Page 4 of Glass

"Good boy," I say, and I mean it the way I mean all the things I say in this club: exactly, and not at all. "Just like that."

Teddy

Okay.

Okay, I'm doing this. My hands are on the hem of my shirt. The omega's eyes are on me. I'm doing this.

"Slowly, Teddy."

His voice. God. His voice does something to me that I can't describe. It's not exactly a shiver; it's more like he's flipped a switch inside me that I didn't know was there, and now everything is on and waiting. I pull my shirt up, slowly, just like he told me. I spent twenty minutes at my apartment trying on and off this plain black t-shirt—the one I picked because it was the least I could wear and still feel like I had something on. I noticed every other alpha on the floor was shirtless, and I don't really know why I didn't take mine off earlier. I'm blushing, embarrassed to be the only idiot in a fucking sex club who thought it was a good idea to leave their clothes on. Now I get to take it off. It's a relief, even if it means being naked in front of him. Especially if it means being naked in front of him.

My stomach is showing. I'm suddenly very aware of it. It's not bad, but I just notice it. And my shoulders—I'm so tall. I'm taller than everyone I know. And standing here, next to this omega, who is way shorter than me, feels both good and bad at the same time. Like my body is the wrong shape for what I want. Like I grew into all this and now I don't know what it's for. But okay. Shirt.

The shirt goes over my head, my arms up, and it gets stuck on my shoulders because they're too wide. I pull it free, drop it on the floor, and look at him again.

He's just watching.

He hasn't moved. He hasn't said anything since he told me to go slowly. He stands three feet away, with that small, calm tilt to his mouth that's been making my chest tight since he first said I looked like I could use a tour guide. I can't see all of his eyes through the mask, but I see enough. He's watching me the same way he did at the bar. Like I'm interesting. Like he chose me on purpose.

My hands go to my belt.

They're shaking. I watch them shake. I'm embarrassed and then I remember he told me not to apologize for sounds. I don't know if that applies to my hands and I almost apologize for my hands and then I don't, because he didn't ask me to speak and I don't know if I'm allowed.

The belt. The button on my jeans. I can't get the button. I have to use both hands, like I'm twelve again. I look up at him while I fumble, because he told me to look at him. He's not helping, but he's not looking away either. He just watches me work my own button open, like a man watching a movie he's seen before and still enjoys.

My jeans go down. My cock —

Oh god, my cock is embarrassing. I'm so hard it's tented my underwear out like a teenager, and there's a wet spot at the tip because I can't believe what's happening to me. Pre-come soaking through the cotton. I know he can see it because his eyes flick down and the corner of his mouth tips. Just barely. Just the smallest movement. And I feel it in my throat.

I have to stop. I have to just—stand here for one second and breathe.

I push my jeans the rest of the way down and step out of them. The socks—oh god, the socks—okay. I pull my socks off one at a time, careful not to fall over. Now there's just my underwear. I look at him one more time because I want to know if I can slow down for a second. He doesn't move, so I hook my thumbs in the waistband and push my underwear down.

My cock slaps up against my stomach. I make a tiny, mortified sound and apologize before I remember.

"Sorry — sorry —"

He doesn't say anything. But the corner of his mouth moves again, and I'm going to die of looking at him.

I'm naked now.

In a sex club. For a stranger. A stranger whose mask is on, whose shirt is still perfectly buttoned, who is fully clothed and watching me like I just did a magic trick for him.

He moves for the first time and circles me, slowly. I stand still. I keep my hands at my sides because I don't know what else to do with them, and because he hasn't told me I can move them. I feel him behind me. His presence at my back makes the hair on my neck stand up. Something in my gut pulls tight—not fear, not exactly, but close. The animal part of me registers that someone is behind me and wants to turn, wants to face the threat, and I don't. I hold still. I hold still because he didn't tell me to move and something in me would rather die than move without permission right now. My cock is so hard it aches against my stomach.

He's looking at my ass. I can tell because there's a pause in his steps behind me, a moment where nothing happens and he just stands there looking. My face burns. I've never once in my life wanted someone to look at my ass. I want it now. I want him to keep looking. I want him to decide he likes what he sees, and something territorial flares up in my chest at that—mine, my body says, about him, which makes no sense, which makes every kind of sense—and I choke it down and stand still.

He makes a small low sound. Just one. Approval, maybe.

He comes back around to the front and stops. Reaches up and puts his hand flat on my chest. Just his palm. The heat of it. I exhale like I got hit.

That hand moves over my collarbone, down my arm, and around my bicep. He squeezes, not hard, just a slow squeeze, like he's checking the weight of something he's thinking about buying. My whole body locks—every muscle, every tendon, all of it snapping tight at once, and I watch my own cock jerk visibly, a thick wet strand of pre-come stretching from the tip to my stomach and breaking. My face goes hot because I know he sees it. Because I'm six-five and two-forty and I'm shaking apart under a hand that weighs half what mine does.

Fingers trail down to my stomach. Skim. Stop just above my cock. I whine. I actually whine.

"Sorry —"

"Don't apologize for making sounds, sweetheart. I want to hear them."