109
Zander POV
My breath catches just looking at him.
Gods. Mine.
I don't even have to say it out loud—he knows. It's in my eyes. It's in his. The air between us practically hums with it.
I pause for a moment, shifting my grip, and take his arm in mine, interlocking our fingers—right hand, the one wearing the ring.
My heart stutters.
I lift our joined hands, turning them slightly, and press a soft, lingering kiss right to his knuckles—right over the ring.
My ring. On him. On my omega.
I press another kiss there. And another.
He watches me, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, chest rising in little trembling breaths—and the way his breath catches when my lips brush the ring again—yeah. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and sweet, my body moving instinctively, wanting to be closer. Needing to be closer.
His legs part for me, willingly, easily, his hips shifting beneath mine, inviting me in.
I shift between his thighs, not breaking eye contact, keeping our fingers locked tight.
And then—
The head pushes through that tight ring of muscle—gods.
I close my eyes for a second, groaning low, but force them back open—I want to see him. I need him to see me.
He's already so slick, so warm. His body pulling me deeper, tighter.
When I finally sink all the way in—deep, buried in him—I groan again, the sound raw in my throat.
His heat, his softness, the way he holds me so perfectly—
It's too much. It's everything.
He gasps—his hands fly to my back, clutching, nails biting into my skin. His head tips back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a broken sound.
"Zander..." he breathes, voice wrecked.
I lean down, forehead to forehead, noses brushing, breath mingling.
"I know," I whisper hoarsely. "I feel it too."
I rock in deeper, slow, wanting him to feel every inch, every part of me.
And then I still. Just... feel.
The way he fits me. The rapid beat of his heart beneath my chest.
Our hands still locked tight between us, that ring pressed against my skin.
I slide my other hand behind his neck, fingers weaving into his hair, wanting to hold him closer. Closer.
I bury my face against the side of his neck, breathing him in.
I want him to melt for me. I want him to know—without a single doubt—how deeply he's loved. How completely he's mine.
When I lift my head again, meeting his eyes—gods.
He's looking right back. Lips parted. Eyes dark, glistening. Cheeks flushed.
Today... it feels like everything is heightened.
Like we've crossed some invisible threshold, and now every touch, every look, feels sharper, sweeter.
And when his hips shift—rolling up slightly, silently asking, begging—
I start to move.
Slow. Deep. Every stroke deliberate.
It's torturous and simultaneously everything.
I can't look away. Won't.
My thrusts stay slow, deep, making sure he feels every inch, every drag and pull.
He gasps again, hips rising to meet mine, body arching beneath me.
I lean down, kiss him—soft, deep. He parts for me instantly, tongue brushing mine, fingers tightening between our locked hands.
I break the kiss only to breathe, forehead pressing to his, lips brushing close.
"You're perfect," I whisper. "Mine."
He shudders.
"Yours," he breathes, voice thin and high.
The sounds between us—wet, rhythmic, soft gasps and broken moans—fill the room.
His other hand claws weakly at my back before sliding up to tangle in my hair.
He pulls me down again, kissing me fiercely now, desperate.
I lose myself in it—in him.
The way he feels around me—tight, wet, trembling. The way he sounds—little gasps and soft pleas. The way his body arches into mine, chasing every deep thrust.
It's overwhelming. Addictive.
I want more.
I want him falling apart beneath me, clinging to me, saying my name over and over.
I shift my angle slightly—
And his breath hitches, back arching, head tossing against the pillow.
"Zander—!"
There. Right there.
I keep that angle, keep moving, deep and steady. Watching him fall apart beneath me.
His eyes flutter shut, but I won't allow that.
I slow down just enough to murmur:
"Look at me."
And he does—barely—eyes dazed, pupils blown, so full of love it guts me.
My lips find his again, devouring, desperate.
And when he finally starts to tremble—hips jerking, breath coming in ragged little gasps—I know he's close.
I grip his hand tighter. "Come for me, love," I whisper against his lips. "Let me feel you."
His whole body tenses—eyes fluttering shut as he spills between us with a strangled moan, clinging to me like he'll drown without the anchor.
The way he pulses around me, so tight and hot—
It sends me over too.
I thrust deep one last time, groaning his name against his neck, coming hard inside him.
After, I stay there—buried deep, arms shaking, heart thundering.
I can't stop kissing him—his damp hair, flushed cheeks, temple, jaw. Over and over.
"I love you. I love you. I love you..."
He clings to me weakly, breath hitching, fingers still tangled in mine.
Neither of us moves.
I finally pull out, slow, the sound obscene—my hips jerk instinctively at the sensation.
He gasps softly, dropping back onto the bed in a boneless sprawl.
I smile, pressing one more kiss to his temple before slipping off the bed.
I grab a warm cloth from the bathroom and a fresh set of sheets. Only two days on the yacht and already four bedding changes—my omega's fault. So beautiful. So responsive.
I grin to myself. A testament, really, to how turned on I make him.
I've been told male omegas, when not in heat, usually need lube. But not my Ivan. Definitely not him.
When I step back into the room—
He's sitting up slightly, bare under the sheets, staring at his hand. At the ring.
Eyes starry.
My heart skips a beat.
I'm in love with him.