Page 18 of Knot Their Safe Haven
I circled my clit with practiced movements, knew exactly what my body needed after years of solitary nights. My fingers slipped through abundant wetness, gathering slick before returning to that bundle of nerves that screamed for attention. I tried to imagine it was Knox's thick fingers, Adyani's elegant ones, Malcolm's precise touch.
The fantasy helped, but it also hurt. Because I knew that my own touch was a pale imitation of what it could be.Should be.My body had been designed for pack bonds, for multiple Alphas working in concert to drive me to heights I couldn't reach alone.
This solitary pleasure was like trying to fill an ocean with a teaspoon.
Still, I worked myself with desperate efficiency, chasing an orgasm that would bring relief but no satisfaction. My hips rolled against my hand, muscle memory from years of this same routine. The wet sounds of my fingers moving through slick filled the room, obscene and lonely in the darkness.
I was close—that familiar tension building in my core, my inner walls clenching around nothing.I pressed harder, moved faster, bit my lip until I tasted blood.
Just a little more, just?—
The orgasm hit like a slap rather than a wave, sharp and unsatisfying.
My body convulsed, back arching off the bed as I rode out the brief spasms, my whimpers not escaping my throat thanks to my pressed lips that yearn to keep what felt like a shameless act behind closed doors.
But even as the physical tension released, the emotional weight remained.
The emptiness remained.
"Fuck," I gasped again, tears sliding down my temples to wet the pillow.
This was my reality.
This was what I'd chosen—safety over satisfaction, control over connection.
Every night for God knew how long, I'd lie here in my expensive sheets in my fortified bedroom, touching myself to thoughts of men and a woman who wanted me but whom I wouldn't allow close enough to matter.
Because if they truly wanted to commit, wouldn’t they do everything to do exactly that?
Move fucking mountains for me?
Scream from the roof tops that they yearn for me to be theirs.
Tell this cynical world of rules that despite their ages, they wanted to claim an Omega like me.
That I, Velvet Morclair, was their safe haven…
The tears came harder now, great heaving sobs that shook my entire frame. I was thirty-nine years old, successful beyond measure, powerful in ways most Omegas could only dream of. I'd built an empire, saved countless lives, changed the very fabric of society.
And I was so fucking lonely I could die from it.
My body still thrummed with need despite the orgasm.
That was the cruel joke of Omega circuits—we weren't meant to be satisfied by our own touch. We were built for packs, for knots, for the overwhelming pleasure that came from being claimed by Alphas who knew how to play our bodies like instruments.
And maybe that’s what hurts more is because I’ll never experience what it’s truly like to be an Omega.
To experience the reverent lust, the submission to their compassion, the reminisce of being touch again and again with no limits.
I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have a nest. To get lost in each of your Alphas scents and feel an immense sense of safety in a closed space that you’d decorate and know is yours. I’d never enjoy the immense relief of having days if not weeks with just us. Being in a pack that truly made you their orbit and nothing else.
I’d have to accept that such an experience that so many Omega didn’t want yet at their young prime ages and were doing everything in their power to run from, was what I yearned to experience…even if it was just for one fleeting moment.
Instead, I had this.
Wine-soaked nights and fevered dreams.
Phantom touches that disappeared just when I needed them most.
