Chapter 7: The Midday Dose
The intercom on Soren’s desk buzzed, a sterile sound in the quiet room. “Mr. Vance, Rowan Hart is here for his three o’clock.”
Soren didn’t look up from the contract on his screen. His fingers, however, tightened imperceptibly on the edge of his mahogany desk. “Send him in.”
He hadn’t seen Rowan in seventy-two hours. A strategic withdrawal. The morning in the kitchen, the easy silence, the feeling of Rowan’s arms around his waist—it had felt like standing on a crumbling cliff edge. He’d buried himself in merger aquisitions and toxicology reports ever since. Control reasserted through sheer volume of work.
The door opened.
Rowan stepped into the cool, polished air of the office. He wore worn jeans and a soft-looking grey sweater, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He looked utterly out of place against the minimalist luxury, like a wildflower pushing through a crack in concrete. The afternoon sun cut through the blinds, painting bars of gold across his chestnut hair.
“You summoned?” Rowan said, his voice lighter than Soren felt. He closed the door softly behind him.
“Sit.” Soren gestured to the chair opposite his desk, his tone deliberately neutral. “Your hormone levels from Monday’s panel. The progesterone is still fluctuating more than I’d like.”
Rowan didn’t sit. He walked to the window, looking down at the ant-like traffic below. “Dr. Aris called me this morning. The one you found. She said the fluctuations are normal for this stage. She said I’m perfectly healthy.”
Soren’s jaw ticked. He’d been circumvented. “I have the raw data from the lab. I’m telling you what it indicates.”
“You’re telling me what you’re afraid of,” Rowan said, turning. His amber eyes weren’t warm now. They were challenging. “You’re hiding in here, reading spreadsheets, because it’s safer.”
A low heat ignited in Soren’s gut. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “You think you know me so well after a few weeks?”
“I know you’re hard right now.”
The words, delivered so calmly, were a physical shock. Soren felt his composure ripple. He was hard. He had been since the moment Rowan walked in. The scent of him—rain and soil and something uniquely Omega—had cut through the sterile office air like an axe.
Rowan took a step toward the desk. “You scheduled this ‘check-in’ because you needed it. Because you couldn’t wait until tonight. But you have to wrap it in your charts and your data.” Another step. “You’re a fucking coward, Soren Vance.”
Soren was on his feet before the last word faded. The space between them evaporated. He didn’t pull Rowan to the leather couch. He hooked a hand behind his neck and yanked him forward, crushing their mouths together.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Soren licked into his mouth, tasting coffee and a faint sweetness. Rowan bit his lower lip in retaliation, a sharp sting that made Soren groan. He walked him backward, stumbling, until the backs of Rowan’s thighs hit the low, tufted couch. He pushed him down.
“You want to call me a coward?” Soren breathed, his voice thick. He fell to his knees on the plush rug, his hands going to the button of Rowan’s jeans. He yanked them down, along with his underwear, in one rough motion. Rowan’s cock sprang free, already half-hard. The scent of his slick hit Soren like a drug, potent and inviting.
“Then let’s see how brave you are.”
He buried his face between Rowan’s spread thighs.
His tongue was not gentle. It was a broad, flat stroke from his perineum to the fluttering, tight opening already glistening for him. Rowan cried out, his hands flying to fist in Soren’s perfectly styled hair. Soren growled against his skin, the vibration earning him a sob. He fucked Rowan with his tongue, spearing deep, licking into that hot, clenching channel. He tasted pure Omega, salty and musky and right. He devoured him.
“Oh, god—Soren!” Rowan’s hips bucked off the couch. Soren held him down with a firm hand on his stomach, pinning him. He alternated between slow, probing licks and rapid, filthy flicks of his tongue over Rowan’s exposed hole. He sucked at the rim, making Rowan whimper and shake.
“You needed this,” Soren muttered, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet and glistening. “Coming in here, smelling like that. You knew what you were doing.” He replaced his tongue with two fingers, pushing them in deep, curling them. Rowan’s back arched beautifully, a broken moan tearing from his throat.
“I needed you,” Rowan gasped, his eyes screwed shut. “Out of your head. Right here.”
That was all it took.
Soren withdrew his fingers, slick and shining. He stood, unbuckling his own trousers with hurried, clumsy movements. His cock slapped heavy and thick against his stomach. He didn’t bother undressing further. He manhandled Rowan, turning him onto his stomach, pushing his face into the leather cushions. He hiked Rowan’s hips up, the jean fabric rough against his thighs.
He didn’t prepare him. He was already dripping wet, loose from Soren’s mouth and fingers. Soren positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against that soaked entrance. He leaned over, his chest against Rowan’s back, his lips at his ear.
“You want me out of my head?” he whispered, the promise dark and low. “Then take me.”
He drove in. One brutal, complete thrust that buried him to the hilt.
The scream Rowan let out was muffled by the leather. His body clamped around Soren like a vise, searing hot and impossibly tight. Soren saw white for a second, the sensation overwhelming. He held still, buried deep, panting against Rowan’s neck.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “Every time. Like the first time.”
Then he began to move.
It was a relentless, driving pace. No finesse. Just possession. His hips slammed against Rowan’s ass, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet office—a wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of leather, their ragged breaths. He gripped Rowan’s hips so hard he’d leave bruises, holding him in place for each punishing thrust.
“This what you came for?” Soren grunted, fucking into him with a deep, grinding force. “My cock in this perfect Omega cunt? Hmm? You needed me to fill you up?”
“Yes!” Rowan shouted, his voice hitching with each impact. “God, yes! Harder!”
Soren obliged. He pistoned into him, the desk chair rolling away from the force. He was hitting so deep, each stroke rubbing violently over Rowan’s prostate. Rowan was sobbing, begging, a litany of “please” and “more” and “right there” that fueled Soren’s frenzy.
The knot began to swell at the base of his cock, that irresistible thickening. Soren felt it catch on Rowan’s rim with each inward drive. He was losing coherence, his thoughts narrowing to heat, tightness, scent, claim.
“Gonna knot you,” he snarled, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Gonna lock my cock inside you and pump you so full of come it’ll leak out for hours. You’ll feel me every time you move. You’ll remember who you belong to.”
“Do it,” Rowan pleaded, pushing back against him. “Please, Soren, now—”
With a final, powerful surge, Soren thrust home and held. The knot pushed past the tight ring of muscle, seating itself with a delicious, unbearable stretch. Rowan screamed as he came, his release spattering the dark leather beneath him, his body milking Soren’s cock in frantic pulses.
The sensation of Rowan clenching around his knot undid him completely. Soren’s orgasm roared up his spine and exploded. He came in hot, pulsing waves, flooding Rowan’s depths, his hips jerking helplessly through each peak. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing Rowan into the couch, his teeth grazing the bonding gland at Rowan’s neck. He didn’t bite. But he pressed his mouth there, breathing hard, as he emptied himself.
They were locked together, a sweating, shuddering mess. Soren could feel his own heartbeat in his cock, still wedged deep inside. The world outside the glass walls—the city, the deals, the empire—meant nothing.
Slowly, his awareness returned. The smell of sex and leather. The chill of the air on his damp back. The frantic pounding of Rowan’s heart under his own.
He nuzzled into Rowan’s hair. “The gallery,” he muttered, his voice wrecked. “I made the introduction. They’re expecting your portfolio by Friday.”
Rowan let out a shaky, half-laugh, half-sob into the cushion. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
They stayed like that, knotted, for long minutes. When the swelling subsided enough, Soren slipped out gently. He righted his trousers, then found a box of tissues from his desk, cleaning Rowan with a surprising, clumsy tenderness. He helped him pull his jeans up.
Rowan sat up, wincing slightly, his hair a wild mess. He looked wrecked and beautiful. Soren stood over him, feeling exposed, the cold floor of his control thoroughly shattered.
Rowan looked up, his gaze clear. “Don’t hide from me for three days again.”
It wasn’t a request.
Soren looked at the contract still glowing on his computer monitor. A multi-billion dollar deal. He reached over and put the monitor to sleep.
“Okay,” he said.