The first stroke nearly makes me groan aloud. I'm harder than I've been in months, maybe years. Pre-cum already beads at the tip, and I use it to slick my palm, trying to match my rhythm to the movement of her fingers on the screen. She's building faster now, her free hand moving up to squeeze her breast through that thin fabric, and I can see her back starting to arch.
Through the speakers, I hear it—my name, muffled by the pillow but unmistakable.
"Mavi."
Just a whisper, mixed with Cole's name and River's and Austin's, but it shoots through me like lightning.
She's thinking about us.
About me.
While she fucks herself with those slender fingers, she's imagining it's me touching her, me inside her, me making her feel this good.
My hand moves faster, squeezing the base of my cock to stave off the orgasm that's already building. I want to make this last, want to watch her fall apart completely. On screen, her movements become more frantic. Her hips roll up to meet her fingers, and even through the pillow I can hear her gasps getting higher, more desperate.
The wet sounds of her fingers working her pussy fill the attic, obscene and perfect.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting to keep silent. If anyone heard me up here, if they knew what I was doing... But I can't stop. Can't look away from the screen where Willa's whole body has gone taut, trembling on the edge. Her fingers move in quick circles over her clit now, her other hand pinching her nipple through the fabric, and I know she's close. So fucking close.
"Come on," I murmur, the words guttural and shaking as I stare at her through the grainy feed. My hand pistons faster over my cock, pre-cum already slicking the path; I’m barely holding back from just losing it right here and now. "Let go, baby. Let me see you."
She’s close—I can tell by the way her hips buck up, greedier, more demanding, like she's chasing something just out of reach. Her knees collapse inward, squeezing her wrist, and her other hand claws the sheets, white-knuckled and desperate. She’s biting the pillow hard, hair fanned in a copper halo, but I can still hear the helpless whines building up in her chest as her rhythm turns frantic. God, she’s beautiful when she’s unraveling. I want to be the one to pin her wrists, the one making her sob and squirm, but this is all I get: a pixelated window into her most private ache. It’s the purest torture, and it only feeds the sick compulsion that’s rooted deep in my gut.
I keep whispering to her, filthy encouragements that no one will ever hear.
“That’s it, sweetheart… Give it to me. Show me how you fall apart.”
I imagine my hands in place of hers, my teeth on her neck, my scent everywhere until her breathless cries are all for me. The fantasy burns brighter than the sun, white-hot and ruthless. She’s not even my Omega, not officially, and the guilt gnashes itsteeth in the back of my skull, but I can’t stop. I won’t. For once, I want to see something through to the end. Even if it means crossing a line I can never uncross.
Her body is a living prayer on the screen: arching, trembling, caught between agony and surrender. I match my rhythm to hers, desperate for that final connection even as the attic closes in tighter around me, thick with the animal rank of my own need. The sounds from the speaker—her voice breaking on my name, the wet slap of her hand between her thighs—ratchet me higher, until the whole world narrows to this:the pulse in my fist, the blurry glow of her skin, the rhythm of her pleasure matching mine beat for beat.
I fist my cock harder, the pressure building at the base, and I want her to see what she does to me—to know that she’s not alone in this hunger, that I ache for her with every atom in my body.
The control room smells of dust and ozone and my own sweat, air sharp with longing and shame.
My heart pounds, heavy and erratic, as I urge her on through clenched teeth:
“Come for me, Willa. That’s it. Don’t fight it.”
My voice is a fucking wreck, broken down to its rawest parts. I hold her gaze, willing her to meet my eyes through the goddamn feed, to feel me on the other side of everything.
As if she heard me, her back bows off the bed. Even with the pillow muffling her cries, I can hear the intensity of her orgasm. Her thighs clamp around her hand, hips jerking with each wave of pleasure, and the sight pushes me over the edge. I come hard, spurting over my fist as I watch her writhe on the screen.
My knot swells partially at the base of my cock, aching for the tight grip of an Omega's pussy, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from howling at the intensity of it.
For a moment, we're both still—her collapsed on the bed, me slumped in my chair, both of us panting in our separate spaces. Guilt crashes over me like cold water, but it's mixed with something else.Satisfaction, maybe.Or recognition of a hunger I've been trying to ignore since the day she arrived at our ranch.
On screen, Willa slowly removes the pillow from her face, and even through the camera's limited resolution, I can see the mix of pleasure and shame painting her features.
She looks soft and vulnerable and absolutely beautiful, and my chest tightens with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
What the fuck have I done?
On the screen, Willa sits up slowly, like she's remembering how to inhabit her body.
Her crop top is twisted, revealing a strip of pale stomach, and her hair looks like it's been through a tornado. She glances around the room with that particular combination of satisfaction and shame that comes from solo pleasure—I know the look because I'm wearing it too. Her hands smooth down her hair, a gesture so normal and human it makes my chest tight.
I glance down at my own situation—cock still half-hard despite the release, cum cooling on my fist and splattered across my jeans.