Captured (Tribes, #4)

by Milana Jacks

If Van Gogh painted this, I’d be a tiny dot nobody would notice on the canvas.

I push at his chest, but he won’t retreat. I push a bit harder, and he smirks and takes my palm, then runs it over his chest and abdomen and makes me feel the peaks and valleys of his hard muscles. My pussy pulses with need, and I clamp my thighs together. If he wasn’t standing in front of me, I’d bend over in pain. A whine slips from between my lips. “Omega, I can make it better,” he purrs. It’s a strange sound, almost like a song.