Chapter 18 #2
The word Omega rolls off his tongue with his French accent, transforming a biological designation into an endearment that makes my pulse stutter.
"Unlike my playboy brother, I am the type to start wanting what glitters in my eyes."
I blush.
Not the gentle, maiden-in-a-novel blush.
The full-body, skin-on-fire, brain-short-circuiting blush that starts at my collarbones and climbs all the way to my hairline.
But I do not look away. I hold his gaze with the same defiance he just named, letting him see that whatever is happening between us is not one-sided.
"Well," I murmur, my voice steadier than I deserve, "not everything that glitters is gold, Alpha."
His eyes darken.
The silver flecks in his gray irises seem to ignite, the color deepening into a stormy intensity that drops from my eyes to my lips and back again with a deliberateness that steals the air from my lungs.
The playful smirk evaporates, replaced by an expression that is raw and hungry and completely, terrifyingly sincere.
I bite my bottom lip.
Slowly.
Not consciously. Not strategically. It is an involuntary response to the tension that has coiled between us so tight that the air itself feels like it might snap. My teeth press into the soft skin of my lower lip, and I watch his composure fracture in real time.
He growls.
Low. Barely audible. A sound that originates deep in his chest and vibrates through the space between us with a frequency I feel in my bones.
It is not aggressive. It is wanting. A primal, instinctive response to an Omega who just bit her lip while staring at him like she is considering destroying every boundary she has ever built.
The tension between us is so taut I can barely breathe.
The curtain walls feel like they are closing in, shrinking the world until nothing exists outside this bed and this man and the gravitational pull that is dragging us toward each other with a force that biology has been designing for millennia.
I have never had this reaction to an Alpha.
Never. Not once. Not with the few Alphas who tried to court me in communal housing. Not with the arrogant ones at the shelters who thought offering an Omega dinner entitled them to her body. Not even with Cal or Etienne, whose scents stir interest and warmth but nothing close to this.
This is nuclear.
And knowing he is related to Rafe should throw me off. Should make me pause. Should trigger every rational warning system in my brain that is currently being overridden by the most powerful biological response I have ever experienced.
But I want to kiss him so badly it is dangerous.
Self-control, Mae.
"You are right," he agrees, his voice a murmur that barely disturbs the air.
He leans in further.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his lips before they touch mine.
Close enough that his breath mingles with mine in the tiny space between our mouths.
His nose brushes against mine, the contact featherlight and electric, sending a jolt through my nervous system that makes my fingers curl into the sheets beneath me.
"But I love testing my chances."
He seals those words with a kiss.
And fuck me.
My body has never felt like it was at the edge of bliss from a single point of contact.
His lips are warm and firm and taste like mint and the faintest trace of coffee, pressing against mine with a control that is both gentle and deliberate.
The kiss starts slow. Testing. A question asked with mouths instead of words, and my answer comes without a single conscious thought.
I press back.
My lips meet his movements with a firmness that surprises me, matching his rhythm and then pushing it forward.
The control he started with dissolves. What begins as careful exploration progresses into a desperation that builds with every second, his lips moving against mine with increasing urgency, his breath growing ragged against my skin.
He groans.
The sound reverberates against my mouth, vibrating through the kiss and settling in the base of my spine.
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his palm warm and rough with calluses, his fingers threading into the damp hair at my temple.
The grip tilts my face, angling me exactly where he wants me, and I let him.
I dare to let this Alpha I have known for less than ten minutes control the way he kisses me, because his mouth feels like the answer to a question I did not know my body had been asking.
The kiss deepens. His tongue grazes my lower lip and I part for him instinctively, a small sound escaping my throat that is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
His fingers tighten in my hair, his other hand finding my hip through the jersey, and for a moment that stretches into infinity, nothing exists except his mouth and my mouth and the electricity that is arcing between us in waves.
We break apart gasping.
Foreheads pressed together. Breathing ragged. Staring into each other's eyes from a distance of approximately two inches, close enough that his features blur and all I can see are the silver flecks in the gray that is now dark as a storm cloud.
Is this reaction normal?
Is this what a scent match does? Does it bypass every rational filter and turn a grown woman into a trembling mess from a single kiss? Or did the crash make me fucking delusional and I am currently hallucinating this entire exchange on the nurse's bed while unconscious on the ice?
Because his scent alone makes me want to give up every plan I had. The five-week arrangement. The keeping-my-distance strategy. The independence I have fought to maintain since the day my parents told me I was a disgrace. All of it feels negotiable if it means he will kiss me like that again.
I do not even know if he has a pack.
He trails his thumb along my bottom lip, the touch so light it might be imagined. His eyes follow the movement, watching his own finger trace the swollen curve of skin he just bruised with his mouth.
"The first Omega to tickle my senses," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Intriguing."
I huff, grasping at the last shreds of my composure.
"Do not get confident with yours..."
He seals my lips again.
This kiss is softer. Slower. A gentleness that contrasts the raw hunger of the first, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache in a way I did not know a kiss could produce.
His hand cradles my jaw, his thumb stroking the curve of my cheekbone, and a moan escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
A real, audible, deeply embarrassing moan that vibrates against his lips and makes him smile into the kiss.
I feel too relaxed. Too safe. Too at ease with a man I met seven minutes ago, in a nurse's office, behind a curtain, with a busted knee and a jersey that belongs to another Alpha and a helmet's absence from a third.
This is insane. This is completely, certifiably insane. And I do not want it to stop.
When we break apart this time, his breathing is heavier. The composure he wore like armor when he carried me through the hallway has cracked, revealing glimpses of the man beneath the polish. His lips are slightly swollen. His gray eyes carry a heat that makes me forget how to form sentences.
"Your scent is going to be a problem," he mutters.
I huff.
"That is not a way to compliment anyone. You just kissed me twice and your follow-up is that I am a problem?"
He smirks, the expression so identical to Rafe's that it sends a weird pang through my chest.
"I suppose you are right. Let me rephrase.
" He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"I was more intrigued by the way you destroyed my brother on the ice.
A race against a hockey captain, and you won without breaking a sweat.
That is not an Omega who needs protection.
That is an Omega who needs an audience."
I blush, the warmth spreading through my cheeks anew.
"So you are really related to him," I mutter, the reality of it settling in my brain with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "You are actually Rafe's brother. The older one. From Paris."
He chuckles.
"I hope that works in my favor, given the level of animosity in your voice."
I groan, reaching up and pressing my palm flat against his face, pushing him backward.
"You need to move back," I insist, my hand smooshed against his features in a way that is neither graceful nor dignified.
"I cannot think when you are this close.
Your scent is literally scrambling my brain and I need at least three feet of clearance before I do anything else I will regret in the morning. "
He smirks against my palm.
Then he kisses it.
A soft, deliberate press of his lips into the center of my hand that sends shivers cascading down my arm and through my entire body.
The gesture is intimate in a way that the actual kisses were not.
Tender. Unhurried. The kind of thing a man does when he is not trying to seduce you but is simply unable to stop touching you.
"Now," he says, finally leaning back enough that I can breathe without inhaling his pheromones directly into my bloodstream. "What are the chances that Miss Mae Rose has a pack?"
My face erupts in heat so fast I am amazed I do not burst into actual flames.
"I do not have one," I mutter, staring at the ceiling because looking at his face while answering that question feels like handing him a loaded weapon.
"Packless. Obviously. If I had a pack, I would not be living in a closet-sized room with three Alphas who cannot agree on what to eat for breakfast."
His smirk widens.
"Then what do I need to do to have my scent match all to myself?"
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.