Chapter 7 #3
Before I can protest further, I feel a wave of dizziness. The gallery suddenly feels too hot, too bright, too everything.
“Are you okay?” Tristan asks, his hand coming to rest on my arm.
“I need some air,” I say abruptly. “Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for his response. I just turn and walk as quickly as dignity allows toward the staff bathroom at the back of the gallery. Once inside, I shut the door and lean against it, breathing hard.
The bathroom is small. A single stall with a sink and mirror. I splash cold water on my face, careful not to wet my turtleneck. The cool liquid is a momentary relief, but the burning in my neck persists.
Reluctantly, I pull down the collar of my turtleneck to examine the marks. What I see makes me gasp.
They haven’t faded. If anything, they’re worse.
The angry, reddish inflammation from yesterday has deepened, settling into a stark, bruised-purple color at the edges. The individual impressions of their teeth are now shockingly clear. Like a permanent dental record of their possession branded into my skin.
“What the hell?” I whisper, touching one of the marks gingerly. It’s warm but doesn’t hurt. If anything, the touch sends a pleasant tingle through my body.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump.
“Zoe?” Tristan’s voice is low and concerned. “Everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” I call back, hastily pulling my turtleneck back into place. “Just needed a minute.”
“You left pretty suddenly,” he says through the door. “I got worried.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, but my voice sounds shaky even to my own ears.
There’s a pause, then: “Can I come in?”
“It’s a single stall bathroom, Tristan.”
“I know. Please? Just for a minute.”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But my hand is already reaching for the lock, turning it before my brain can override the impulse.
Tristan slips inside, closing the door behind him. The small space immediately feels smaller, filled with his presence, his scent.
“You’re not okay,” he says, his eyes scanning my face. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, but my hand drifts unconsciously to my neck.
His gaze follows the movement, understanding dawning. “The marks? Are they bothering you?”
“They’re... different,” I admit. “Changed.”
“Can I see?”
I should say no. I should push him out the door and tell him to leave me alone.
But when his eyes flick to my neck, something inside me softens.
He doesn’t look smug or possessive. He looks.
.. concerned. Like he needs to know I’m okay.
Like he needs to see me. And that need is so disarming, I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.
The moment he takes a look, Tristan’s sharp intake of breath is audible in the small space. “They’re... very red,” he says, a frown deepening his brow. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“So it’s not normal?” I ask, hating the note of vulnerability in my voice.
He shakes his head slowly. “No. Not for any marks I’ve ever seen.”
He reaches out to gently touch the claiming mark on my neck with one finger. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I can’t suppress a small gasp.
It doesn’t hurt. It feels…good. Too good. The kind of good that makes me want to lean into his touch, to ask for more. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel them, like threads tugging beneath my skin. God, is this how omegas feel? No wonder they lose their minds over bonds.
Wait. Am I losing my mind?
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why are all of you so insistent? Can’t alphas and omegas reject claimings? All you guys have to do is reject this, and it would all go away.”
Tristan’s expression shifts. He opens his mouth, and I get ready for some slick comeback.
I can see the words lining up. That famous, charming grin starts to twist his lips, but it falters and vanishes.
He just shuts his mouth and swallows hard, like the truth is a pill he’s forcing down.
He drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe the act clean off.
When he finally looks at me, the usual cocky glint in his eyes is just…
gone. He just looks exhausted, down to his bones. “Yeah, we can.”
His throat moves, and I sense he’s about to say more.
“But…we don’t want to,” he says, his voice gone rough. “It’s just... everything is so loud, all the time.”
He takes a small step closer, and I notice something strange. His shoulders seem to relax, a deep sigh escaping him as if he’s been holding his breath for years.
“And when you’re close...” He meets my eyes, his own full of a desperate, confusing vulnerability. “It’s peaceful.”
I stare at him, searching his face for any sign that he’s making this up. But there’s no trace of the charming playboy now. Just a man who looks bone-tired and desperately sincere.
He’s so close now that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the individual lashes framing his dark eyes. His scent envelops me, making it hard to think straight.
I should stop this. I should push him away and tell him to leave.
But I can’t think straight. The marks are pulsing, heat radiating from them like they’re alive.
Like they’re connected to him somehow. And when he steps closer, I can feel the pull.
It’s more than physical. It’s something deeper.
Something I don’t understand. Something I’m not sure I want to understand.
“Tristan,” I breathe, not sure if I’m warning him off or inviting him closer.
He leans in, his lips hovering just above mine. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers against my mouth.
This is insane. I’m in a bathroom at work, for God’s sake.
I’m supposed to be cataloging art, not..
. whatever this is. I don’t even know him.
Not really. But when his lips brush mine, it feels like he’s unraveling something inside me.
Something I didn’t even know was tied up.
My resistance sticks in my throat, replaced by a need so powerful it steals my breath away.
I answer by closing the distance, pressing my mouth to his with a hunger that surprises even me.
The kiss is electric, sending sparks of pleasure from my lips all the way down to my toes. His hands frame my face, and mine find their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath his jacket.
The claiming marks on my neck pulse with every beat of my heart, sending waves of heat through my body. Between my thighs, I’m suddenly, embarrassingly wet, my body responding to his proximity with an eagerness that makes no biological sense for a beta.
His hands slide down to my waist, then around to my back, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my stomach, and a moan escapes me before I can stop it.
“God,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice a low, rough growl. “I can’t get enough of you.” He then deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees weak.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s backed me against the wall, his body caging mine. One of his hands finds its way to my thigh, sliding under my skirt with a confidence that should offend me but instead makes me arch into his touch.
“This is insane,” I gasp as his lips leave mine to trail down my jaw. “We can’t—not here—”
But my protests die as his fingers brush against the damp fabric of my underwear. Even through the thin material, his touch is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine.
“You’re so wet,” he groans, his voice thick with desire. “For me. For us.”
I should push him away. I should remember where we are. I should care about the fact that anyone could knock on the door at any moment. But all I can focus on is the pressure of his fingers, the heat of his body, the intoxicating scent of him filling the small space.
His fingers push aside the fabric, finding my slick heat with unerring accuracy. I bite my lip to keep from crying out as he slides one finger inside me, his thumb circling my clit with a precision that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
“Tristan,” I gasp, my hands clutching at his shoulders. “I can’t—we shouldn’t—”
“Let go,” he whispers against my ear, his teeth grazing the shell in a way that makes me shiver. “You’re burning up, sweetheart. Feels like a heat flash.”
“A what?” I pant, my hips arching into his touch despite myself.
“Omegas get them,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Their bodies go hot, slick floods them—just like you right now. Fuck, you’re dripping.” His fingers curl deeper, wringing a whimper from me. “Betas aren’t supposed to… but you’re ours. Your body knows it.”
The words send a fresh wave of heat through me, my thighs trembling. “That’s not—” I try to protest, but his thumb presses harder, stealing my breath.
“Shh. Don’t fight it.” His lips drag down my throat, lingering over his claiming mark. “Just come for me.”
His finger curls inside me, finding that spot that makes my hips buck against his hand. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps as he adds a second finger, stretching me in a way that sends pleasure spiraling through my body.
The claiming marks on my neck throb in time with his movements, each pulse sending a new wave of pleasure through me. It’s like they’re connected directly to where his fingers are working me, each touch amplified by the bond we share.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his eyes fixed on my face, watching my pleasure build. “Let me feel you come.”
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pulsing of the marks is too much. I feel the tension building, a coiling heat low in my belly that threatens to consume me.
“I’m going to—” I can’t even finish the sentence as the wave crests and breaks, pleasure washing through me with an intensity that steals my breath. I come with a muffled cry against his mouth as he captures my lips in another searing kiss, swallowing my sounds of pleasure.
My body spasms around his fingers, waves of sensation crashing through me, each one stronger than the last. It’s never been like this before. Never so intense. Never so all-consuming. I cling to him as if he’s my anchor in a storm of sensation.
As the aftershocks gradually subside, reality comes crashing back. I’m in the bathroom at work. I just had an orgasm against the wall, with my turtleneck pushed up and my skirt bunched around my waist, while a line of art patrons might be waiting outside.
Tristan withdraws his fingers slowly, his dark eyes never leaving mine.
He doesn’t say a word.
Instead, he lifts his fingers to his own mouth.
My breath catches in a sharp, strangled gasp. I watch, completely frozen, as he slowly licks each of his fingers clean, his gaze locked on mine the entire time. There’s something almost reverent in his expression, a mixture of awe and possessiveness that makes my heart skip.
“That was...” he begins, then seems to run out of words.
I push him back, straightening my clothes with shaking hands. “That was a mistake,” I say, though my breathless voice lacks conviction. “This is my workplace, Tristan.”
He has the grace to look sheepish, running a hand through his curls. “I know. I’m sorry. I just... couldn’t help myself.”
His scent is everywhere, clinging to my skin and now my clothes. Anyone with a nose will know exactly what just happened in here. The thought sends a fresh wave of mortification through me.
“You need to leave,” I say, trying to sound firm even though my legs still feel like jelly. “Now.”
To his credit, he doesn’t argue. “We still need to talk,” he says, straightening his own clothing. “About the marks. About... whatever this is between us.”
“Not now,” I insist, pushing him toward the door. “Not here. I’ll text you.”
He nods, seeming to understand the panic rising in me. “Okay. I’ll go. But Zoe...” He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “That wasn’t just because of the marks. That was... us.”
Before I can formulate a response, he’s slipped out the door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of ginger and sex, and the persistent throb of the claiming marks on my neck.
I lean against the door, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cool tile floor. My body is still humming with residual pleasure, but my mind is a chaotic mess.
What just happened? How did I lose control so completely? I’m not an omega, driven by biology and heat cycles. I’m a beta. Pragmatic. Rational. Not the type to have bathroom orgasms with an alpha at my workplace.
Yet here I am, my underwear damp, my skin flushed, my pulse still racing. And the worst part? Part of me wants to chase after him, to drag him back in here and finish what we started.
I press my hands to my face, mortification washing over me in waves. This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t lose control.
Except, apparently, I do now. With him. With them.
Whatever these marks are doing to me, whatever connection they’ve created, it’s changing me in ways I don’t understand and can’t control.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.