Chapter 4: Proof of Devotion
The bass from the party downstairs was a physical thing, a relentless thump that vibrated up through the sticky linoleum and into Derek’s bones. He stood wedged between the kitchen island and a pile of coats, a red plastic cup of beer warming in his hand. He wasn’t drinking it. The smell of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and packed-in bodies was overwhelming, a chaotic symphony for his heightened senses.
Across the room, Peter held court, laughing at something a sophomore from the swim team had said. He looked effortless, his arm slung around the shoulders of a beta named Chris, the picture of easy, fraternal charm. But Derek had felt Peter’s eyes on him all night. A hot, constant pressure.
He’d been talking to Ben and Alex, two Alphas from Sigma Kappa. It was just talk. Class schedules, the terrible football team, a meaningless debate about the best pizza place. Ben had clapped him on the shoulder, a friendly, jarring gesture. Derek had flinched—a tiny, involuntary spasm—and his body had reacted with a humiliating, instinctual flush of submission. His scent had shifted, just for a second. Sweetened.
That’s when he’d seen Peter’s smile freeze.
Now, a large hand closed around his bicep. The grip wasn’t rough, but it was absolute. Peter’s scent—cedar and spice and a new, sharp edge of possessiveness—wrapped around him.
“Hey,” Peter said, his voice a friendly rumble that didn’t match the intensity in his eyes. “Need a word.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He steered Derek through the press of bodies, nodding at brothers, smiling that easy smile, all while his fingers dug into Derek’s arm. They bypassed the line for the downstairs bathroom and took the stairs two at a time, the music fading to a dull roar behind them. The upstairs hall was darker, quieter, lit only by a flickering neon Schlitz sign some alumnus had donated.
Peter shouldered open the door to the main bathroom. It was a relic of the 70s, all cracked green tile and a dripping faucet. He locked the door with a decisive click.
The sudden quiet was a shock. The bass was muted here, a distant heartbeat. The air was damp, smelling of mildew, aerosol deodorant, and the ghost of a hundred showers.
“What was that?” Peter asked, leaning back against the door. His casual posture was a lie.
“What was what?” Derek’s voice sounded defensive, even to himself. He could still feel the ghost of Ben’s hand on his shoulder.
“You. Them.” Peter pushed off the door, crossing the small space in two strides. He crowded Derek against the cold tile wall next to the sink. “Your scent changed. You got that look.”
“What look?” Derek muttered, staring at a water stain on the ceiling.
“That wet, needy look you get right before you come.” Peter’s words were blunt, cutting through the pretense. He cupped Derek’s jaw, forcing his head around. “Were you thinking about it? Letting some other Alpha put his hands on you?”
“No.” The denial was automatic, but a treacherous part of him, the Omega part, preened under the focused intensity of Peter’s jealousy. It was a dark, shameful thrill.
“Prove it,” Peter said, his voice dropping low. “Prove you’re mine.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The command settled in Derek’s gut, hot and heavy. His body responded before his mind could formulate a protest, a warm rush of slickness, a weakening in his knees. He saw the hard line of Peter’s erection in his jeans, and his mouth watered.
Without another word, Derek sank to his knees on the cold, dirty tile. The linoleum bit into his skin. He looked up, meeting Peter’s gaze as his fingers worked the button and zipper. The denim parted, and Peter sprung free, thick and already flushed. The intimate, musky scent of him filled Derek’s head, obliterating the stale bathroom smells.
He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, taking the length into his mouth in one smooth, practiced glide. His throat opened effortlessly, no gag, just a seamless, swallowing acceptance. He’d discovered this new aspect of himself only with Peter—a deep, hungry capability that left them both stunned.
Peter’s hands fisted in his hair, not guiding, just holding. A low groan echoed in the small room. “Yeah,” he breathed, hips giving a shallow, involuntary thrust. “That’s it. Use that pretty mouth.”
Derek lost himself in the rhythm, in the weight and taste, in the filthy, approving sounds Peter made above him. His own jeans were painfully tight, his body singing with a subservient bliss that should have disgusted him. It didn’t. This was simpler than talking. This was a truth his body couldn’t lie about.
This was a truth his body couldn’t lie about. He hollowed his cheeks, pulling a long, wet glide up the shaft before diving back down, his throat working. The salt-bitter taste of pre-come bloomed on his tongue, a flavor that had become familiar, essential. He released Peter with a soft pop, lapping at the swollen head with broad, worshipful strokes.
“I love your dick,” he mumbled against the skin, the confession viscous and raw. “Tastes so fucking amazing.” He spit onto his hand and wrapped his fingers around the base, jacking the spit-slick length slowly as he looked up.
Peter groaned, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in the damp air. “Greedy thing,” he breathed, his eyes locked on Derek’s mouth. He didn’t wait, pressing the head back past Derek’s lips, holding his skull with a firm, guiding pressure. His hips gave a short, sharp thrust, fucking up into the wet heat.
He set a pace then, not gentle, not brutal, but intensely focused. Derek surrendered to the rhythm, his jaw going slack, letting Peter use his mouth with a possessive efficiency that left him dizzy. The world narrowed to the push and pull, the scrape of denim against his cheek, the filthy, perfect sounds of it.
When Peter pulled out, it was so sudden Derek choked on air. Strong hands hauled him up by the armpits, spinning him toward the grimy counter. His jeans were shoved down to his thighs in one rough yank, the denim bunching tight, pinning his legs together and sending a bolt of restrictive heat straight to his core.
Then Peter was pressing in, a hot, blunt spearing that stole his breath. The angle was deeper, more claiming. Derek braced his hands on the cool porcelain, his reflection a pale, wide-eyed blur in the mirror above the sink.
Peter’s eyes found his in the glass. He started to move, a deep, rocking cadence that pushed Derek forward with each thrust. “Look at you,” Peter said, his voice ragged. His hands gripped Derek’s hips, fingers digging in. “Look what you do to me.”
Derek watched, mesmerized, as Peter’s composed mask shattered. Sweat dampened his temple, his jaw was tight with restraint, and his eyes held a dark, wild possession. Every drive forward was answered by Derek’s body clenching around him, a tight, slick ripple of involuntary need. A moan escaped him, high and broken.
Peter leaned over him, his chest a solid weight against Derek’s back. One large hand came up and clamped over Derek’s mouth, muffling the next whimper. His lips brushed the shell of Derek’s ear.
“I’m gonna fill you up so deep,” he whispered, the words a harsh promise. “You’re gonna walk back to that party with me dripping out of you. Everyone’s gonna smell it on you. Smell me on you.”
The image—degrading, undeniable—unlocked something primal in Derek’s spine. He groaned against Peter’s palm, his eyes locking on Peter’s reflection, on those fierce, possessive Alpha eyes. His body clenched hard, a vice-like spasm, and he came untouched across the green countertop in silent, shuddering pulses.
Peter swore, his rhythm fracturing into something desperate. He fucked Derek through the tremors, chasing his own release with deep, punishing drives. With a final, ragged groan, he shoved in to the hilt and held, pulsing warmth flooding Derek’s insides.
For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, steady thump of the bass. Peter slowly removed his hand from Derek’s mouth, both of them staring at their wrecked reflections in the silent aftermath. Derek’s legs shook. Peter’s grip on his hips gentled, thumbs stroking the bruised skin.
Outside, a doorknob rattled. Someone jiggled the locked door, then cursed. “Occupied, man! Hurry up!”
Peter let out a slow breath, his forehead dropping between Derek’s shoulder blades. “You okay?” he asked, his voice quiet now, almost tender.
Derek nodded, swallowing hard. He was spent, marked, completely owned. “Yeah,” he managed, the word rough.
Peter pulled out carefully, the loss of him making Derek feel hollowed and exposed. He reached for a wad of scratchy paper towels, his movements practical now. He cleaned himself off first, then turned, gently wiping the mess from Derek’s stomach and the counter. It was a possessive gesture, but a caretaking one too.
He helped Derek pull his jeans up, zipping them with a soft rasp. The denim felt strange against his sensitized skin. Peter turned him around, cupping his face and searching his eyes. “No one else,” he said, a quiet statement, not a question.
“No one else,” Derek echoed, the truth of it settling in his bones.
Peter kissed him then, deep and slow, a reclaiming of a different sort. He tasted like sweat and whiskey and himself. When they broke apart, Peter smoothed Derek’s hair, a futile attempt to make him look less debauched. The neon light flickered, casting their shadows long against the tile.
“Ready to go back down?” Peter asked, his thumb stroking Derek’s cheekbone.
Derek took a shaky breath, feeling the distinct, promised leak between his cheeks. He nodded. They unlocked the door, stepping back into the roar of the party, Derek’s body humming with a secret only they knew.