Page 18 of Salt and Knot

I line up my now achingly hard cock with her entrance and shove right into the heaven of her overflowing wetness. She moans, and arches her back as she accepts me, and I roar in satisfaction. But as I pound into her from behind, both of us in this nest she built that looks out to sea, I make a silent promise.

She’s mine.

Chapter 10

Isla

After a long session of Dylan knotting me and making me come until I begged him to stop, which he did—eventually—he takes me downstairs. I wear his shirt, because the clothes I was wearing to walk yesterday are still at the beach.

In the kitchen he gathers food on a tray and shoos me outside to a sunlit patio that looks over the beach.

At Dylan’s insistence, I sit down and let him fetch several loads of breakfast foods.

There’s an umbrella to shade from the sun, and he puts it up for me when I use my hand to be able to look at the ocean. I don’t know why the need to see the sea has overtaken me so completely. Am I looking for signs of the monster who touched me yesterday? Maybe.

I do scan the waves. And the need for the water has risen in me. It was strong before, when I couldn’t help but find a way to get to the sea and walk along the coastal path. But now, it’s like a fizzy drink shaken and then uncapped. And this morning it was a madness. Remaining in bed was impossible. The compulsion to see the sea was as deep and dark as the ocean itself, and the instinct to build a nest, even stronger.

I thought omegas were supposed to cook and carry, but Dylan’s growl when I suggest it leaves me in no doubt. It’s not long before we’re both sat, and Dylan seems as happy as I am to watch the small waves that have formed overnight rushing towards the shore.

He gives me sweet white coffee that’s honestly heavenly. Now my brain is more or less functional, and I realise while looking out at the water that I need to pick up my stuff. Elaina will be worried I haven’t checked in.

After breakfast, I promise myself.

There are pastries, and fruit and preserves, but Dylan apologises when a timer goes off and he fetches salty, smoky-scented fish.

“Kippers,” he confesses, as he puts a plate onto the table. “They’re better than they smell. A traditional British breakfast dish, if you’re by the sea.”

“I’ve heard of them, I think, but I don’t really know what they are. I’ve never seen them in Manchester. Are they good?” I examine the yellowed fish halves warily.

“They’re smoked herring. I’ve been partial to them for a long time.” He smiles ruefully. “Do you want to try a bit?”

“Sure.” I’m feeling brave. Maybe even reckless. If Dylan likes it, I’m game. Besides, it smells mouthwatering. “What should I eat it with?”

“Here.” He breaks off a piece of the crusty bread already on the table and then takes a slice of the smoked fish and lays it on top. I half expect him to put it on the plate he gave me, but he holds the little morsel up to my mouth.

I meet his blue gaze. It’s bright this morning. Intensely blue like the sky. Or the sea.

I open my mouth slowly, unsure if I’m doing the right thing. I’ve been so sheltered for my whole life. He gives me a tiny nod and feeds the mouthful to me.

My lips brush his fingertips as I take it from him, and they tingle pleasurably as the salt and smoke explode on my tongue.

Him feeding me is incredibly intimate. Even compared to the way we were joined together not long ago. The biological imperative of my heat gives the sex a feel of necessity. Desperation. A need to work out this insanity. By contrast, this slow domination with care and provision is calculated. He’s giving me his food, and that’s maybe even more primal than the dirty sex where he fucked me from behind, pulling me onto his cock over and over.

I chew and let out a mew as the savoury flavours and textures rush at me. The fish is oily, decadent. It’s soft but firm, and tastes almost buttery. The bread has crunch but also yields. It’s utterly heavenly.

“Good?” Dylan asks with a smirk that says he knows it was. Just as he knew what would feel good when he licked my pussy, he knows—somehow—what food I’ll enjoy.

“Delicious.” I can’t help but smile.

“I’m glad.” He piles up another mouthful and feeds it to me. This time he allows his thumb to linger for a second on my bottom lip before he moves it away.

“You should have some,” I protest when I have use of my mouth again.

“Believe me, watching you eat is all the sustenance I want,” he croons and offers me more. “I have plenty.”

Ah. Right. I consider his words as I chew. He’s obviously super rich, and I’m a stray he found near his house, by chance.

“More?” Dylan is about to feed me again, when his phone buzzes shrilly into life.