Page 18 of Hell's Secret Omega

MEZOR

Cyrianus’sheat scent is so powerful that it cuts right through the bitter tar of whatever he’s been using to hide it, sweet and rich and heady. Mezor breathes shallowly. He wants to pull it in, to pull the little demon close and bathe in that scent.Vergis.He knew. In his gut, he knew.

But he’s not that kind of primus. He doesn’ttake. The rigid set of Cyrianus’s shoulders tells him to tread carefully.

He holds still and waits.

Finally Cyrianus lifts his face, and the sheer will in his eyes makes Mezor want to rip the King’s door off its hinges and put his hands on that pale neck. He had to have known Cyrus was a vergis. Of course he did. And he exploited the little demon anyway—or perhaps because of it.

“Help me, then.” Cyrianus tilts his head as if he’s expecting a blow. His jaw is steely, but his eyes are frightened. “That’s what I need. A primus to make everything easier, just this once.”

His eyes flicker away as if he can’t bear to face Mezor’s answer. This time, Mezor gives in to his urges. He grips Cyrianus’s chin in his hand. His cheeks are soft as silk. His eyes fly to Mezor’s face in shock, and his scent flares.

A primus to keep him from agony. How can Mezor resist such a plea?

“I accept.” He leans in, his gaze flickering to those soft lips pulled into a tight bow. “I’m going to touch you now, Cyrianus.”

A catch of breath. His silver eyes widen fractionally. “My name is Cyrus. Don’t call me by that. It’s the King’s name for me.”

Mezor pauses. “You mean, the name he gave you.”

“Yes. When he made me a spy, he took away my common name and gave me this one.” Cyrus takes in a shaky breath. “Like a joke. Close to my true name, but not really.”

He lets his hand trace Cyrus’s slim neck, his collar, the rough material of his coat. “Then in my hands you’re Cyrus.”

His hand drifts lower. The heat of Cyrus’s skin bleeds through his clothing.

Cyrus arches into his touch.

So responsive.His blood thrums. He flicks the buttons of Cyrus’s pants and parts the folds. Cyrus’s eyes are on him still. His lips part. Mezor waits to be toldyes.

Cyrus’s face changes fractionally, his tongue coming out to swipe his upper lip. Mezor has a sudden flash of understanding. It’s not just heat. Cyruswantsthis.

Just as much as Mezor does.

“Touch me,” Cyrus orders, a spark of hunger flaring in his eyes.

When Mezor’s palm closes around the hot flesh of his cock, he moans. He’s already wet from root to tip with fluid and slick. Mezor can’t resist pulling his hand out to taste. It’s sweet and tangy, bursting on his tongue like the ripest fruit. Cyrus whines impatiently. His legs part, knees nudging Mezor’s thighs.

“Don’t stop.”

Mezor pulls out his cock and his tender, swollen balls and engulfs them in his fist gently, stroking with slow, luxuriouspumps. Cyrus writhes. His cock pulses in Mezor’s hand. His need rises like a physical presence in the room, a serpent coiling around them. Mezor bends and swipes his tongue across the hot, tender flesh. The flavor erupts on his tongue again and he sucks, unable to resist. Cyrus lets out a choked-off gasp. Suddenly, Mezor’s mouth is full of come. It spills down his throat like nectar. Cyrus’s claws dig into his shoulders and his belly heaves in front of Mezor’s eyes.

Mezor’s cock brands the inside of his pants like an iron. His mind goes blank. His primus roars through his blood at the taste of vergis come.

Claim. Mark. Own.

He releases Cyrus, whose cock is still stiff against his stomach—he’s not satisfied yet, of course. Mezor will have to fuck him before the heat wave will go down. Instinct already snarls at him to pin Cyrus down and fill him, telling him how soft and needy the little demon will be. The first taste of his sweet seed went straight to Mezor’s deepest instincts.

Without a mate, temporary or otherwise, a vergis’s heat will build and build until it reaches an agonizing peak. There is no relief they can give themselves. Eventually it will end, but not before their body and spirit are exhausted of hope.

Not this time, though.

“Fuck me,” Cyrus pants. “Now.”

He fumbles at his pants, exposing soft stretches of silvery skin that gleam in the torchlight. A sheen of sweat covers most of his body. Mezor’s cock pulses with desire. Already, he feels his proto-knot swelling. Cyrus isn’t in the depths of heat yet—his arousal is not the sheer need it will become later. Much as he wants to pin Cyrus down and fill him until he howls, Mezor wants—needs—to know just how much Cyrus wants this.

In a clumsy, demanding move Cyrus scrambles down from the bench and straddles his thighs. His sweet slick smears acrossMezor’s pants. He grabs Mezor’s shoulders. He looks terrified. “I’ve never…”

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