Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Esme
His head snaps up.
“What the fuck?” he mutters, tossing the data tablet aside with a scowl and surging from his seat.
He gets in close, sinking to his knees before the couch, insinuating himself between my thighs, making me aware of him, his heat, his big body, those potent pheromones pumping into the air as he responds to my upset and tries to calm me.
He purrs.
But I’m tightly strung and for once it doesn’t work.
I shove at his chest as he crowds me into the couch. Foolish. Now my palms are against the thick slabs of muscle of his chest.
He plucks one hand away in a broad fist. And, in a move too fast for my shattered mind to process, he lifts me, takes my place on the couch, and drops me over him, straddling his lap.
One hand palms my throat. He takes off his cap and tosses it somewhere across the room, revealing thick, wavy hair cut short at the sides.
His hair is perfect… but of course it is, even after being squashed under his cap.
But now, without the cap, I can see his eyes. At first glance, I’d thought they were brown. Up close, though, I can see they’re a deep, gunmetal gray with dark gold flecks, like rust… or fire.
They make me think of a wolf, even though I’m pretty sure wolves don’t have such eyes. There’s just something animalistic lingering in their depths… Not exactly unusual in an alpha.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is a soft, medium baritone, neither too high nor too low and gravelly.
Forgettable.
Yet unforgettable.
Wait? Did he just say sorry? I’m so confused. Is this a new alpha trick? They never apologize for anything, not even for being assholes. Especially not for being assholes. It’s like a badge of honor they wear with pride.
His thick thumb brushes the tears from my cheek before he leans and presses a kiss against my skin.
My tears are forgotten. With that simple touch, he gains all my focus, my emotional storm dissipating against this imperative to connect.
Yet I still have a lingering notion that something is different. Wrong. Out of whack.
He kisses my other cheek… The tip of my nose… His fingers remain collaring my throat. There is a gleam in his eyes that kicks off a surge of arousal in my core. His eyes lower to my lips. “What do you need?”
I sigh.
More soft kisses brush my skin in welcome hints of what is to come.
This is back to normal. An alpha being an asshole, asking me what I need when he damn well knows.
Yet something is still off with this exchange.
And now he’s touching me, I can sense it again.
Healers are sensitive to emotional nuances, damage, and such.
More often, we can sense a person’s needs simply by being close to them, especially if their emotions or injuries are extreme.
With him, I need to touch, and when I do, I’m touching something I haven’t touched before.
It holds me back. With any other alpha, I’d be begging them to assuage the ache. Why, instead, do I feel so defiant?
His lips skate up my throat.
I shake my head in denial.
His head lifts, and his eyes hold mine prisoner before his lips tug up. “Nothing at all?”
He really is exceptionally handsome. They’re always attractive, whether it is more primal, rugged beauty, or this polished perfection.
Despite his alpha size, I could imagine him in a suit.
One of those business moguls, former military men who go on to hold positions of wealth and influence in society.
He’s too young for that, and yet the image still fits.
“Are you sure about that, baby? When was the last time someone bothered to ask you for investment?”
I lick my dry lips. He’s too perceptive, and I’m the omega. I should be the perceptive one. But his question hits a sensitive place inside me. They don’t have to ask anymore. I’m too eager. Making my desires clear with actions even before the door closes, emboldened to demand and take my dues.
“We’re going to play a game today,” he says slowly.
Game? “I don’t like games.”
“Don’t care.”
God, why does that firm determination light me up?
“You want me to sort out your little problem?” His eyes lower to my pussy, the one that is sopping wet, that I’m shamelessly grinding against him. “Want me to clean you all up and make you feel good?”
I can’t answer. What the hell is wrong with me? Just say yes.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”
My laugh is a little nervous. His kisses feel nice, though, so I’ll play his game. “Vanilla.”
He raises a brow.
“What?” I feel defensive now. “I can’t like vanilla?”
He shrugs. His hand leaves my throat. I miss the contact instantly. But when both his hands go to the buckle of his belt, fresh heat pools in my belly.
I watch him work it undone, lost in the movements of his big, capable hands as they work the buckle loose, and then there’s a whisper, as in one long, smooth pull he draws the belt out.
His cock strains the zipper of his serviceable military fatigues.
He sets the belt beside him on the couch and pops the top button of his pants.
“Favorite book?”
“Book?” The word escapes my lips in a breathless rush.
I’m busy staring at the way his zipper has parted slightly now that the button is undone.
He’s doing something with the belt again, creating two smaller loops with such practiced ease it takes my brain a while to catch up, and by the time I do, he’s already gathering my wrists at my lower back and with a tug, secures them in place.
My chest heaves, my nipples peak, and a trickle of slick leaks onto his pants.
He makes a tutting sound. His left hand returns to collar my throat, bringing a stutter to my heartbeat.
“Books? Or do you prefer movies?”
“I like books,” I stammer out.
“Yeah? How about you tell me some of your favorites? I’ve heard omegas have a weakness for books about knotting and breeding.” He leans in again, trailing unhurried kisses down the side of my throat.
I’m panting.
There is a possibility I might climax.
“Do you like that kind of book, Esme? Like to read about being knotted, claimed, and bred?”
A needy whimper escapes my lips. “H-how do you know my name w-when I don’t know yours?”
“Zeb.”
“Just Zeb?”
“Yeah, just Zeb.” With slow, almost detached calm, he tugs my healer dress up and tucks it under my trapped arms.
“Do you like the thought of being knotted, Esme?” He brushes his knuckles over my right nipple, and I suck a sharp breath in at the exquisite pleasure from even so slight a touch.
The words are trapped in my throat. I’m having difficulty focusing on anything but the maddening brush of his knuckles as they trail down to stroke the underside of my breast.
“It’s a straightforward question. All you have to do is tell me yes or no.”
He brushes back and forth under the swell of my breast. I arch into the touch.
“Answer me, Esme.”
His touch and my name upon his lips are weapons of intimate destruction. “Yes.”
His palm splays over my belly and my pussy performs a slow, lazy clench.
“Good girl.” He settles both hands on my upper thighs, where his thumbs draw circles.
He exhales slowly, his head bowed as he stares at the juncture of my thighs.
Then his thumbs slide up to hold my pussy lips open, exposing me, exposing how wet I am.
My breath turns ragged. I’m pulsing and throbbing down there.
“Have you ever been knotted?”
“No.” Another sharp clench and another fresh gush of slick.
His nostrils flare, and his eyes lift to pin mine. The strange rust-streaked gray color should be cold, yet his gaze blazes with heat
“Some alphas can knot all the time. You heard of that before, Esme?”
I blink at him, shocked. Only a mated alpha can knot.
I heard it can occasionally happen when alphas and omegas are in the early stage of bonding, before the omega goes into heat.
It’s an indicator of a pair-bond. It’s just a rumor, though, something I’ve caught in whispered conversations I’ve heard over the years.
Rumors because no mated omega ever goes back to the omega community again.
“Do you want to be knotted?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to invest?”
“Yes. God, yes.”