7. Dean
CHAPTER 7
Dean
The burning edge of a rut spreads through me, making my skin uncomfortable, still I volley ball after ball. Until sweat drips from my temples and my shorts and t-shirt cling to my body. Memories of a night long ago attempt to drag me back. But I shove them away. I’m older now. My control wouldn’t slip like it did before.
Chad .
He taught me a lesson I wouldn’t ever forget. No matter how much I want to. Hell, he’s the fucking reason I never found a pack. Not that he so much as blinked an eye at the fact that he ruined my life. With one simple act.
Even now, my body pulses with need. This unfulfilled desire that will just have to stay fucking empty.
I may have to check myself into a rut clinic, because if an actual rut’s coming on, I don’t want to be caught in a situation that I’ll regret. Still, I hit each tennis ball with ruthless precision, begging my body to back off. Can ruts be triggered by people?
I’m pretty fucking sure they can. Because the second Chad strolled out onto my court, acting as unfazed by everything in our past as I expected, even going so far as to bring it up, this all- consuming need has grabbed hold. Then he followed me into my office, opening old wounds, and it makes me want to punish him for it.
“Everyone’s gone home, Dean,” Hank calls, breaking my concentration enough to miss the next volley. “Don’t forget to lock up.”
I twist and wave at him with my racket to let him know I heard him. Then I focus back on exhausting my body so I can hopefully sleep tonight.
The rhythmic pop, pop, pop, pop of the machine as it fills the growing darkness.
Slowly, I let the thoughts in with each smack of the ball against my racket.
His pouty fucking lips.
Thwack.
Shit, when he curves them up into a smile, my balls tighten.
Snap.
His lean form, grown more defined and less lanky teen since back then.
Whack.
Blood pulses between my legs at the image of having him on his knees in front of me.
Pop.
“Aggressive,” Chad’s voice washes over me like a tsunami, as if I conjured him with my thoughts, making me miss the next volley as I twist toward the phantom sound. Only it isn’t a phantom. It’s him. What the fuck is he doing at the club? It’s closed. “You still look as hot as ever, dripping with sweat, and smelling like a mountain morning.”
My mouth dries up at his words, and my racket hangs loosely at my side. “What are you doing here?”
He lifts his shoulder in a shrug like it isn’t a big deal that he keeps flaunting himself in front of me. “Just had to get out of the house. It’s stifling.”
“And you came to the club you knew was closed,” I demand, my tone sharp and angry. “My club.”
A slightly guilty look crosses his face before it’s erased in a practiced mask. “What can I say, old habits die hard. Obviously.” He nods at me, and I know what he means.
Alone time at the club is what got me where I am right now. Packless. Keeping everyone at arm's length. And this man—no, this omega—is to blame. My musk spikes off of me, but I don’t care. Pheromones fill the air like a low level cloud, and I drop the racket. My urges drive me across the space between us. He gasps as I back him into the fence, boxing him in.
The first hit of his sweet perfume rushes through me like electricity. Papaya. Fucking papaya and lime . My eyes drop shut as I savor the perfect scent. My cock goes from half mast to fully ready in seconds, my knot already threatening like I’m fucking inside of him. And I would die to be inside of him.
I run my nose over his throat, and he swallows thickly, a whimper parting his lips. It earns him a nip just below his earlobe that I don’t soothe. No, this is punishment. He left me wanting something I could never have all those years ago. And now I’m going to return the favor.
I drag his earlobe between my teeth, releasing a deep, possessive growl. Then I thread my fingers into the chain linked fence on either side of him and press my body into his smaller one.
“Dean,” he gasps, his fingers going to my damp shirt. Not to push me away; no, he fucking pulls me closer.
And I break.
I seek his mouth, intent on punishment. How dare he leave before. Then he comes back like nothing’s changed. Threatening me with his own punishment. The kiss is messy and full of my barely contained need for this man. I bite at his lips, and he lets me, before sucking on my tongue like he’d suck on my cock. I groan into his mouth, needing so much more of him.
“God, you’re so fucking perfect, even after all these years,” he pants the words against my lips, his fingers threading into my hair. And they are like ice water to my body.
Perfect .
Perfect enough to leave.
Perfect enough to trap.
Perfect enough to have my heart broken all over again.
I shove away from him, the metal of the fence twanging with the force. Without a backward glance, I storm away from him. If I stay, I will do something I’ll regret in the morning. It’s better to lock myself in my apartment and ride out my rut there.