Chapter 25 #2
“Are you in heat?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
She turns back, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I immediately backtrack. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling like an idiot.
“But why did you ask me that?” she presses.
I find myself walking toward her, then stopping myself before I get too close. “You smell potent, almost dense.”
“I smell bad?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
“Not bad,” I clarify, my gaze dropping to her lips for a second before I catch myself. “Strong.”
“Oh,” she says, a small understanding dawning in her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Are you... do you have enough suppressants?” I ask, my concern overriding my better judgment.
“No,” she admits. “But I’ll get some.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, my mind racing with the implications.
She’s watching me, her expression unreadable. I notice a small trickle of blood making its way down her forehead from the bandage.
“You’re bleeding again,” I say, reaching out instinctively.
I press my thumb against the wound, wiping away the blood. I bring my thumb between us, the crimson smear a contrast to my skin.
“My head hurts a little,” she says, her voice soft.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Me too,” she replies.
She looks at my thumb, then up at me. I can smell her scent thicken, the sweet, intoxicating aroma filling the small space between us. I can feel my own need thump in my head, a primal, undeniable urge that I have to fight to control.
“We can’t do this,” she says, her voice husky.
“I know,” I say, my own voice rough with desire. Then, slowly, I ask, “Why can’t we?”
“It’s complicated,” she says, her gaze dropping to my lips.
I know it’s complicated. I know she’s involved with Liam, that I’m the sheriff, that this is the worst possible time and place.
But in this moment, none of that seems to matter.
All that matters is the woman standing in front of me, the woman who smells like home and hope and everything I’ve been missing.
Instead, I trace her lips with the thumb still stained with her blood, watching the red smear across the soft flesh. It’s a primal act, a claiming I can’t stop. She whimpers, a small, broken sound that vibrates against my skin.
“You’re a sheriff,” she says. “He would never forgive me.”
I press down on the bow of her lip, a silent command to stop talking, to just feel. It has been so long since I had her this close. I can’t think straight. I don’t want to.
The scent of her, sweet and sad and now laced with a sharp edge of desire, fills my head, pushing out everything else—the job, the rules, the consequences. It’s a thick, intoxicating fog, and I’m willingly lost in it.
“I know, Millie,” I say, the words rough, barely recognizable as my own.
She blinks, her long lashes fluttering like moth wings against a porch light. I watch her eyes drift down to my thumb, still pressed against her mouth. The air crackles between us.
Then her tongue is there, tracing the tip, a small, tentative flick that sends a bolt of lightning straight to my groin. It’s not a seduction; it’s a surrender. And it’s my undoing.
My cock hardens in my pants, a sudden, almost painful rush of blood that leaves me lightheaded. I can feel myself abandoning my brain, my principles, my goddamn career.
“Fuck,” I growl, the word torn from my throat.
“Fuck,” she repeats, her own voice a breathy echo, a matching acknowledgment of our mutual damnation.
And then I’m tugging her to me, my hand fisting in the back of her shirt, the fabric bunching in my grip.
There’s no grace, no finesse, just a needy pull.
Nothing matters but the way her mouth opens, the way her tongue meets mine.
It’s a clash of teeth and tongues, desperate and messy. It’s not a kiss; it’s a collision.
Her hands are in my hair, her fingers tangling in the short strands, pulling me closer, deeper.
I can feel the beat of her heart against my chest, a frantic drum solo that matches the chaotic rhythm of my own.
She tastes of mint and something uniquely her, something sweet and wild that I want to bottle and drink until I’m drunk on her.
“Open your eyes, Omega,” I say against her mouth, the command a rough whisper. I tug her bottom lip into my mouth, sucking on it, tasting the metallic tang of her blood and the sweetness that is just her.
Her eyes flutter open, the pupils blown wide with desire, a dark, endless pool that threatens to swallow me whole.
She smells so fucking good. The scent is stronger now, a potent cocktail of arousal and Omega, a siren’s call to my Alpha senses.
I want her scent wrapped around me, soaked into my skin, until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin.
“This is bad,” she whispers, her hands clutching at my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt.
“I can’t stop,” I confess, my own hand trembling as I trace the line of her jaw, down the slender column of her neck.
My fingers find that spot, the sensitive patch of skin where I could simply bite down as I thrust into her, as I knot her and make her mine forever.
The thought is so powerful, so tempting, it makes my head spin.
I can feel the phantom ache of a bond forming, a pull that’s more than just physical.
I’m not even sure who moves, but one moment we’re standing, lost in our own little world of forbidden desire, and the next, the back of her thighs hit the edge of my desk, and I’m lifting her, scattering papers and pens onto the floor.
The sound of a coffee mug shattering on the floor is a distant, irrelevant noise.
She’s beneath me, her legs wrapping around my hips, pulling me closer, locking me in.
The friction is exquisite, torture. I can feel the heat of her through our clothes, a wetness that soaks through and meets my own desperate hardness.
I should stop. I should pull away, apologize, and pretend this never happened.
I’m the sheriff, for fuck’s sake. She’s the victim of a crime, the friend of a man I just arrested.
This is a thousand kinds of wrong. But she smells too fucking good.
Her scent is a drug, and I’m a willing addict. I can’t think straight.
The friction is a sweet agony, a tease of what could be. I can feel every ridge, every seam of her jeans against my cock, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
She’s making these little whimpers and moans that are driving me crazy.
I’m afraid someone will hear, afraid someone will walk in, but I can’t stop.
I don’t want to. I cover her mouth with my hand, my palm pressing against her lips, not to silence her in a cruel way, but to muffle the sounds, to keep this moment—this desperate, messy, beautiful moment—just between us.
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t fight me. Instead, her tongue darts out, tracing the lines on my palm, a wet, bold caress that sends a fresh jolt of desire straight to my core. Fuck. I can feel the wetness spreading through the front of my jeans, a hot, sudden rush. I’m so close. Too close.
Pressure builds at the base of my spine, a tightening in my balls that signals the end. I try to hold back, to prolong this feeling, this connection, but it’s useless.
I’m too far gone.
My hips buck against hers, a final thrust, and then I’m coming.
A hot, wet rush floods my boxers, a wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her scent, my hips still twitching with the aftershocks.
My knot swells, a painful, insistent pressure against the confines of my jeans, a frustrating reminder of what this could have been, of what I can’t have.
For a moment, we just lie there, a tangled, sweaty mess on my desk. The world outside this office has ceased to exist. There’s only the sound of our ragged breathing, the scent of our combined arousal, and the sticky, shameful mess in my pants.
And then the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the haze, a jarring reminder of the world outside this office, outside this moment.
We jump apart, clumsy and awkward. I can see the confusion and arousal warring on her face. Her lips are swollen, her hair a mess, and there’s a smear of her blood on my cheek.
“This is a mistake,” she says, her voice shaking as she straightens her clothes, her eyes avoiding mine.
She turns and flees the office, leaving me standing there, confused, aroused, and reeling from what just happened. I look down at the mess on my pants, at the scattered papers on the floor, at the shattered coffee mug.
I’ve made a mess of everything.