Chapter 8 #2
Jasper's face flushes red—whether from alcohol or anger, it's hard to tell. "This chick is your Omega? Working at a bar? Serving drinks to strangers?"
Chick. He called her a chick. Like she's not even worth the respect of being called a woman or an Omega. Like she's just some random thing.
The Omega blushes, her cheeks flooding with color that makes her even more beautiful. The silver wig catches the bar lights, and those blue contacts make her eyes look almost otherworldly.
Fuck, she's hot when she blushes. But I don't like that she's flustered over this Alpha. I don't like that his presence is making her nervous, making her scent spike with anxiety instead of the arousal that was there moments ago.
I want those cheeks red when my cock is eight inches deep inside her. Want her flushed and breathless from pleasure, not nervous about this asshole potentially figuring out who she is.
Clearly, if he hasn't recognized her by scent alone, he and his pack of assholes never admired her enough to actually memorize what makes her unique. Never paid enough attention to commit her essence to memory. Their loss. Our gain.
"If this is your Omega," Jasper says, his voice taking on a challenging tone, "then prove it."
Nash and Grayson share a look. One of those silent pack communications that we've perfected over years of living together. How far do we take this? How much are we willing to commit to this claim?
The Omega opens her mouth, probably to explain or deflect or do something diplomatic—
But I can't help myself.
My hand moves to her chin, gripping it gently but firmly, stilling her face. I turn her toward me, making sure she has no choice but to look directly into my eyes.
Those blue eyes go wide, her lips parting slightly in surprise.
"It's been a hot minute since we got to kiss, hasn't it, Sugarplum?"
The nickname rolls off my tongue naturally. Perfect for her. Sweet and festive and mine.
She stutters, "Y-yes... but I'm working—"
I smirk, letting my thumb brush along her jawline. "True. But we can't leave him hanging, can we? He wants proof. So Santa can get a little taste, right?"
I can see the embarrassment coloring her cheeks, making that blush even deeper. But underneath it, in the depths of those blue eyes, I see something else. A hint of rebellion. A spark of mischief. The look of someone who's about to say 'fuck it' and go all in.
I love it. I fucking love that she's not just going along with this passively. She's choosing to play. Choosing to rebel against whatever hold her past has on her.
She nods slowly, and then—
She leans in close, her breath ghosting across my lips as she whispers, "I guess it would be good for me to reward Santa for being good."
Oh, she's playing the game. She's not just going along—she's actively participating. Making it her choice. Taking control even while letting me lead.
Fucking perfect.
I grin—can't help it—and then I'm kissing her.
The touch is electrifying.
That's the only word for it. The moment my lips meet hers, it's like touching a live wire.
Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once, awareness flooding through me so intense it's almost painful.
My vision sharpens. My hearing narrows down to just the sound of her breathing, her heartbeat, the small sounds she makes.
Everything else—the bar noise, the music, the people—fades into white static.
Her lips are soft—impossibly, ridiculously soft—and sweet like spun sugar dissolving on my tongue. She tastes like vanilla and caramel and something uniquely her, something that makes me want to devour her whole, to consume her until I can't tell where I end and she begins.
A simple kiss. It should be simple. Just a press of lips to prove a point to an asshole Alpha who doesn't matter. A performance. A show.
But I can't help but dominate.
It's in my nature. The need to claim, to possess, to make absolutely fucking clear that she's mine. The alcohol in my system has burned away my usual restraint, leaving only instinct and want.
My hand slides from her chin to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading into the soft synthetic hair of her wig, holding her exactly where I want her.
My other hand tightens on her thigh, fingers digging in through the velvet just enough to make her gasp against my mouth—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who's in control right now.
And when she gasps—that small, sweet intake of breath—I take advantage, deepening the kiss.
My tongue slides against hers, tasting, exploring, claiming every inch of her mouth like I have the right to it.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat—surprise and pleasure mixed together in a way that's absolutely intoxicating—and it goes straight to my cock, making me hard enough that it's actually painful.
She's not passive. Thank fuck, she's not passive. She's not just letting me kiss her like some helpless Omega who doesn't know what she wants. She's kissing me back with an enthusiasm that makes my head spin and my control slip even further.
Her lips move against mine with growing confidence, exploratory and eager.
Her tongue dances with mine, matching my aggression with her own playfulness.
She's done this before—I can tell from the way she moves, the way she knows how to angle her head, how to use her teeth just barely against my bottom lip—but never quite like this.
There's a sense of discovery in the way she responds, like she's finding out something new about herself in real-time.
I want to pin her down. Want to lay her out on this bar and explore every inch of her body with my mouth. Want to find out what other sounds she makes, what makes her gasp and moan and beg. Want to discover if she tastes this sweet everywhere or if different parts of her have different flavors.
The kiss is nothing close to PG-13. It's raw and sloppy and total rated-R madness.
The kind of kiss that should probably be illegal in public, that makes people look away or stare depending on their comfort level.
The kind that's messy and desperate and so fucking good it feels like a religious experience.
I can taste her sweetness mixed with the salt of nervous sweat, can smell how her arousal spikes with every second we're connected.
The vanilla in her scent caramelizes hotter, burning sweeter, turning into something that makes my mouth water and my Alpha instincts roar with satisfaction.
My cock is throbbing, pressed uncomfortably against my jeans, and I know she can feel it because she's sitting right on top of me.
Her fingers curl into my henley, gripping the fabric like she needs something to anchor herself to reality.
Her body melts against mine, soft and pliant and so perfectly responsive that I forget we're in a bar.
Forget there are people watching—including the asshole we're supposed to be proving something to.
Forget everything except the taste of her mouth and the feel of her in my arms and the way she makes these small, needy sounds that drive me absolutely insane.
For a moment—just a moment—I can actually believe she's ours. That this Omega sitting perfectly on my knee, wet with slick, looking like the perfect dessert in my tipsy state, could actually be ours for the steal.
I've never yearned for someone like this. Never wanted anything as badly as I want her to be my perfect Christmas present. To walk downstairs on Christmas morning and find her under the tree with a bow, smiling that bright smile, choosing us the way we're choosing her.
It's insane. I don't even know her name. But my body knows her. My Alpha knows her. Something deep and primal recognizes her as ours.
I break the kiss slowly, reluctantly, pulling back just enough to see her face.
She's breathless. Her chest heaving, lips swollen and red from my mouth, cheeks flushed that beautiful shade of pink that I want to see every day for the rest of my life. The silver wig is slightly mussed, and those blue contacts make her eyes look dazed and dreamy.
Gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. And mine. Ours. Whatever claim we're making right now, I'm all in.
I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I whisper, "Why don't we go to the back, hmm? While my boys Nash and Grayson handle our friend Jasper there. Make sure he goes back to his table like a good, cooperative Alpha."
She stutters, "O-okay."
Her eyes slide to Marcus—the bar owner who's been watching this whole interaction with barely concealed amusement. He's grinning like Christmas came early, his beard jingling with those ridiculous bells.
"Actually, Ms. Claus," Marcus says, his voice carrying across the bar with perfect timing, "you can go on your hour break now."
She beams—actually beams—and the brightness of that smile makes my chest ache. "Thank you, Marcus!"
That's genuine gratitude. Pure joy. No artifice, no manipulation. Just happiness that someone is giving her permission to take a break. Like she doesn't believe she deserves it otherwise.
What kind of pack made her feel like she has to earn basic kindness?
She starts to slide off my lap, clearly intending to walk on her own two feet like a capable, independent Omega—
But fuck that.
I scoop her up instead.
One arm slides under her knees, the other supporting her back, lifting her effortlessly into my arms in a classic bridal carry. The movement is smooth, practiced—I've carried injured soldiers twice her weight through hostile territory. She's nothing. Light as a feather. Easy to carry.
She fits perfectly in my arms, her body curving into mine like we've done this a thousand times before. The velvet of her dress is soft against my forearm, and I can feel the warmth of her thighs through the fabric, the way her body is still trembling slightly from the kiss.
She squeaks—actually squeaks, this adorable little sound of surprise that makes me want to kiss her again—and stares up at me with those blue contacts making her eyes look huge and shocked.
"You can't—I'm too heavy—put me down—" The words tumble out in a rush, panic coloring her voice.
Too heavy. She genuinely thinks she's too heavy.
This gorgeous Omega who probably weighs maybe 140, 145 pounds soaking wet thinks she's too heavy for an Alpha who regularly deadlifts twice his body weight at the gym.
Who carried full combat gear through the desert.
Who can bench press 275 without breaking a sweat.
That asshole pack really did a number on her, didn't they? Made her believe she was too much. Too big. Too heavy. Too everything. When in reality, she's fucking perfect.
"Sugarplum," I say, looking directly into those worried blue eyes, making sure she sees the absolute sincerity in my expression. "You're perfect. And I'm not putting you down."
I mean it. Every word. She could weigh twice what she does and I'd still carry her without hesitation. Weight has nothing to do with worth. Size has nothing to do with value. And whoever made her think otherwise deserves to have their ass kicked.
I'm feeling some sense of purpose suddenly.
Something I haven't felt in months, maybe years.
Not since before I came back from overseas and realized the world kept turning while I was gone, that nothing I did over there mattered in the grand scheme of things, that I couldn't save everyone no matter how hard I tried.
But this—carrying her, protecting her, making sure she knows she's valued and wanted and not too heavy or too anything—it matters. It means something. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to do.
This is new. This is different. This feeling of rightness, of purpose, of mattering to someone even if it's just for this moment. It fills something in me I didn't realize was empty.
I walk away from the bar, away from Jasper and his asshole friends, away from Nash and Grayson who I trust to handle the situation. The background noise of the tavern fades as I carry her down the hallway that leads to the back rooms—storage, office, employee areas.
"Where does Ms. Claus want to go for her break?" I ask, keeping my voice low and warm.
She blushes—again, always blushing, and I fucking love it—while she looks up at me. Then her eyes slide past me, looking down the hallway, and I see it.
That hint of rebellion in her eyes. That spark of mischief that says she's about to do something she probably shouldn't.
I lean down, bringing my mouth close to her ear. "Talk to me, Sugarplum. Tell me what you want."
She blushes deeper—if that's even possible—but she maintains eye contact. Doesn't look away. Doesn't back down from what she wants.
"The supply closet?" she whispers.
The supply closet.
She wants to go to the supply closet. With me. Alone. For her 'break.'
My smirk grows into a full grin.
This Omega isn't simply a rebel. She's a risk-taker. She's someone who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to ask for it, even when she's blushing the whole time. She's brave and bold and so fucking perfect it hurts.
Now I have to try hard not to instantly fall in love.