Page 110 of Run Wild Omega

Every nerve ending in my body fires at once.

I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder, expecting to find his dark eyes watching me with that analytical intensity. But his eyes are closed. His brow is relaxed. His lips curve against my skin as he nuzzles deeper into my neck, his breathing still carrying the deep and even rhythm of sleep.

Even in his sleep, he wants me.

Me.

Something tight and aching blooms in my chest. I reach up, my fingers finding the dark strands of his hair. I stroke through them gently, feeling the texture, the slight wave at the nape where it curls against his neck. My fingertips trace the line of his jaw, the stubble rough under my touch, the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

He is so fucking beautiful.

His eyelids flutter. His brow creases. Then his eyes open, unfocused at first before they find mine.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He blinks. Awareness floods his expression as the sleep clears. “Hey.”

He pulls back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair is a disaster, sticking up on one side. He squints at the window, then at me.

“What time is it?”

I point at the digital clock on the nightstand. “Almost six.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I need to file the registration documents by eight.”

“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask, already shifting to sit up. “I really need to pee.”

“Yeah, of course.” He sits up fully, the duvet pooling at his waist. “It’s the door at the end of the hall.”

I grab my crutches from where he propped them against the wall last night and make my way down the hall. The bathroom is small and clean. A single towel hanging perfectly centered on the rack. A container of floss next to the sink. Three bottles of cologne lined up in the cabinet above it.

I close the door, use the toilet, and then stand at the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I look like a wreck. My hair is tangled, my mascara is smudged under my eyes, and my skin is blotchy from sleep and alcohol. But my eyes are clear. No hangover headache, no nausea. Just a thrumming, restless energy under my skin.

I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing at the mascara until my skin is pink and raw. When I open the door to head back, Miles is already in the hallway, walking toward me in a fresh T-shirt and the same gray sweatpants.

“I feel gross,” I admit, grimacing.

He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a packaged toothbrush still in its plastic wrap. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

We stand side by side at the sink, brushing our teeth in companionable silence. I catch his eye in the mirror, and he catches mine, and we both look away with the faintest hint of a smile.

It feels normal. Domestic. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before, stumbling through a morning routine in a shared bathroom, elbows bumping, mirrors fogging. It’s the most ordinary, intimate thing I’ve experienced in months, and something about it makes my chest ache with a longing so acute it steals my breath.

We finish, rinse, and I lean against the doorframe as he wipes his mouth on a hand towel.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, tossing the towel onto the counter. “You drank a lot last night.”

“I’m okay,” I say, surprised by how true it is. “Not hungover like I thought I’d be.”

He smiles, a small, genuine thing that transforms his serious face. “The water must have helped. Hydration is the most underrated defense against tequila.”

I laugh, but the sound dies in my throat as my eyes drift downward.

The sweatpants sit low on his hips, the waistband loose enough to reveal the V-cut of his obliques and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the gray fabric. And there, unmistakable, straining against the thin cotton, is his cock. Still hard. The outline of it thick and prominent, jutting to the left.