Page 108 of Run Wild Omega

I lay her down softly on the mattress, pulling the heavy duvet up to her shoulders. She blinks up at me, already succumbing to the alcohol and exhaustion.

“Sleep, Tess,” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, Miles…” she mumbles, her eyes drifting shut.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, watching her chest rise and fall. Then I clean myself up in the bathroom, change into a pair of dry sweatpants, and go back to the living room.

Collapsing onto the leather sofa, I stare up at the dark wooden ceiling beams in the quiet night, running a hand over my face.

What the hell did I just do?

I’m the logical one. The strategist. And I just completely lost control. This doesn’t just complicate our legal timeline—it complicates us. A lot.

A scraping sound pulls me out of my slumber.

My eyes snap open. The living room is bathed in the dim, silver light of the moon filtering through the high windows of the SAR station apartment. I sit up on the sofa, rubbing the heel of my hand against my eyes as my brain gradually recalibrates.

The sound comes again—a quiet thud, followed by a frustrated sigh from down the short hallway.

I swing my legs off the couch and stand up, adjusting my sweatpants. Walking bare-chested into the hall, I push the bedroom door open a few inches.

Tess is sitting up in the middle of the large bed. The duvet is tangled around her waist, and she’s holding a bent coat hanger, trying awkwardly to shove it down the rim of her fiberglass cast. Her hair is a chaotic, beautiful cloud around her shoulders.

As the door creaks, she freezes and looks up.

Her eyes meet mine, dark and wide in the moonlight, and then, unmistakably, her gaze drifts down. It travels over my collarbone, across the width of my chest, and down the trace of hair leading into the waistband of my sweatpants.

I’m well aware I don’t possess Wyatt’s imposing, broad-shouldered physique or Dylan’s dense muscle. I spend most of my days behind telemetry screens and weather stations. But watching the heat in her eyes as she takes me in… I certainly don’t mind her appreciation for it.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe, keeping my voice low so as not to startle her.

Tess drops the coat hanger onto the mattress and groans, tossing her head back against the pillows. “My leg is on fire,” she mutters. “It’s so fucking itchy under this cast I’m going to lose my mind. And my mouth feels like I ate sand.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Water and an itch. I can handle that.”

I walk into the adjacent kitchenette, filling a clean glass with cold, filtered water. Returning to the bedroom, I sit gently on the edge of the mattress beside her and hand her the glass.

She takes it with both hands, her fingers brushing mine, sending an electric pulse straight up my arm. She drinks greedily, draining half the glass in long, desperate gulps before letting out a satisfied breath.

“Thank you,” she whispers, handing the glass back.

I set it on the nightstand, then reach for the thin, smooth wooden ruler sitting on my desk near the window—a tool far safer than a wire hanger.

“Hold still,” I murmur, shifting closer.

I take her leg gently in my lap, anchoring the cast with one hand while sliding the smooth wooden edge beneath the top rim of the fiberglass, right where her calf meets her knee. I apply steady pressure, moving the wood in deliberate strokes against her skin.

Tess’s head falls back against the headboard. A breathy moan of absolute pleasure slips from her lips and vibrates straight down my spine.

“Oh… god, yes,” she breathes, her fingers digging into the duvet. “Right there.”

I keep my movements methodical, stroking the itch away, trying very hard to ignore the way her moans echo in the quiet room.

I wonder if that is the same sound she’ll make when I slide my tongue over her clit…

Fuck. I’m horny.

I take a deep breath to ground myself, pulling air into my lungs—and freeze.