Chapter 18
CINDY
M y bedroom in their mansion is bigger than my entire living room, kitchen, and bathroom combined.
The king-sized bed swallows me whole, expensive sheets that feel cool against my overheated skin.
General Flufferton is sprawled across the foot of the bed, purring in his sleep, completely unbothered by my restlessness.
It’s past eleven, and I’ve been lying here for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the three Alphas somewhere in this house.
Luke’s room is down the hall to the left.
Holt’s is across from his. Arrow’s is at the far end, the master suite he insisted I should take instead, but I refused because that felt too much like accepting something I shouldn’t.
The lamp casts soft shadows on the walls, and I’ve kicked off the covers twice already.
I’m slowly cooking from the inside out. This isn’t normal pre-heat warming.
I’ve been through two heats to know the difference.
This is something else. This is being surrounded by Alpha pheromones, by their scents that have seeped into every corner of this house despite them trying to be respectful and give me space.
I press my palms to my cheeks, touching the heat there. My tank top clings to my skin with a light sheen of sweat, and my sleep shorts are restrictive even though they’re my loosest pair. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time.
I can’t focus on anything except the knowledge that they’re so close.
My body thrums with awareness, every nerve ending hypersensitive.
I’m burning up. And my scent must be broadcasting my arousal through the entire house.
Unmated Omega in pre-heat, surrounded by unmated Alphas.
This is how those tales start, the ones mothers tell their Omega daughters to keep them safe.
Except I don’t want to be safe. I want?—
No. I can’t think about what I want. Because what I want is to walk down the hall and knock on one of their doors. Or all of their doors. What I want is to give in to this need that’s eating me alive from the inside out.
I sit up, startling General Flufferton, who gives me a disgruntled look before resettling.
“I’m going to get a drink,” I tell him. “Cold water. Arctic water. Icy enough to shock some sense into me.”
He chirps sleepily and gets up, arching into a stretch, then hops off the bed with a plonk.
The house is quiet when I open my door. No lights visible under any of the other doors. Good. They’re asleep. I can sneak down to the kitchen, get water, maybe stick my head in the freezer for a minute, then come back up without anyone knowing.
The stairs don’t creak—of course they don’t—because everything in this house is perfectly maintained, but General Flufferton rockets past me, nearly sending me tumbling.
“Traitor,” I whisper after him as he disappears into the darkness below, losing sight of him.
The kitchen is all shadows and moonlight streaming through the enormous windows.
I don’t turn on the lights, not wanting to announce my presence.
The refrigerator hums quietly, and I open it, letting the cold air wash over me.
It helps, a little. I grab the water pitcher, condensation cold against my palms, and pour a glass.
The first sip is heaven, icy enough to make my teeth ache. I drink half the glass in one go, then press the cold surface against my forehead, my neck, trying to cool the fire under my skin.
“Can’t sleep?”
I shriek, jumping and sending water everywhere, down my front, across the counter, onto the floor. The glass slips from my hand but doesn’t break, just rolls across the granite with a sound like thunder in the quiet kitchen.
“Shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Arrow steps out of the shadows by the pantry, and my brain stops functioning entirely.
He’s wearing low-slung pajama pants and nothing else.
His chest is art, all angled muscles and ink I want to trace with my tongue.
The V of muscle at his hips points down like an arrow—pun fully intended—to what those pajama pants are barely concealing.
His hair is messy, as though he’s been running his hands through it, and his dark eyes are locked on?—
Oh God.
My white tank top is soaked, completely see-through, clinging to every curve.
My nipples are clearly visible, hard from the cold water and, if I’m honest, from him being half naked in front of me.
I snatch a kitchen towel, dabbing uselessly at myself, which only makes it worse because now the fabric is rubbing against sensitive skin, and he’s still staring.
“That really isn’t helping,” he says, voice rougher than usual.
His eyes have gone dark, pupils wide, and his chest rises and falls faster. He’s almost feral, predatory, as if he’s two seconds from pouncing. Every instinct I have screams at me to run, to get back to the safety of my room before?—
But my body betrays me. Instead of running, I stay frozen, clutching the useless towel. Instead of fear, heat pools low in my belly, that ache becoming a throb. Instead of backing away when he takes a step closer, I lean in.
“I should—” I start.
“Should what?” He’s close enough that the inferno radiating off his skin engulfs me. “Go back to bed? Where you’ll lie awake thinking about this? About us?”
“I don’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me, Cindy.” Another step. He’s got me backed against the counter now, not touching but close enough that I notice the pulse jumping in his throat under the moonlight pouring into the kitchen. “I smell it on you. How turned on you are. How much you want this.”
“That’s just—it’s pre-heat. It doesn’t mean?—”
“Bullshit.” His hands come up to rest on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. “This started before your heat. This started the moment we first met.”
“Arrow—”
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His face is so close now that his breath flutters across my lips. “Tell me to back off and I will. I’ll go upstairs right now, and we’ll pretend this never happened. But if you don’t tell me to stop?—”
My hand moves without permission, pressing against his chest. His skin is hot, smooth over hard muscle, and his heart is racing under my palm. “We shouldn’t.”
“We absolutely should.” His hand covers mine. “We should have done this days ago.”
He leans in, lips barely brushing my ear. “You are fierce and beautiful, and I want to squeeze you against that wall and kiss you until you can’t remember why you want to return to your room.”
A whimper escapes me, and his responding growl turns my knees to putty.
“I know I shouldn’t,” I whisper, my other hand coming up to rest on his chest because apparently I have no self-control at all.
His nose trails along my jaw, not quite touching but close enough that I shiver. “Don’t fight it.”
“How do you—how do you want me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He pulls back to look at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes me grateful for the counter holding me up. “Every way. Any way. Soft and sweet. Hard and rough. On this counter. Against that wall. In my bed until you forget any other man exists.”
“Oh God.” My fingers curl against his chest, nails scraping lightly, and he hisses.
“But right now?” His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my bottom lip. “Right now I just want to kiss you until you stop overthinking everything.”
“I’m not?—”
He kisses me.
It’s nothing like I expected. I thought Arrow would be controlled, the way he is in his kitchen.
Instead, he kisses like he’s starving and I’m sustenance.
His mouth crashes into mine, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grips my hip, pulling me against him.
I gasp at the contact, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that leaves my whole body lighting up.
My hands glide up his chest to his shoulders, holding on as he devours me. When he nips at my bottom lip, I make a needy and desperate and completely shameless sound.
“Fuck,” he groans against my mouth. “The sounds you make.”
He lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing, stepping between my spread thighs, and the position puts us at the perfect height. He’s so damn hard against me through the thin fabric of our pajamas, and I roll my hips without thinking, seeking friction.
“Careful,” he warns, but he’s moving too, grinding against me, and I’m suddenly seeing stars. “Keep that up and I won’t be able to stop.”
I laugh and swoon at the same time.
He draws back to look at me, and we’re both breathing hard. My lips are swollen, my skin oversensitive, and I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want him to keep touching me.
“Cindy—”
I kiss him this time, pouring all my frustration and need and want into it. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groans into my mouth. His hands are everywhere—my hair, my waist, sliding up my ribs but stopping just short of where I want them most.
We’re moving, though I’m not sure how… him walking into the living room while carrying me, still kissing like we’ll die if we stop. My back hits a wall, and I gasp, the cool surface a shock against my heated skin.
He’s kissing down my neck now, finding that spot that melts me. “Tell me how you want it.” His voice is pure gravel now, Alpha command bleeding through. “Let me hear what you need.”
I’m blushing so hard I must be glowing “Rough. I want it—God, I need it—rough and hard. This ache is destroying me. I can’t think about anything except?—”
“Except what?” He purrs the words, which undoes me.
“You inside me,” I whisper, and his whole body shudders.
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He’s kissing me again, harder this time, more desperate. “The way you smell and taste, these fucking noises you make?—”
His hands slide higher under my tank top, palms hot against my skin, and I arch into the touch. He moves slowly, torturously, pushing the fabric up inch by inch while his mouth continues its assault on mine.