14. Glimpse Of What “This” Can Be #3
"Been wanting this," I growl against her mouth, unable to stop the words. "Since the moment you stood in our kitchen looking lost and fierce and so fucking beautiful it hurt."
She moans at that, the sound vibrating through both of us, and her tongue tangles with mine in a way that suggests she's been thinking about this too. Imagining it, wanting it, fighting it just like I have.
The spark between us detonates, ignition instant and absolute.
She parts her lips, and the need that surges through both of us is nuclear—hot, frantic, untamable.
The first brush is gentle, a test, but we both fail the restraint immediately.
She drags me downward, nails biting into my chest, and I go with her, helpless to the gravity well she’s become in my universe.
My mouth crashes into hers and the taste is intoxicating: maple and ozone, a hint of fear, a drug-smuggler’s boldness.
She moans and I inhale it, oxygen and invitation and challenge.
Every closed-off, lonely year gets poured out on my tongue, and I drink it down greedy and grateful.
We lose the thread of thought, the script of first kisses and tender patience.
It’s teeth and tongue and hunger instead.
The console digs into my hip, but I lean in anyway, bracing her to the seat with a hand at the base of her skull.
She tilts her chin higher, wanting more, and I give it, deepening the kiss until she’s panting.
My other hand comes up, sliding under the curtain of auburn hair to cup her jaw, thumb stroking the hinge.
Every tiny tremble, every catch in her breath, rewires the animal inside me.
I want her to feel safe, yes, but I want her to feel wanted more.
I want her to know I see the walls she keeps up and crave what’s burning behind them.
She matches me, beat for beat, gasp for gasp.
Her fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt until the seams threaten to split, and she hauls me closer, a low, frantic whimper simmering in her throat.
I’m past the point of shame, of worrying what the other guys might see or think.
Let them witness. Let the wind carry her scent and make them jealous.
I want the whole damn county to know that Willa James is mine, that she’s found her place and it’s right here in our hands, our arms, our lives.
She breaks away first, only a fraction, lips swollen and glazed, pupils enormous in the half-light.
There’s a wildness in her eyes now—fear, yes, but also hope, and underneath it the simmering promise of all the ways we could wreck each other.
The sound of her name, heavy and thick, rumbles out of me before I can swallow it.
She shudders, nails scraping a path down my sternum, and I nearly come undone right there.
Because this isn't just a kiss. It's years of longing, of silence, of being the odd woman out in every pack she’s ever survived. It’s every time she’s been left behind, every time she’s been told she’s too much—too smart, too stubborn, too broken.
I want to erase those words with my own, with my mouth and my hands and the promise that she’s never going to go without again.
My hand slides from her waist to her back, finding bare skin where that damn sweater has slipped. She's furnace-hot under my palm, and the feel of her—soft and real and here—makes me growl possessively. Mine, every instinct screams.
This Omega is mine to protect, to pleasure, to worship with hands and mouth until she never doubts her place again.
I break the kiss only to trail my lips along her jaw, finding that spot just below her ear that makes her whole body shiver.
"You have no idea," I murmur against her skin, "what you do to me.
How hard it's been to keep my hands off you.
How many times I've imagined this since you’ve arrived.
My desperation to just scoop you up and make you ours. "
"Cole," she gasps, and hearing my name like that— breathless and wanting —nearly breaks me. "Please, I?—"
A door slams somewhere near the house, loud enough to penetrate our bubble. We freeze, remembering where we are, who's waiting, all the reasons this shouldn't be happening in the front seat of my truck like teenagers who can't wait.
Even though it feels like we can’t.
I pull back slowly, reluctant to lose contact but knowing we need to stop before this goes further than either of us is ready for.
Willa's lips are swollen from my kiss, her hair mussed from my fingers, and she looks thoroughly claimed even though we've barely started.
Fuck…she’s so damn gorgeous…
The sight makes something primal and satisfied purr in my chest.
"We really do need to go in," I say, voice rough with want. "Before Mavi comes looking and finds us like this."
She nods, still breathing hard, fingers slowly releasing their death grip on my shirt. But her eyes hold mine, dark with promise and heat that matches my own. I can see the internal battle, the way she’s hesitating to speak as her lips open partially but no words come out.
Then there’s that flicker of defiance. The unraveling beauty of her confidence beginning to spark in those wild eyes.
"This isn't over," she says, and there's that defiant flame again, the dominant Omega showing through. “Understood?”
Good.
"Yes, Boss" I tease, thumb brushing her swollen bottom lip one more time because I can't help myself. "Noted."
The truck door closes with a soft click that might as well be a gunshot for how it echoes through my body.
Willa's scent lingers— vanilla and maple and the ghost of her arousal that no expensive underwear can fully hide —while I watch her walk toward the house with careful steps, like she doesn't trust her legs.
I don't trust mine either, not with my cock straining against denim hard enough to leave permanent impressions, not with the taste of her still burning on my tongue like whiskey and want.
She pauses at the porch steps, one hand gripping the rail, and glances back.
Just for a second, but it's enough to see the flush still painting her cheeks, the way her lips remain swollen from my kiss.
Then she's gone, disappearing inside to "wash up before dinner" like we didn't just set fire to every boundary between us.
I exhale hard, letting my head fall back against the seat.
My dick throbs with each heartbeat, pressing against my zipper like it's trying to break free on its own. The ache runs bone-deep, worse than any injury I've taken on the job, because this one's self-inflicted.
I did this to myself, kissing her like that, tasting what I can't have— not yet, not until she's ready for everything that comes with letting an Alpha claim her.
Letting each of us into her life the way a pack should.
Movement catches my eye, and I turn to find Mavi leaning against the passenger window, arms crossed, watching me with that look he gets when he's cataloging evidence. Of course he's here. Of course he saw everything. The man's got a sixth sense for drama and terrible timing.
"Fuck," I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Not now, Mavi."
He doesn't move, just raises one eyebrow in that infuriating way that says he's not going anywhere until he's satisfied his curiosity.
Through the glass, I can see the slight smirk playing at his lips.
Bastard's enjoying this.
I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make my cock scream for attention, but it's useless.
Every movement just increases the friction, sends another pulse of need through my system. My balls feel heavy, tight with the need for release, and my knot— Jesus, I can already feel it starting to swell at the base, responding to the Omega pheromones that cling to every surface she touched.
"Fuck it," I mutter, reaching for my belt.
If Mavi wants a show, he can deal with the consequences.
The zipper sounds obscenely loud in the quiet cab, but the relief when I free my cock makes me groan.
I'm harder than I've been in years, the head already dark and dripping, veins standing out along the shaft like they're trying to escape my skin.
One stroke has me hissing through my teeth, oversensitive from denial and the lingering ghost of Willa's touch.
I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over.
In my mind, she's still here, but the console's gone and she's straddling my lap, that white sweater pushed up to reveal perfect breasts tipped with dusty pink nipples.
Her pussy hovers just above my cock, hot and wet and ready, while she makes those broken little gasps that nearly ended me during our kiss.
"Please," fantasy-Willa whispers, rolling her hips so her slick coats my length. "Need you inside me, Cole. Need to feel your knot."
My hand moves faster, precum making the slide easy as I imagine pushing into her tight heat. She'd be so wet for me, opening up like she was made to take my cock.
I’d start slow, always slow, not out of courtesy but because if I went at her the way my animal craves, I’d break both of us.
So in my head, I take my time, trace every inch of her with my hands and my mouth, memorize the dips and tension points where her reaction flips from shy to demanding.
I kiss her first, again and again, mapping the taste of her tongue as she fists my hair and damn near pulls it out by the roots.
I whisper to her how perfect she is, how much I want her, how I’ve never needed anyone the way I need this—not just the slick heat of her body but the way she looks at me when she drops her guard, the way her voice goes tight with want.