Episode 22 Pucker Up, Princess #2
Applause ripples through the set, polite and practiced. Isadora steps away with a satisfied little smile, already basking in the approval like it was owed to her. “Familiarity has its advantages,” she says to her friends as she moves next to them.
A few more omegas go after her.
I barely register them.
Their kisses blur together—hands on shoulders, mouths opening, bodies pressing in close.
Some of them are enthusiastic to the point of desperation, like if they kiss hard enough, long enough, it might tip the scales in their favor.
The pack reacts accordingly. Murmurs, low chuckles, the scrape of shoes shifting on the platform.
I feel oddly detached from it.
Which is a blessing, if I’m honest. Otherwise I would be a complete mess right now.
Tristan squeezes my hand when one omega practically climbs Grieves, and I squeeze back, grounding myself in the familiar pressure. He leans in close and mutters something snide under his breath that almost makes me laugh, and for a second it’s just us again.
Then Cleo calls my name, quiet enough the pack shouldn’t hear.
“Florence.”
The sound hits me square in the chest.
My stomach drops, a strange mix of nerves and resignation washing through me. Of course it’s my turn. Of course there’s no skipping this. Tristan squeezes my hands as I step away from him, my fingers numb as I move forward.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
I’ve already been told how this ends. This is just another performance. Another thing to get through.
Still, my pulse skitters when I climb onto the box in front of Grieves, when I’m suddenly close enough to see the faint rise and fall of his chest, close enough to smell soap and skin and something metallic beneath it.
There’s something very strange about this setup. About approaching blindfolded men and kissing them. It's not anything I ever thought I would do. Of course it isn’t. This isn’t high school and this isn’t The Kissing Booth.
And yet here I am, stepping up onto a box to be able to reach Grieves better, to put my mouth closer to his.
He stiffens at the first brush of my hand on his chest, then lets out this little…
sigh. Some of the tension in his shoulders melts, as though having a bunch of omegas kiss him has been difficult for him.
And maybe it has been.
I don’t want to make it worse.
So when I press my mouth to his, I mean for it to be quick.
I know it won’t score me many points, but I also kind of hate the idea of having any first kiss be…
this. In front of a million people, recorded and shared.
So I’ll take the comments about me being a cold fish, a frigid bitch, a prude over mauling these men, forcing something on them that I’m not sure they want.
I have the best of intentions, I really do. But as soon as our mouths touch there’s this shock, this pulse that runs through me. And I can’t help but press a little closer. His mouth parts under mine, with no urging at all, and then our tongues are brushing and my mind is spinning.
I’m vaguely aware he hasn’t touched me yet. They aren’t really supposed to. This is about the omegas impressing them, maybe trying to trick them into thinking they’re an omega that they want, that they can bond with.
He tilts his head, trying to get a better angle, but it must not work, because he lets out a growl and his hand comes up to slide into the hair at the base of my skull, tugging and pulling until he has me positioned like he wants. My fingers dig into his flesh.
Someone clears their throat pointedly and then he’s pulling back, pushing me away at the same time and I blink up at his blindfolded face, seeing the mask slip back into place, and feeling cold in its wake, where I’d just felt so hot.
I swallow and wipe the back of my hand over my lips, trying to hide my hurt as I move to Forsythe. His nostrils flare as I get close to him, his jaw ticking with tension. My fingers stroke over the twitching muscle as I press up to my toes and brush my lips over his.
He doesn’t want this.
He doesn’t want me. And I will not force it on him.
I’m pulling back, readying to move on to Thayer, when his hand presses between my shoulder blades dragging me closer.
It's not the same kiss as we shared before.
It's quieter, softer, meant more for show than anything else.
Our lips part briefly, tongues touching.
It feels a little like an apology, which is a strange thing to think of a kiss.
Before his hand curls around my shoulder and does the same thing Grieves did, pushes me away from him, even though he’s the one that pulled me closer.
It's fine, I tell myself. It's good even. A reminder. An important one.
I’m determined to kiss Thayer quickly. To not give him the chance to try to take it deeper. I can’t take the moment where he pushes me away, like Grieves and Forsythe did. So I’ll do it first.
He doesn’t give me the chance. As soon as I’m steady on the box, one hand resting lightly on his bare shoulder, he loops an arm around me tugging me tight to his body as his mouth descends on mine and he kisses me. Not the other way around.
He kisses me like a man feasting. Like he’s been starving for a taste of me, and now he never wants to stop.
I never want to stop.
My toes curl into the top of the box, my hands sweep over his shoulders, tangle in his hair. And he does the same to me, stroking the bare skin of my stomach, dipping under the band of my crop top.
I whine.
And the sound is enough to shock me out of the moment.
I pull back, and Thayer follows with a growl, nipping at my bottom lip gently, before kissing the sting with a soft press of his mouth.
His hands release me and I do the same, albeit reluctantly.
I want to go on kissing him, tasting him.
But then I’m turning to Courtland, the last member of the pack, waiting patiently.
My hands slide up his chest, and I suppress the urge to murmur ‘pretty boy’ to him. His hands move to my hips, pulling me in as he bends down with unerring accuracy until his lips brush mine. Not the other way around.
“Pix,” Court breathes against my mouth, even though they aren’t supposed to know who I am, who it is that’s kissing them. “Finally.” And then his hand is threading through my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me like he means it.
I melt into him. Into his mouth, the heat of his body. He makes a little hungry noise that goes right to my clit, and when his hand slides down to cup my ass, I’m a little worried he might feel how wet I am, from just a few kisses from his pack.
His mouth devours mine, and I’m right there with him, devouring him back.
Just like we did last night while stretched out on my bed.
Kissing and kissing and kissing. I get lost in him, in the taste of him, the feel of his sun warmed skin under my palms, his silky black hair tangled around my fingers.
Someone clears their throat, pointedly.
Another voice mutters, “maul him much?”
Tristan singsongs, “don’t be jealous just because they kissed you like they were kissing their grandmothers.”
Court and I laugh against each other’s mouths before I pull back. The tips of my fingers brush over his chest, resting for a moment over his thundering heart before I step down from the box and retreat.
I move on wobbly legs to stand next to Petal, ready with chalk dusty fingers to record my scores.
“Okay, gentlemen, time to rate the most recent round of kisses,” Cleo says. “Grieves?”
There’s a pause, a moment when he tightens his jaw so hard I’m worried he’s going to break a tooth, and then he growls out. “Six. It was… a little rough around the edges.”
Rough around the edges? What the fuck?
Cleo’s brows arch like she’s as surprised as I am by that. “Okay. Six. Forsythe?”
No hesitation on the part of the prince. “Four. It felt as though she was trying to force it.” Now the apology in his kiss makes sense.
The scratch of the chalk on the board makes my shoulders shrink. The sound of Isadora and her sycophants’ laughter makes it worse.
“Thayer?” Cleo asks.
“Five. It was nice, but perhaps a little over enthusiastic.”
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from bursting into tears. It's all part of the show. I know it. They’ve already determined that I’m not the omega for them even if the way they kissed me didn’t feel like that.
But this just seems unnecessarily cruel. Calling what we just did sloppy and me over eager? What do they gain from that, but to make me into a joke? To add fuel to an already smoldering Florence-isn’t-worth-our-time fire?
Why am I still even here?
That thought hits hard and fast as Courtland turns his face toward me, still blindfolded, but like he knows that’s where I am. Like he can feel me. I think of his whispered, ‘finally’, the clench of his hand in my hair and surely—surely—he’s going to give me a good score. Surely…
“Five.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips like he’s tasting me there. “It was… unpolished. Midrange.”
My stomach lurches. On the heels of what we did last night, his dismissal hits like a slap. And my cheeks burn like it too.
Off to the side I see Piers standing with his arms folded over his chest, eyes narrowed at his pack, before he looks at me, the apology in his eyes evident. I am eternally grateful that the alphas of his pack can’t see my reaction, even if everyone else can.
I shuffle over to stand next to Tristan who laces his fingers through mine, giving them a squeeze.
“Ignore them,” he whispers to me as Odette hisses something to Isadora, who drawls something back, that I can’t make out, but by the glances passed between the production crew the microphone picks up.
I’m sure that will be a good bit of drama.
Keeping that in mind, that my reactions and every word I say will be broadcast internationally is just about the only reason I don’t collapse entirely.
It was foolish of me to forget, even for a moment who these alphas are and more importantly who I am not.
I am good enough to touch when the cameras aren’t running. A secret little shame. A guilty pleasure.
But I am not good enough for them to want publicly.
If there had been any doubts about how this pack feels about me, about where I come from or who I am, those have been put to rest.
I am not good enough in the eyes of the Ashbourne pack.
I never will be.