Faith & the Dead End Devils (Sweet Omegaverse, #8)(81)

"I want him to know how perfect we fit together," she whispered, holding my gaze.

I shuddered and sank to my knees, and the pair of them grew larger in my view, vaulted above me, divinity in a dingy bar bathroom. Did she understand what she was doing to me? I pressed my lips flat to keep my thanks bound in silence, spread my knees wider to play the supplicant and relieve the ache in my cock as it fought against the constraint of my jeans.

They kissed, slow and deep, Chance's arms circling around her waist as she melted into him. I bit my lip, waiting for it to bleed.

He pulled away from her gaze, one lazy hand drifting down between them, slipping under the hem of the shirt. "You're just too desperate to wait, that's what it's really about, isn't it?"

He called her “birdy,” and she sang as he sank his fingers inside of her, body arching, the slack open of her mouth as explicit as if I could see every inch of her.

I'd been around the debauchery of the club long enough to know that voyeurism was no special treat. What the fuck did I want to watch the others going at a woman for when I could be sinking into a pussy myself?

All of that changed when it was Chance I was watching. I could see almost nothing, just her face and his in the reflection of the mirror, his eyes fixed down at where he touched her. I didn't matter. Their scents cloyed together, sweetness clinging possessively to his freshness. Their breaths snagged and gasped and caught on the air.

And then he spoke.

"You need a knot, birdy?"

"No," she moaned.

"You want my fist?"

Fuck. Did he touch her that way? With everything he had? I didn't doubt it, only wished I earned as much.

"I want you," she whined, draping her arms around his shoulder, swaying forward with her lips tipped up in offering.

"You want cock," Chance corrected, and my chest burned at that cocky, careless smile on his lips for her.

"Yours," she vowed sweetly.

"Your pussy seems plenty wet for just my fingers," Chance teased.

Her breath was ragged, body nudging forward onto his touch. I twisted, shifted quietly on the floor, and stifled my moan as I finally found a view between them. Chance's arm was corded with muscle, tattoos flexing as he worked his fingers inside of her.

This was torture, to watch and not touch, not be the recipient of that probing, stretching touch. And I loved being tormented. I deserved to be left wanting, to be ignored and abandoned on this dirty bathroom floor for what I'd nearly said.

Because I knew better than anyone, anyone but her, how little it fucking mattered that Chance was a beta.

My own chest heaved with hers as Chance's fingers slipped free, then rose between them, gleaming with her slick and poised in front of her mouth. Her eyes caught mine as she darted forward, wrapping pink lips around his skin, moaning eagerly as she sucked him clean.

I hated her, and now I realized I liked her too. She was mean and sweet at the same time, unafraid of me, adoring Chance. A feral smile—nearly a grimace—spread across my lips. I shifted one hand from where it clutched at my thigh, rubbing over my groin, and her eyes flicked briefly down to the spot before returning to Chance.

"Do you know why he wants to watch you fuck me?" she murmured, ignoring the way I was stroking myself through my jeans.

"'Cause he's a worthless piece of shit who can't find satisfaction," Chance muttered.

I barked out a laugh and Chance flinched, but she caught his face in her hands and shook her head. "Because you're fucking perfect. And he'll never know what that feels like."

I moaned, bucking into my own palm as they dove into one another, arms tightening and fingers clutching, grappling with clothing and skin until she was shouting as he plunged inside. Chance's face fell forward into her shoulder, a bellow of pleasure buried into her skin that I coveted and memorized in one. His surrender was brief, and in the next moment his hand was wrapped around her throat, stretching her back, her eyelashes fluttering. He surged between her thighs in that beautiful sinuous thrusting that made womens' toes curl.

"Fuck, Faith," Chance muttered, his brow furrowed. "Your little cunt won't stop strangling me."

It took me a moment, in the haze of need, to realize he'd said her name. Faith. Pretty and hopeful.

She keened, knees raising, body bowing to press into Chance's thrusts. The mirror wiggled behind her head, distorting Chance's crazed expression, but hers was clear, eyes fixed to the point where they joined.

I reached for my zipper, unable to resist the urge to join them, to involve myself in some way, be a part of the moment as more than the invisible observer.

Chance's head whipped to the side, glare fierce on mine.

"No," he snapped.

Faith's lips were an O, and he didn't pause fucking her, didn't spare me another second before his focus returned to her, to her face, watching the way he made her feel. I could've ignored the instruction, but instead I leaned into the pain in my cock, in my fists, letting it rush through me. It was heady agony, as fierce as the pound of my heart.

"Tell me, birdy. Tell me whose pussy this is," Chance rasped.

"Yours," she cried eagerly, throat arching.

"That's right. Whose omega are you?"

She shuddered and sagged, a limp thrill I knew well. "Yours, Chance."