new position, her legs wrapping around my waist, her face level with mine.
"Fuck, Haven," she breathed, her eyes wide as I began to move again, shallow, deep thrusts in this intimate embrace. "You're so deep. I think… I think I'm getting addicted to you. And this." Her expression flickered with sudden uncertainty. "I'm sorry. Am I… forcing you?"
The question, so vulnerable amidst the carnality, pierced the fog of my lust. What is she saying? I loved this. I adored this bold, adventurous side of her. This was the Althea who was truly coming alive, claiming her desires, claiming me.
I kissed her, deep and reassuring. "You're not forcing me, my love," I said against her lips, between thrusts. "I want this. I want all of you. Every bold, brave, hungry part." I punctuated each phrase with a roll of my hips, watching her eyes roll back in pleasure. "You could never force me. I am yours. Voluntarily. Completely."
Relief and renewed passion washed over her face. She kissed me back, moaning into my mouth as I drove us both toward another, slower, sweeter climax. When it came, it was a shared sigh, a trembling union against the wall.
We disentangled ourselves, a messy, sticky, glorious process. We cleaned up as best we could with tissues from her purse, our movements slow, sated. I carefully took off the black cocktail dress—the dress—and folded it. The others I left on their hangers. My ordinary clothes felt like a disguise after what had just transpired.
As we stepped out of the suite, I caught the eye of a discreetly positioned store security guard—one of mine, always shadowing at a distance. I gave a slight, imperceptible nod toward the changing suite. He nodded back once. The cleanup crew would handle any… evidence. Money would ensure silence.
At the counter, as the sales associate began ringing up the single dress Althea had chosen, I reached for my wallet inside my jacket. It wasn't there. A cold spike of alarm was immediately followed by warm, smug amusement.
Althea was already handing over her own card, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. "Ha! You just need a little distraction." She winked at me, the picture of innocence and mischief.
Did she…? My mind replayed the frenzy in the changing room, her hands roaming everywhere. She did. She pickpocketed me. This sneaky, brilliant, audacious woman. She'd played me perfectly, orchestrating a scenario so overwhelming I'd be off my guard. A laugh, genuine and surprised, bubbled up in my chest. She didn't just underestimate me; she outmaneuvered me. And I had never been more proud, more hopelessly in love.
"You're a menace," I said, shaking my head as she signed the receipt with a flourish.
"Your menace," she corrected, taking the bag.
Our final stop was a cozy-looking boutique specializing in luxury loungewear. Here, Althea's mood shifted back to pure, goofy delight. She went straight to a display of printed pajama sets. Her eyes lit up. "Dinosaurs!"
She chose two identical sets in a soft, brushed cotton. The pattern featured cartoonish T-Rexes in various silly poses, wearing party hats and holding balloons. She held one up, sizing it against herself. "This is mine." Then she grabbed a significantly larger size from the pile. "And this… is for you." She held it up to my chest, her eyes sparkling with glee.
The thought of me, Haven Hartwell, in dinosaur pajamas was so absurd it was sublime. "We're not trying them on?" I asked, a little disappointed. After the dressing room escapade, the idea of a more innocent, playful modeling session held its own appeal.
She giggled, a blush tinting her cheeks. "After all that? I think we'd never leave the store. And I'm hungry for real food now. Besides," she added, leaning in conspiratorially, "I want to see the full effect at home, when there's no risk of us getting… distracted again." She paid for them herself again before I could even think of reaching for the wallet she'd stolen back to me.
The walk back to the car was a study in contrasting energies. The mall was closing, the lights dimming. We walked through the now-deserted indoor gardens, our footsteps echoing. Althea was buzzing with a quiet, sated energy, swinging the shopping bags, her body frequently leaning into mine. I was wrapped in a deep, possessive calm, my arm firmly around her shoulders, my senses still hyper-alert but now attuned only to her.
"So," she said, her voice playful. "A tycoon in a T-Rex party. Who would have thought?"
"Only you," I replied, kissing her temple. "Only you could conceive of such a thing."
"I think you'll look adorable. Fierce, but adorable."
"I have a reputation to maintain, you know."
"Pfft. Your reputation is 'scary rich lady who is secretly wrapped around her wife's little finger.' The dinosaur pajamas will just confirm it."
I chuckled. "And what does that make you?"
"The brilliant, talented, and incredibly lucky wife who gets to unwrap said scary rich lady from her suits and put her in dinosaur pajamas." She grinned up at me. "I win."
"You always do," I murmured, meaning it in every conceivable way.
The drive home was dark and intimate. She played soft music from her phone, songs from before her time, old love ballads. She sang along softly, her voice a gentle hum in the confined space. Her hand rested on my thigh, a point of burning, comforting contact.
"Today was perfect," she sighed contentedly, looking out at the city lights streaking by. "Even the… unplanned parts."
"Especially the unplanned parts," I said, glancing at her. The memory of her on her knees, of her against the mirror, flashed behind my eyes, and my grip tightened on the steering wheel.
She caught my look and her blush returned. "Yeah. That." She was silent for a moment. "I… I didn't plan that. The dress part, yes. But the… escalation. It just happened. I saw you, and I just… needed you."
"I know," I said. "I felt the same."
When we got home, we fed Sushi (who received extra treats as promised), dismissed a smiling Mrs. Li, and retreated to our sanctuary. The domestic routine felt sacred after the public transgressions. We changed into our new pajamas in separate bathrooms, a tacit agreement to extend the anticipation.
When I walked into the bedroom, she was already there, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. She was swimming in her dinosaur pajamas, the sleeves covering her hands, the pants pooling around her ankles. She looked up, and her face broke into a radiant, unrestrained smile.
"Oh my god, Haven. You look…" She burst into giggles, holding her stomach.
I looked down at myself. The soft cotton felt strange against my skin. The T-Rex in a party hat on my chest seemed to mock my entire existence. And I didn't care. Her laughter was worth any loss of dignity. I struck a pose, hands on my hips, doing my best to look stern. "Do I frighten you?"
This sent her into further peals of laughter. "You look like a gangster who lost a bet! A very, very cute gangster." She held out her arms. "Come here, my fearsome predator."
I crawled onto the bed, settling beside her. She immediately curled into my side, her head on my chest, right over the jubilant dinosaur. We lay in silence for a while, the events of the day settling around us like snow.
"Haven?" Her voice was small in the dark.
"Hmm?"
"About earlier… in the changing room. Did I… force you into that? I mean, I kind of just attacked you. And then I asked for… everything. I didn't even give you a chance to say no." Her body was tense against mine. "I'm sorry."
I shifted, tilting her chin up so I could see her eyes in the dim light from the ensuite. They were worried, sincere. My heart clenched. Even in her boldness, she was so careful with me, so afraid of overstepping, of becoming the villain she once was.
"Althea," I said, my voice firm and clear. "Look at me. You did not force me. You could not force me. What happened was… mutual combustion. I wanted you the moment I saw your face when I stepped out in that last dress. I wanted you when you kissed me. I wanted everything you did. You didn't take anything I wasn't desperate to give."
I brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Your boldness… it's a gift. It makes me feel desired in a way I never have been. It makes me feel seen. Not as an Alpha, not as a CEO. As a woman you want. Please, never apologize for wanting me. Never doubt that I want you just as fiercely, just as completely."
Tears glistened in her eyes, but she was smiling. "Really?"
"Really." I kissed her, soft and lingering. "You are my good girl. My brave, beautiful, insatiable girl. And you are all mine."
"And you," she whispered, tracing the silly dinosaur on my chest, "are all mine. My scary, beautiful, secretly-squishy Haven."
We talked then, in hushed tones, as the moon climbed higher. We talked about the silliness of the pajamas, the thrill of almost getting caught, the taste of bubble tea pearls. We teased each other mercilessly. She called me a "softie in a dinosaur costume." I called her a "siren in a food court." The banter was easy, warm, a gentle counterpoint to the earlier intensity.
The silence of the bedroom was a living thing, thick with the day's echoes and the soft cotton of our ridiculous pajamas. Althea's weight against my side was a grounding comfort, her breathing slowing into the rhythms of near-sleep. But beneath the calm, a current hummed. The memory of her in the changing room, bold and demanding, was a brand on my mind. My body, sated just hours before, was already stirring again, a low ache of want that never truly left me in her presence.
Her voice, a sleep-soft murmur, broke the quiet. "Haven?"
"Hmm?"
"You wanna continue where we left off earlier?" She shifted, turning her head to look up at me. In the dim light, her eyes were dark pools of intent, all traces of drowsiness gone. A sly smile played on her lips. "I know you wanna undress this pajama. Or not… hmmm?"
The challenge was there, wrapped in that playful, singsong tone. My tyrant, issuing a decree. A shiver that had nothing to do with cold traced its way down my spine. "Is that so?"
"It is," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I can feel your heart. It's beating like you're still running from those zombie things." Before I could formulate a response, she moved.
It was a fluid, decisive motion. In one smooth motion, she swung a leg over my hips, straddling me, her weight settling on my thighs. Her small hands planted themselves on my chest, right over the jubilant T-Rex. She looked down at me, her hair a messy curtain framing her face, her expression a mix of fond amusement and pure, unadulterated hunger.
"My turn," she declared, and then her mouth was on mine.
This kiss was different from the frenzy in the store. It was deep, explorative, but controlled. She was setting the pace. Her tongue swept into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me, and I yielded completely, a soft groan escaping me. She kissed me until I was lightheaded, until my hands came up to grip her hips through the soft cotton, and then she broke away, trailing her lips along my jaw.
"You taste like home," she murmured, her breath hot against my skin. "And peppermint toothpaste." A giggle bubbled up in her throat, the goofiness of our pajamas clashing delightfully with the intensity in her eyes.
Then her mouth found my neck. She didn't just kiss it; she worshiped it. Open-mouthed kisses, soft licks along the column of my throat, gentle nips at the sensitive spot just below my ear. Each touch sent jolts of electricity straight to my core. My head fell back against the pillows, offering her more.
"Your skin is so soft here," she whispered, her words vibrating against my pulse point. "So different from when you're in your suits. All that armor gone. Just you. My Haven."
Her hands weren't idle. They fumbled with the buttons of my dinosaur pajama top, her movements slightly clumsy with urgency. "Stupid… cute… buttons," she grunted between kisses on my collarbone. Finally, she parted the fabric, pushing it open. The cool air hit my skin, followed immediately by the heat of her gaze. I wasn't wearing anything underneath.
Her breath hitched. "God, you're beautiful."
Her hands, warm and slightly rough from her guitar strings, came up to cup my breasts. She held them reverently, her thumbs sweeping over my nipples, which hardened instantly into tight, aching peaks under her touch. A gasp tore from my lips.
"You like that?" she asked, her voice a low, husky thing that went straight to my head like strong liquor.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Tell me."
"I like it, Althea. Please."
She smiled, a wicked, triumphant thing. "Good." Then she lowered her head.
Her mouth on my breast was an exquisite shock. She didn't just suck; she devoted herself to it. She took one nipple into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip with a focused, rhythmic intensity. At the same time, her other hand resumed its attention on my other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between her fingers. The dual sensations, one soft and sucking, one sharp and bright, had me arching off the bed, a broken cry lodged in my throat.
How dare she be this good at this, a part of my mind raged, even as my hips bucked beneath her. How dare she reduce me to this trembling, wanton thing with just her mouth and her hands. But the dominant, obsessive thought that overrode all others was: She's talking me through it. She's commanding me. And I love it. I love being ordered by this woman.
She switched sides, giving the same lavish attention to my other breast, lavishing it with her tongue and lips until it was just as sensitized and wet. "So perfect for me," she moaned against my skin, the sound sending fresh tremors through me. "All mine to taste."
Her left hand began a slow, torturous journey south. It slid over my stomach, making the muscles there quiver, and slipped beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms. Her fingers slid through the slick heat that had already gathered there, and I jerked against her touch.
"So wet for me already," she purred, lifting her head to look me in the eyes. Her lips were swollen, glistening. "Just from me sucking on your tits? You really are obsessed with me, aren't you, Haven?"
"Yes," I admitted, the truth ripped from me. "Completely."
Her smile was blinding. "I know." Then her fingers found my clit.
She didn't just touch it. She claimed it. Her fingers circled the swollen bud, applying a perfect, maddening pressure—not too hard, not too soft. It was as if she'd mapped my body in the changing room and now had the blueprint memorized. My legs fell open wider, an involuntary surrender.
"That's it," she coaxed, her voice a hypnotic rhythm matching the circles she drew. "Let me feel you. Let me hear you."
I was already panting, my hands fisting in the sheets. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding through my folds, gathering wetness, and then pushed inside me with two confident fingers.
I cried out, my back bowing. "Althea!"
"I'm here," she soothed, curling her fingers inside me, finding that exquisite spot with unerring accuracy. She began to move them in a slow, deep rhythm, in and out, while her thumb continued its relentless circles on my clit. It was too much. It was everything. The visual of her above me, disheveled and intent, the feel of her inside me, the sound of her voice—it was a sensory overload that had me teetering on the edge.
"I'm… I can't…"
"You can," she ordered, her voice losing its playful edge, becoming pure, alpha command. It shouldn't have been possible from an Omega, but from her, it was law. "Look at me, Haven. Look at my face while I make you come."
My eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open. I met her gaze. Her pupils were blown wide with desire, her cheeks flushed. She was watching me unravel, and she was revelling in it.
"Come for me, my Alpha," she whispered, and her words were the final trigger.
The orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering explosion that ripped through every nerve ending. I convulsed around her fingers, a strangled gasp my only sound as pleasure, white-hot and absolute, consumed me. Waves of it pulsed through me, each one wringing a tremble from my body, my vision hazing at the edges. Through it, I held her gaze, captive to the triumph and tenderness I saw there.
As the last tremors subsided, she slowly, gently withdrew her fingers. She brought them to her lips, sucking them clean with a loud, deliberate pop, her eyes never leaving mine. The obscenity of it, the sheer possessive pride, made a weak aftershock ripple through me.
"You are so fucking beautiful when you fall apart," she said, her voice rough. Then, before I could even catch my breath, she moved.
In a swift motion, she shimmied out of her own pajama bottoms, leaving them in a puddle on the bed. Then she shifted her body, moving up until she was kneeling over my face, her thighs framing my head. The scent of her, musky and sweet and entirely Althea, filled my senses. She was glistening, bare and beautiful, her core hovering just above my mouth.
She looked down at me, her expression fierce and open. "Haven," she said, her voice trembling slightly with her own need. "Eat me. You deserve this. This is all yours. Take whatever you want from me."
The permission, the offering, spoken with such raw generosity, shattered any last remnant of my control. My hands came up to grip her hips, pulling her down onto my waiting mouth.
I didn't hesitate. I licked a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit, gathering her taste. She was sweet, with a tangy edge, intoxicating. A guttural moan fell from her lips, and her hands fisted in my hair.
"Yes… oh god, yes, Haven. Just like that."
I dove in, feasting on her with a hunger that matched her earlier intensity. I used my tongue to lap at her folds, to circle her clit, to delve into her entrance. I worshipped her with my mouth, learning the rhythms that made her thighs shake and her cries grow louder. I nudged her clit with the tip of my nose as I licked deeper, and she ground herself against my face, seeking more friction, more pressure.
"Damn, Haven… your face feels so good," she panted, her hips moving in a desperate rhythm. "You're eating me so good. Fuck… your tongue… right there!"
I focused on her clit, sucking it into my mouth, flicking my tongue over the sensitive bud until her words dissolved into incoherent pleas. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and her inner muscles clenched around me like a vise.
"I'm gonna… Haven, I'm gonna come on your face!" she warned, her voice a high, broken thread.
I doubled my efforts, my tongue and fingers working in tandem, drunk on her taste and her sounds. Her climax hit her suddenly. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure ecstasy, her body bowing as she convulsed over my mouth. Her release flooded my tongue, sweet and abundant, and I drank every drop, holding her hips steady as she rode out the waves against my face.
When her tremors finally subsided, she collapsed to the side, breathing ragged. For a moment, there was only the sound of our panting in the dark room. Then, she pushed herself up on wobbly arms and looked down at me.
A slow, dazed smile spread across her face. "You look so pretty, Haven," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "With my cum glistening on your face. So pretty." She leaned down, her face inches from mine. "Let me taste myself on you."
She kissed me then, deep and filthy, her tongue sweeping into my mouth to share her own taste. It was the most intimate, possessive kiss we'd ever shared. When she pulled back, we were both breathless.
"Now," she said, her eyes burning with renewed fire. She moved down the bed, settling on her back. She hooked her hands behind her knees, pulling her legs up and wide open, offering herself to me without a shred of modesty. With her other hand, she used her fingers to spread her own folds, opening herself completely. The sight was profoundly lewd and utterly captivating.
"I'm ready, Haven," she said, her voice a siren's call. "Come take me."
I was on her in an instant, shedding my pajama bottoms. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my shaft nudging against her slick heat. I looked into her eyes, seeing the trust, the challenge, the love.
I pushed inside.
The sensation of her, hot and tight and welcoming, after everything that had come before, was too much. I was still hypersensitive from my own climax, still reeling from the taste of her. I slid home in one smooth stroke, sheathing myself fully within her, and the overwhelming rightness of it, the sheer carnal perfection, tipped me over an edge I hadn't even known I was near.
A sharp, punched-out groan left my lips as my orgasm took me by surprise, rushing up from my toes and exploding through me. I came hard, my hips jerking erratically as I emptied myself into her, my vision going white.
As the pulses subsided, a wave of mortification washed over me. I was still inside her, still hard—my body's response to her was relentless—but I'd lost control almost immediately. I dropped my forehead to her shoulder, my breath coming in harsh gasps. "Fuck. Althea… I'm sorry. I already came. I love you. I love your pussy, it's just… you feel too good."
To my surprise, she laughed—a rich, joyful sound. Her hands came up to cradle my face, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement and adoration. "Oh, sweet, fierce Haven. That's the best compliment I've ever gotten." She brushed my hair back from my sweaty forehead. "But don't you dare stop."
She rolled her hips beneath me, a clear, demanding motion. I was still buried deep within her, and the movement sent a fresh jolt of sensation through my oversensitive body. "You can do better than that," she teased, a wicked grin on her lips. "Show me how much you need to claim me. I'm yours, Haven. I'm just waiting for you to show me what you need."
The playful taunt, the challenge in her eyes, acted like a shot of adrenaline. Mortification burned away, replaced by a surge of possessive determination. How dare she mock me, the dark part of my mind hissed, even as my body roared back to full, aching arousal. But shit, she's talking me through it. It turns me on more. I love being ordered by this woman.
I pulled back almost all the way and then slammed back into her, deep and hard.
"Ah! Yes!" she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Like that! That's what I need. Don't be gentle, Haven. I love it when you remind me who the Driver is."
Her words were gasoline on the fire of my lust. I set a brutal, pounding rhythm, my hips driving into her with enough force to shake the bed frame. The sounds were animalistic: the slap of skin, the wet, slick noise of our joining, our guttural cries. I was claiming her, marking her from the inside out, and she was meeting me thrust for thrust, her heels digging into the small of my back.
"Your voice," I grunted, leaning down to bite at her neck, "is even hotter when you command me, Althea."
"Good," she gasped, arching into my bite. "Then listen. Drive me until I break the speed limit. I trust you completely, Haven. Take me deeper."
I obeyed. I hooked her legs over my shoulders, changing the angle, sinking into her even more profoundly. She screamed, her body bowing off the bed. "Fuck! Right there! Haven, right there!"
I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, intertwining our fingers. With the other, I gripped her hip, holding her in place as I pistoned into her. "Look at my face," I demanded, my voice ragged. "See how messy I get just for you."
Her eyes, glazed with pleasure, focused on mine. She saw the sweat beading on my brow, the wildness in my gaze, the utter loss of composure. "Beautiful," she choked out. "You're so beautiful. I can't wait to be carrying your baby, feeling you inside me like this, Haven."
The image her words conjured—her, rounded with my child, me moving within her—was so profoundly powerful it stole my breath. My thrusts became erratic, more desperate. "You'll be the most beautiful mother," I vowed, kissing her fiercely.
"Make me scream your name so loud the neighbors hear your power, Haven!" she dared me, her own climax clearly building, her inner walls beginning to flutter and clutch at me.
I redoubled my efforts, my own release coiling tight again. "Scream for me, my love. My tyrant. My everything."
She did. As her orgasm ripped through her, she screamed my name, "HAVEN!" loud enough to echo in the large room, a raw, triumphant sound. Her body clenched around me like a fist, milking me, dragging my own climax from the depths of my soul. I came with a roar, my knot swelling and locking us together as I pulsed into her, filling her with my release in deep, endless waves. We were a tangled, sweating, shuddering mess, fused together as the most powerful aftershocks racked us both.
When I could finally move, I carefully rolled us to our sides, still joined. We lay there, panting, her back pressed to my chest, my arms wrapped around her. I nuzzled into her hair, breathing in her scent, now mingled with sweat and sex and us.
After a long while, her soft, giggling voice broke the silence. "Am I entertaining you enough, Haven?" She wriggled her hips slightly, and I hissed at the sensation. "Do you like my show?"
I tightened my arms around her, biting her shoulder gently. "You are a spectacle. A demanding, brilliant, exhausting spectacle. And I love every second of your show."
She hummed, satisfied. "Good." She was quiet for another moment. "You know… in the mall, when I saw you in that dress… it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. But the real you. The one under everything. And I just… needed to touch. To claim. Is that crazy?"
"No," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "It's the sanest thing I've ever heard. I feel the same every time I look at you."
She turned her head, seeking my lips for a soft, lingering kiss. When we parted, she whispered, "I'm your creature, Haven. You own all of me, even the parts I don't remember."
The confession, so vulnerable and absolute, wrapped around my heart like a vine. "And I am yours," I vowed against her lips. "Completely."
My knot had subsided. We were both sticky, spent, and utterly content. But the night wasn't over. The hunger between us was a living thing, banked but not extinguished.
Later, I took her from behind, her hands braced against the headboard, my name a prayer on her lips. Later still, she rode me slowly, her head thrown back, her body moving in a sinuous wave as she chanted, "Yours, yours, yours," until we both shattered again.
We made love until the first grey hints of dawn tinged the sky. We made love with words, with touches, with laughter muffled against skin. We made love until the dinosaur pajamas were lost in the tangle of sheets and our bodies were mapped with the evidence of our passion.
Finally, as true morning light began to filter through the curtains, we collapsed in a heap of limbs, too exhausted to move. I pulled the duvet over us, tucking her limp form against my side. She was asleep almost instantly, a soft, satiated smile on her lips.
I lay awake, holding her, watching the light grow stronger. The glow of the arcade, the taste of synthetic sugar, the echo of her off-key song—it all felt like a lifetime ago. This, here, was my reality. The scent of sex and her shampoo, the feel of her skin against mine, the absurdity of a cartoon T-Rex peeking from the discarded fabric on the floor.
My love, I thought, the darkness in me not a separate thing anymore, but a part of the whole, woven through with gold. You can have all the firsts. All the dresses. All the daring escapades. I will buy you the world and burn down anything that threatens your smile. You are my paradise, my tyrant, my home. And I am its eternal, devoted guardian.
As her sleep deepened, I began to plan. Not just for tomorrow, but for forever. A forever decorated with her polaroids, scented with vanilla strawberry and us, built upon the unshakeable, terrifying, magnificent foundation of this obsession we shared. A forever that, thanks to her courage and her love, would be filled with color, movement, and the joyful, messy, glorious sound of her voice leading me home.