Chapter 6 Oliver
Oliver
It’s been four days of keeping my hands to myself, and I swear it’s going to kill me faster than any Alpha strolling that boardwalk. Lorenzo’s voice replays in my head on a nonstop loop: We let him lead. He sets the pace.
Reasonable words from a reasonable man who treats self-control like a sacred duty.
Lorenzo can wait. Lorenzo can sit across from Wilson every night, watch him working the floor with that sharp jaw, those dark eyes, and those hands that still linger on my hips from four nights ago and Lorenzo can tuck it all away behind that calm facade as if it costs him nothing.
I am not Lorenzo.
Every shift feels like a test. There’s Wilson behind the bar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearm muscles flexing whenever he lifts a crate of glasses.
There’s Wilson crouched down, fixing a wobbly table leg, the muscles along his back flexing.
There’s Wilson’s mouth when he’s focusing, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and that low hum he makes when some figure on the inventory sheet doesn’t add up, a vibration that travels through the air between us and lands somewhere just below my navel.
We haven’t really touched since that night. There’s been a shoulder squeeze or two but nothing else. Wilson keeps a precise inch-by-inch boundary between his body and mine, and every time I edge into it, he shifts away so smoothly that anyone not paying attention would swear it was an accident.
Lorenzo channels his own ache into work. He cranks through numbers and makes phone calls, avoiding the lack of response from the Beta we’re both enamored by. Hell, Lorenzo even handles me differently since we shared Wilson.
Last night, after close, I crawled onto his lap in the office and nuzzled his throat until he gripped my jaw and told me to stay still. I couldn’t, though.
I squirmed and pushed, even bit the tendon in his neck until his patience snapped.
Then he bent me over the desk, my pants pooled around my thighs, and fucked me so hard I stopped thinking about Wilson for almost twenty minutes.
His hand locked at the back of my neck, pressing my cheek into the wood, his hips driving forward so hard I saw stars.
I came with my teeth sunk into my own forearm to stifle a scream, and Lorenzo followed with a groan that rattled straight down my spine.
Afterward, he kissed the bruise on my arm and murmured, “Patience.”
I told him to go fuck himself.
But I can’t wait any longer. It’s been nearly a week, the Saturday crowd emptying out, stragglers closing tabs, and tugging on coats.
Lorenzo left an hour ago to sort a delivery snag with one of our suppliers, so I’m on closing duty alone.
The music’s been turned down low, the house lights just bright enough to guide any lingering customers toward the exit without feeling pushy.
But Wilson’s still here.
He’s parked at the back table, once again working through the end of the night numbers, one hand wrapped around a glass of water.
He’s stayed past his shift again, third time this week.
He doesn’t say why, and I don’t ask, because asking would mean admitting that Wilson Ashford has nowhere better to be at 1 a.m. on a Saturday than the office of a minimum-wage nightclub.
When the last customer slips out, I lock the front door, flip the sign, and start wiping down the bar. Even with busy work, though, my attention keeps shifting to the mysterious Beta until I can’t help myself.
“You know there’s a bed upstairs so you don’t have to go back to your apartment tonight,” I say without turning.
He stiffens but doesn’t look up, his usual way of responding to nearly everyone.
“The couch in the office will wreck your back.” I rinse the rag, wring it out, and drape it over the faucet. “Lorenzo and I have a guest room with an actual mattress and sheets that’ve been washed this decade.”
Wilson doesn’t answer but when I glance over my shoulder, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite make over. He hovers the pen above his notepad, jaw shifting as he weighs words. I hate that. I hate that he’s so careful, even around us, around me.
“So—where are you staying, Wilson?”
His shoulders tense and I mentally curse myself for prying. He’s like a beautiful, wounded bird, curling into himself every time I push too hard but I don’t know anything else. Pushing too hard has always gotten me what I wanted.
“I have a place.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s what I’m giving you.”
Lorenzo would let it go. He’d file it away and bring it up later, with perfect timing and a careful approach. But I kill the bar lights and cross the floor to Wilson’s table, his coffee-and-leather scent growing stronger with each step.
“You’ve stayed past close three nights this week,” I say, pulling out the chair opposite him before sinking into it.
“You show up early, you stay late, and you eat whatever I put in front of you like you haven’t eaten since the last time.
I’m offering you a bed in a warm apartment with people who want you there. That’s it.”
“Oliver.”
“Yeah—my name.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you think I mean. I mean a bed. A guest room. A door that locks from the inside if you want.” I lean back, hands in my lap, giving him space. “You can say no. I’ll drop it.” Everything in me begs to drag Wilson up the steps and into bed with us, maybe even into my nest if he’d let me.
His fingers tighten around his pen as he fiddles with his collar in that habitual rhythm I didn’t realize I’d memorized. He opens his mouth, shuts it, then looks back at the paperwork. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
“I can work with not-a-no.” I grin. He fights the small smile at the corner of his lips, small enough to satisfy my curiosity.
Wilson grabs the papers from the table and pulls them into a tidy stack, tapping their edges twice before sliding them into a folder. When he closes it, his hands fall flat on the table, his gaze meeting mine
“Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice low, stripped of his usual sarcasm. The bare honesty in it makes my chest ache.
“Because I want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
I have no idea why I latched onto Wilson out of everyone else I could have that evening.
I have no idea why it matters or why I still need this Beta.
Our usual one night stands consist of little more than fun and chaos before we’re off to find the next person.
Lorenzo and I do just fine on our own. I even chose him over my own family and their wishes.
But Wilson…
I watch several emotions pass through his expression, the Beta’s guard dropping by fractions, the wall thinning just enough that I can see through it to the person underneath who is tired and lonely and trying so hard to hold all of it together by himself.
Before I can think better of it, my hands find the arms of his chair and I swing my leg over his lap, settling onto his thighs with my knees braced on either side of his hips.
His breath catches in this throat as his hands come up instinctively, hovering at my waist without making contact, his fingers trembling in the air an inch from my skin.
“Oliver—”
“Tell me to get off and I will.”
His hands close on my waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of my shirt, and the sound that leaves his throat is raw enough to make my skin prickle. I cup his face in both hands, my thumbs tracing along his jaw, the stubble there rough against my palms.
His pupils widen with desire, his breathing shallowing, each exhale warm against my chin. I can feel him hard beneath me, his cock pressing up against the seam of his pants, and the heat of it sends a pulse through my whole body.
Slick gathers around my hole, threatening to undo me completely as I dip my head in for the kiss I’ve been starving for since we met just over a week ago.
His mouth opens under mine immediately, his hands pulling me closer, his tongue sliding against mine with a desperation that tastes like someone who’s been starving and just found food.
He kisses me like he’s trying to pour something into my mouth that he can’t say, his fingers twisting in my shirt, his hips rocking up against me once before he catches himself.
Then he stops.
His hands release my waist and press flat against my chest, pushing back gently. His forehead drops against mine, his breath ragged, his eyes closed.
“I can’t.”
“Okay.”
“I want to. I just can’t.”
“It’s alright.” I press my lips to his forehead and hold them there. His hands tremble against my chest and I cover them with mine, stilling the tremor, feeling his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. “Good night, Wilson.”
It takes all of my self control to climb off his lap.
Every single nerve in my body screams at me to stay and to wrap myself around him and kiss him until whatever is holding him back crumbles.
Instead, I head for the stairs, leaving our apartment door unlocked just in case he decides to take me up on that offer.
The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the bedroom that Lorenzo always leaves on when he knows I’m closing alone. I barely make it a few steps inside, veering away from the bed and into the nest off to the side.
I built it months ago out of the weighted blankets Lorenzo bought me for my birthday and the pillows I’ve been stealing from every hotel we’ve ever stayed in.
It’s a mess of fabric and softness that smells like both of us, the one place in the apartment that’s entirely mine even though Lorenzo’s scent is woven through every layer.
I strip off my clothes down to my briefs, crawl into the nest, and yank the thickest blanket over my head. Hot tears slip out before I can stop them, ones born of wanting something so badly my body can’t contain it. I bury my face in the pillow scented with my Beta and let the sobs take over.
I’m not sure how long I stay there, curled up in the pillows before Lorenzo wraps himself around my back, his arms wrapping around my waist and pulling me against his chest.
“He kissed me,” I whisper into the pillow. “I kissed him. He kissed me back, then he stopped.”
Lorenzo’s lips brush the nape of my neck at the base of my spine but doesn’t say a word.
“He’s falling for us, Zo.” The nickname slips out, reserved for nights like this. “He’s so close, and every time he pulls away, I can feel how much it costs him.”
“I know, baby.”
“Someone broke him. They stole something from him, something he’s terrified to want back.
” I shift in his arms so I can see his face.
“Lorenzo, someone taught him that craving touch is shameful.” I’m not sure how I know but I do.
It’s the only explanation why he would flinch between us, why he wouldn’t readily reach for me even though I could see in his eyes that he wanted to.
Lorenzo’s thumb traces along my cheekbone, gathering every last tear.
“We need to find out where he’s sleeping,” I say. “He dodged me tonight. I think it’s his car, or somewhere close. We’ve got the guest room.”
“We do.”
“Will you ask him? He’ll say no to me because he thinks I’m impulsive. If it comes from you—”
“I’ll handle it.”
My hand closes around the chain at his throat, pulling him down until our foreheads meet. “I’m awful at this—being patient, watching him hurt three feet away because he hasn’t given us permission to get closer.”
“You’re doing better than you think.”
His hand slides down my back and settles at the small of my spine. I press into the touch, every nerve still pulsing from Wilson’s kiss.
“We’re going to be so good to him,” I whisper.