3. Mason

3

MASON

Startled, Henry turns at the sound of my footsteps. A slim, metal object slips from his fingertips and clatters to the floor, bouncing and landing somewhere beneath the green, tufted velvet sofa beside him. A blade or tool of some sort? Curious. But Henry's expression tears my attention away. That look of panic I saw in his face with Rex Turner earlier? Child's play. When he lifts his eyes to mine, there's nothing but terror.

The alpha in me wants nothing more than to go to him, take him in my arms, and comfort him … then find out who or what has frightened him and destroy it.

But I don't.

We've evolved.

That's a major part of my platform, isn't it?

Besides, I have questions.

"How did you get in here?" I ask. I'd locked the door earlier myself. Then, I notice the way the drapes by one of the windows shifts, the sheer inner curtain billowing in the breeze. "Ah. I see. You made your own way. Through the garden."

A vague thought forms in the back of my mind: He couldn't be stealing from me, could he?

I take a halting step closer, preparing to confront him, but the second I do, Henry trembles and pales, and that scent floods my senses again. Spice and sandalwood. Citrus and vanilla. Heat pheromones. They're unmistakable now, practically pouring off of him. My only surprise is that I didn't detect them halfway down the hallway instead of at the door. Then again, maybe I did, at least subconsciously—maybe that's why I pictured him instead of Luke in my imagination.

No, he can't be stealing. He's in heat. He probably just came in here to rest …

Confirming my suspicions, Henry's face contorts as if trying to resist the oncoming wave. His hands—such slim, elegant fingers—move to cover his abdomen. I don't know if he's trying to hold himself together or to hide the small swell low in his belly—the sign that his body is ripe and waiting to be filled. Either way, his uneasiness is obvious.

"Please," he whispers. "Help me."

Or maybe he came here to hide.

Is he hurt? My eyes roam over him, searching for a sign—blood, a bruise, a cut. If he's running from one of my guests—if that vile Rex Turner did something to him … I bristle again, unable to resist my fury at such an outrage.

There's nothing, though. Only his beautiful, unmarred body.

"Your first heat?" I ask.

Henry nods, then grasps the arm of the sofa to steady himself.

"It's been getting stronger all evening." He gasps. "I thought I could push through it. I thought it could wait until I get home."

A rookie mistake. That explains it. Heats can come on quickly when the body is ready, especially the first one. And most especially when an omega is surrounded by ever-longing alphas.

A fresh ripple of pheromones wafts off him, and my cock gives a wish-filled throb. My chest aches, and the longing to soothe him intensifies. All concerns about how he came to be in here evaporate as his heat lures me in. "What can I do to help?"

"Can I stay here—only until this wave passes? I'll leave immediately after, I swear. I just can't go out like this."

No, he can't. Not looking as gorgeous as he does. And certainly not smelling as delicious as he does. Arden Heights is a safe enough neighborhood, but I don't know where Henry lives, or how he'll get there. Not everywhere in the city is savory. An alpha could be tempted to take him, with or without his consent.

"Yes. Of course." My words are automatic. "It's safer. I can find you a room upstairs."

Maybe Vincent even has some toys Henry can use to satisfy himself. The older omega is certainly well past his final heat, but his preferences run more toward omegas than alphas and he has had younger lovers. Fire burns on my cheeks at the thought of asking, but better to check with him than one of the staff.

"Thank you." Henry closes his eyes and nods, swallowing hard. "But it's too late. It's already unbearable. Can I just … stay here?"

I look around the room. So impeccably decorated. Family heirlooms. My private records. The Fairchild painting right over the sofa. The idea of an omega spending his heat here is laughable.

He wouldn't be comfortable.

I wouldn't be comfortable.

And Vincent wouldn't like it.

Still, the words tumble out of my mouth despite my better judgment. "You may. Let me see if I can find some toys for you?—"

"No!" He gasps, his eyes jerking open again, pleading as another tremor makes him quake even harder. "You … Please. I need you. "

Oh fuck.

He can't be serious. My mouth goes dry, but at the same time, my dick thickens. Henry's eyes drift to my perfectly obvious erection, and his tongue darts out to moisten his pretty pink lips. He stares like he hasn't eaten a meal in a week.

I glance over my shoulder. The door to the study is still slightly ajar, and I hear footsteps and talking as what must be the last of the staff trickle out for the night. I'd been worried my nightcap might make the news, but being caught with an unknown omega in heat—and currently under my employment? The cognac would be gossip; this would be scandalous.

Kicking the door closed the rest of the way, I turn the lock and draw a deep breath. When I glance back at Henry, he's nearly slumped to his knees.

" Please ." Tears run down his cheeks. "I'm miserable."

Then again, wouldn't letting him suffer be just as cruel as taking advantage of his state?

I step forward, nodding, filled with as much doubt as desire. "I have your consent?"

Henry's knees dip to the floor. He doubles over, slumping against the seat of the sofa, his cheek resting on velvet. Somehow, the plush fabric only makes him seem softer, more lovely.

"Yes," he pants. "Yes … I need …"

My fingers unzip my fly before I have the conscious thought to do so. "You're sure? This isn't just Heat Madness?"

The omega's head jerks up again. He glares at me, eyes flaming with anger.

"I-I'm sorry," I choke. "I didn't mean to imply?—"

He whimpers and shakes again before sagging back onto the sofa. "Just fuck me."

His face contorts in pain now, and a pang of guilt shoots through my chest. This has been cruel of me, prioritizing my politics and reputation like this when he's clearly hurting. Shoving my trousers and boxers down my thighs, I drop to my knees behind him and lean over his back, taking him in.

And, oh, he's as magnificent as I'd thought he'd be. Henry backs up against me immediately, grinding his small, round ass against my groin. Our bodies fit against one another perfectly, the way night follows the day. I run my palms over the length of his arms, savoring their sinewy strength. Henry sighs at my touch—pleasure, relief, anticipation of the rest to come.

"Feeling better already?" I ask.

He nods. "A little."

I nuzzle his ear, breathing him in. That intoxicating blend of hormones, attraction, and arousal. I'm drunk on it before he even lifts his head, twisting to brush his cheek against mine. Our lips catch in something not quite a kiss, and I drag my tongue against their seam. Henry tastes vaguely like strawberries—a gloss or balm of some sort, maybe. I lick into his mouth—who's the needy one now?—and he moans.

Such a pretty sound. Musical, almost.

Or it should be, anyway.

"Let me undress you," I offer, tracing my hands back up his arms to unbutton his shirt.

"No!"

His response is too quick, and I wonder what he's hiding beneath his clothes. Scars of some sort? A birthmark? If only he knew I don't care. I would swirl my tongue over them and soothe any pain away.

As if realizing the sharpness in his tone, Henry opens his eyes, and all my thoughts evaporate. Maybe alphas get a bit of Heat Madness, too.

"There isn't time. I've already been waiting," he tells me. "Please."

Another please. It's a good thing this is only one night, one wave of his heat. His begging could otherwise become my undoing.

Disappointed, I let my hands drop from his collar. As much as I long to see and feel all of him against my skin, this is not about me. It's about him. So, I reach for his fly instead. "Whatever you like."

Henry squirms impatiently while I work his pants and boxer-briefs over his ass. Before the tails of his shirt fall over his thighs, I catch a glimpse of his skin—paler than his face and hands—but equally soft and dewy-looking. I swallow hard, then touch him, running a palm over one of his ass cheeks. Smooth. Supple. Firm. If we had more time, I'd spend hours exploring him like this. I'd trace over each curve and commit each line to memory.

I suppose my dreams will have to do the job instead.

"Senator, hurry," he whines.

"Mason." I take my dick in one hand and separate his cheeks with my other, then run my tip along his crease, coating myself in his slick. "If we're going to do this, I insist on you calling me Mason."

Already, Henry feels so good against me. Warm and blissfully wet. It's been a few years since I've been with an omega in heat—not since Luke—but I remember how different it is. How consuming. How transforming. How every sense is heightened. Lining up my tip at his entrance, I hope I can last long enough to satisfy Henry, to give him my knot and calm his body's cravings.

Henry's eyes close again as I push through his hole, and my name is a groan on lips. "Mason …"

Fuck. He feels like paradise. The omega equivalent of tropical drinks and warm sand, beach umbrellas and sunshine. By the time I've fully sunk into him, my balls are throbbing, longing for release. Thankfully, he seems just as desperate to come as I am.

"Harder," he says as I begin to move. "Don't hold back. I need it."

His first heat but not his first sexual experience, I take it.

Pity. I would have liked to have been all of his firsts, but if this is all he can give me, I'll accept it gladly.

"Like this?" I pull back, then drive into him roughly, quickly. Henry exhales, and the first signs of relief ease the tense lines across his forehead.

"Yes … Like that," he moans.

I plunge forward again, gripping his hips and jerking him back against me. We crash together, the crude clapping sound of skin on skin flooding the room. This time, Henry cries out.

"More! I need my alpha."

His alpha.

I like the sound of that. The primitive spirit still lingering inside me—the primordial gene that helped our ancestors breed and survive—likes it even more. And my cock? My cock likes it best of all. I toss my head back and let out a groan of my own. It sounds almost unnatural, unearthly. Nearly a howl.

Mine. My omega.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, yearning to spill from my lips with the same intensity as I long to fill him with cum.

Henry isn't really yours, Dawes , I remind myself. It's only this once.

But I'm already too far gone to be sensible.

"Tell me whose knot you want, my omega."

"Yours! Yours, Mason … My alpha."

"I'm going to fill you with cum, then seal you tight with my knot," I rasp. "And even then I'll keep fucking you. Is that what you want?"

The coarseness of my own words stuns me. Where did that come from? I've never spoken like this to a sexual partner before—not even to Luke at the peak of his heat.

And yet, I like it.

So does Henry, it seems. His head bobs in an eager nod and his fingers find the edge of the sofa cushion. He clings to it as if he's drowning—drowning in heat, in our union, in his pleasure.

"Yes! I want your knot!" he cries.

Any remaining staff members wandering the halls will have no doubt what we're doing in here. But if I'm going to be caught, I might as well make this worthwhile. So, I pick up my pace, slamming into him again and again.

"My—good—little—omega," I praise. "Taking—me—so—well?—"

Behind us, the grandfather clock in the corner chimes the hour. Twelve o'clock. Henry draws a staggering breath.

"Touch me, Mason—I have to come," he begs. "Please."

Please.

Reaching around, I take his shaft in hand. Precum leaks from his slit like a sieve, and my palm slides easily up and down his length. The literal stroke of midnight.

Within seconds, he's moaning, nearly tearing up the cushion beneath him.

"My alpha … Mason … my alpha …"

Henry's mouth falls open as he sobs through his climax. Steaming seed coats my fist. His hole clenches around me, hugging me tight and pulling me deeper inside him. For only a second, my tip brushes his womb. So close to that precious, perfect place. My balls draw up at the mere thought of a child—our child—inside him, swaddled in that safe, warm haven.

And I come.

And come.

And come.

Henry's hole milks every drop from me, as eager to accept as I am to give. I shudder and gasp as bliss flows through my bones, blood, and breath. My knot swells at his rim, and when I glance down, his mouth is ajar, a faint smile at the corners of his sweet, strawberry lips.

I guess I got my wish to see Henry like this after all.

The vision is even more beautiful than I'd dared to hope. He's worthy of a painting—of Dominic Fairchild's brushstrokes and canvas. In the absence of the famous artist himself, I try to memorize how he looks so I can keep it forever in some tiny way.

Henry's gaze finds mine again, and his grin deepens. I wrap my arms around him and lift him from the sofa. His body is so limp with exhaustion he feels practically spineless.

"Thank you," he whispers sleepily as I reposition us to sit together on the floor, his side pressed against my chest. We can stay like this until my knot goes down, and then … then, I suppose he'll leave.

My heart twinges at the thought of him going.

"You're welcome, Henry."

I graze my lips against his hairline, and he sighs with contentment as he rests his head on my shoulder.

"Can you call me Tristan? Just once?"

I have no idea why. That isn't his name. But it's a simple enough request, and his eyelids are growing heavier by the second.

So, I do.

"You're welcome, Tristan."

He gives another sigh. Then, his eyes drift closed, and he falls fast asleep. His head is on my shoulder, his chin tilted up. My knot's still inside him, the edge of the sofa against my back.

And my family's Fairchild painting hangs on the wall above us.