32. Alessandro
Chapter thirty-two
Alessandro
I hum an old Italian opera as I mow a frame around the edge of Mr Monstead’s lawn.
Life’s never been better! Willow fell asleep in my arms like we’d been together all our lives.
After that, I got up and put the breakfast food away and contacted the scheduled home owners to defer bookings before heading back to bed to keep my promise.
This makes my first day of missed work since arriving in America.
Willow slept for a full two hours, and I even drifted off, her sweet Jasmine scent lulling me into nice dreams. After that, I worked on her fence and played with Mr Shares until I wore him out.
The omega never once stepped outside, but now I understand her reluctance.
I glance up at the clear blue sky radiating summer heat waves as intricate as the scars on her legs. Could I make myself step outside again after being struck by lightning twice? It would feel like a cosmic challenge.
And they say bad things come in threes.
I cross my chest and mutter under my breath, not sure exactly what I’m praying for but feeling like I need to do something.
When we woke up, we spent the evening together, chatting about life, mostly mine.
Willow wanted to know all about my family, and I loved every minute of satisfying her curiosity.
She’ll need time to work up to sharing more of her story.
We fell asleep in each other’s arms again, her trust so precious I barely felt pain from my blue balls.
The air fills with the damp scent of broken grass stems as I finish back where I started, the giant lawn framed in a short, pale green border. Better keep my mind on the job for this next stage, because of course Mr Monstead wanted the most difficult diamond cut.
My guess is he liked the sound of the name.
I eyeball his lawn and put a couple of pegs down to mark my lines.
On a rectangle lawn, this would be simpler, but on the far side of this manor we have curved terraces and garden beds.
After finding my center point, I turn the mower away by forty-five degrees and pick my sight line.
A pointed ornamental pine works just fine as a marker.
I push forward, cutting the straight swathes through the grass.
Luckily these lawns are all well-watered, since I have to cut lower than I like.
I explained the dangers of a low cut to Mr Monstead, but I can’t trust that he actually listened or understood.
Expose the roots or get a heat wave and the grass dies off faster than I can say “low cut.”
Sweat pours down my back, combining with dust to make me itchy. But despite the hard work, the challenge of cutting neat strips keeps me going strong. Been awhile since I did a diamond cut and the satisfaction when it’s completed is nearly as good as holding my omega.
Nearly.
And my omega? Yeah, that’s exactly how I think about her.
Mine. Like, something missing slotting into place.
A wrongness filled with a rightness. I wasn’t messing around when I said I was sure we’d spent previous lifetimes together.
That’s the only answer that makes sense for my love to bloom so fully almost overnight.
An hour later, completely soaked in sweat and lathered in grass stains, I pack up my equipment and take a last look at the lawn. The diamond patterns look fantastic. Mr Monstead’s reading a newspaper on the back terrace again, so I climb the steps.
“I’m all done, sir.”
He glances up and grunts. “All right then.”
“Do you like the diamond pattern?”
“Hm. It’s not as contrasted as I thought.”
“That’s because the grass is quite short now, since you said you needed it for an event. Next time, it will be longer and more defined.”
He nods once, an unhappy furrow digging between his brows. I’ve no doubt he won’t be satisfied whatever gets done; he’s just that kind of man. Makes me grateful for a small shed to live in and simple tastes.
Can’t feel good only seeing a world full of bitterness.
“I’ll get going then. Oh, please make sure the sprinkler system goes on tonight or tomorrow morning. We’re due for some hot days.
“It’s always hot here,” he grumbles, flapping his hand at me.
Well, I’ve done my best. Before hopping in my car, I snap a few photos for my webpage. So far, I’ve only managed to get my contact details and a basic price list up. Pretty hard to fiddle with that stuff when I only have my phone to work with.
I shoot Willow a text message as I climb into my truck. Thinking about you, cara mia. What are you up to?
She sends me back a smiley face, followed by: I’m filming my nest. Figured it would make a good topic, especially since it’s one I haven’t done before.
I stroke the side of my phone with my thumb, as if I could lean through the pixels to caress her.
Sounds wonderful, I shoot back. Can I have a private tour, or do I need to wait and see the video?
She posts a cute blushing emoji. Private, of course. The videos go up weeks later. When will you drop by?
I lean my head on the steering wheel and groan. I want to run around there right now and fold her into my arms, but I need to work. Today I’m making up for the jobs I didn’t do yesterday, so I can’t put them off again.
Tomorrow. Breakfast?
We can finish the eggs muffins.
I like the way you think. And everything else about you.
The chat goes quiet, and I can picture her, hunched over the phone, smiling. The men in her life let her down. I intend to take things slow, to let her know I’m here for the long run.
She’s worth waiting for.
That thought keeps me going through a grueling afternoon where I mow lawns like my life depends on it.
The sun sets while I’m still working, the cooling air gluing my sweat-soaked shirt to my back.
I push hard to finish before power tools shut-off-curfew and drag my weary body back home, certain I’m carrying an extra five pounds of dirt on me somewhere.
Can’t even offload my grass clippings since the city green waste recycling center is closed.
Aching all over, I plod to my shed, too tired to clean the grass out of my blades. Tomorrow. I can get up early. Reluctantly I make myself shower, text Willow, and climb into bed. Thankfully I filled up my water bottle and hung my eye mask neatly on a nail overhead yesterday morning.
The omega appears in my dreams. Beautiful, soft, fitting perfectly between my hands. She comes to my bed, naked beneath her bathrobe, and slips under my sheets.
“You know where I live?” I ask, stroking her locks.
“Of course, honey.” She leans in and presses her mouth to mine. “I want you so bad, Alex.”
I pause, but her kiss is so insistent I give in. Her palms spread across my chest, stroking me everywhere before tracking down my body.
“W-wait,” I protest. I wanted to go slow. This isn’t right for us.
“I don’t want to wait any longer.”
Maybe I’m doing us more harm by holding back. Trust aside, she’s still an omega. Although her scent’s so faint right now. That must be because I’m dreaming.
I lie still, exhausted and fuzzy while she strips my boxers and takes my cock in hand. Heat builds as she massages blood into the area. Hard to know where the dream begins and ends with my erection growing. That’s gotta be real, for sure.
“Good dream,” I mutter, my words echoing all around me.
She giggles. “Good dick, too.”
I force my eyes open and the woman writhing into my bare chest morphs from a blonde goddess into my employer. A very naked employer. Mrs Warkow huffs as she rolls me onto my back.
I flail, my knuckles striking the rough timber wall on the far side of my bed. I’m not asleep, but I can’t say I’m fully awake either. My body and my brain can’t seem to coordinate.
“N-No,” I mumble.
“Shh, honey. Just let me have a little ride, and then you go back to sleep, yeah? You won’t remember a thing in the morning.”
Miranda tugs the sheet back and throws her leg over my waist. Her bare pussy lands just below my navel.
I scream in my head and try to roll, but all I get is a groan and arm twitch. What the fuck happened? No way am I so tired that I’d let her help herself to my body. I thrash my head to the side and catch sight of the closed door. Did I not latch it when I got home?
My heart beats sluggishly in my chest, and a sensation like a heavy blanket settles over my frantic emotions. Do I need to be worried? I can just relax, can’t I? I blink, and the side table made of crates revolves in and out of focus.
My side table, where Miranda stood, fiddling with my things.
“Wha’ did ‘ou do?” I slur out, slapping at her arm.
The woman chuckles. “You’re too clever for your own good, Alex.” Her long nails latch closed around my wrist. “Just enjoy it. I’ve had a lot of men search me out, you know. Rich, powerful men. But now I want you. All you need to do is relax.”
She rises and reaches between her legs to grasp my cock.
I muster every shred of strength I have and buck. “Get off!”
The order only contains enough alpha speak to make her shiver.
“Ahh! You really know how to get a woman wet,” she rasps, reclaiming her position over me. “But do be a good alpha and keep the noise down.”
I roar louder, senseless words full of befuddled confusion, followed by all the curse words in my mother tongue.
Her hand latches over my mouth. “For Heaven’s sake! Quiet—”
The shed door slams open. Light blazes overhead, making pain slice through my head. Mr Warkow stands in the doorway, a flashlight in his hand, mouth opening with shock.
True fear blisters through my body. I’m in my birthsuit on the bed. His naked wife sits on my belly, my dick touching her ass cheeks. If he can even make that distinction from across the room.
The guard dogs bark in the distance.
“You fucking cur!” he roars, face turning beet red. “I give you a place to stay, and this is how you repay me?” The household patriarch closes the distance between us in a second and rips his wife off my body. “You!” He shoves her toward the door. “I’ll deal with you inside.”