Chapter 13 #2
Julia stiffened. She crossed her arms, her chin lifting in that defensive posture I was quickly learning to recognize.
“I do. And I know it’s a massive cliché.
The OMA pushes every Omega into these soft, domesticated hobbies.
Baking, knitting, crafting. Anything to keep us quiet and out of the real workforce.
They spent six years trying to convince me I was born to be a decorative houseplant.
” Her voice was bitter, edged with old anger.
“I fought them on everything. But... the chemistry of it. Formulating the scents, creating something real from raw materials. I actually love it. And I hate that I love the exact thing they tried to force on me.”
She looked at me, waiting for the dismissal. Waiting for me to tell her she was being complicated, or that it didn’t matter.
I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I just looked at her, seeing the fierce, capable woman underneath the tough exterior.
“The agency doesn’t own your hands, Julia,” I told her, my voice dropping to a low rumble.
“And they don’t own what you make with them.
If you build something, it’s yours. Doesn’t matter who suggested it first.”
Her brown eyes widened slightly, the hard line of her mouth parting on a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t have a quick comeback for that.
I turned my attention to the vendor, a middle-aged Beta woman who was watching us with polite interest. “We need six of those beeswax blocks. Four jars of the shea butter. And whatever else she points to.”
“August, no,” Julia protested, reaching for my arm. “That’s expensive. I don’t even have my equipment here—”
“I’ll buy the equipment tomorrow,” I stated, pulling my wallet out again. I handed the vendor a stack of bills before Julia could stop me. I looked down at my mate, holding her gaze until the fight bled out of her. “Pick your oils, honey. I’m carrying it all to the truck.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally shook her head, a small, defeated smile cracking her armor. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m large and I carry things,” I corrected. “Pick.”
By the time we walked away from the stall, I had a heavy canvas bag slung over my shoulder, and Julia was practically glowing, the tension in her frame gone. She practically hummed as we walked, her mind clearly already miles away, piecing together ratios of beeswax and almond oil.
I spotted a cluster of food carts near the edge of the park. I glanced down at her, mindful of the scent-blocker blanketing her skin. “Are you hungry yet?” I asked. “I meant what I said earlier. You have to tell me.”
She looked up at me, a playful spark returning to her brown eyes. “I could eat. But I bet you’re starving,” she teased, bumping her hip against my thigh as we walked. “You’re a giant, you’re probably always hungry.”
I steered her toward a cart selling smoked brisket hand pies.
I bought two, handing her one wrapped in checkered paper.
She bit into it, letting out a soft moan of approval that sent a jolt straight to my cock.
I chewed my own pie mechanically, my focus locked on the way her lips moved, the way she licked a drop of savory juice from her thumb.
When she finished, I took her empty wrapper and pointed toward a small, white-canopied cart stationed under a nearby oak tree. “Dessert.”
Julia’s eyes lit up. “The huckleberry ice cream?”
I nodded, buying her a massive double scoop in a waffle cone and grabbing a small cup of vanilla for myself.
We stepped out of the heavy flow of foot traffic, retreating into the dappled shade of the oak tree. Julia held the cone up, inspecting the bright purple treat before taking a slow, deliberate swipe with her tongue.
My mouth went fucking dry.
I stood there with my boots firmly planted in the grass, gripping my plastic cup, and just watched her.
She hummed a sound of pleasure, her pink tongue darting out to catch a melting drop before it hit the cone.
When she closed her lips around the peak of the ice cream, drawing it gently into her mouth, a pulse of heat hit my groin.
My brain instantly abandoned all decent, gentlemanly restraint and supplied a vivid, filthy image of those soft lips wrapped around me instead. I imagined her making that exact same humming noise against my skin. The slow slide of her tongue. The eager, uninhibited way she tasted things.
I was gripping my cup so hard the plastic bowed. My vanilla ice cream was melting, dripping over the rim and running sticky down my thumb, but I ignored it. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her mouth.
My Alpha slammed against my restraint, demanding I crowd her against the trunk of the oak tree and find out exactly what that sweet huckleberry tasted like directly from her lips…
her tongue. I wanted to devour her. And the longer I watched her mouth move, the more the memory of last night taunted me—the image of her straddling my packmate, hands fisted in Stetson’s shirt, taking the Pack Leader’s feral kiss like she was built for it.
I didn’t just want to kiss her. I needed to overwrite that memory with my own.
It was getting damn near impossible to keep my hands to myself.
I forced myself to look away, clearing my throat before I dragged her into the shadows and did something public and stupid.
“Stay right here,” I told her, noting how gravelly and rough my words sounded. “Eat your ice cream. I’m going to throw this mess away and grab a black coffee from that cart over there while you eat.”
“Okay,” she mumbled happily around another bite, oblivious to the fact that she was currently killing me.
I stepped away, tossing my ruined, melted ice cream into a trash can a few yards down the path. But I didn’t head for the coffee cart.
The double-tent where we’d bought the oils was just across the grass. I closed the distance in three long strides, then quickly shifted my stance so I had an unbroken view of the oak tree. I wasn’t letting her out of my sight in this crowd, not for a single second.
Satisfied she was right where I left her, engrossed in the waffle cone, I ignored the beeswax and turned my attention to the display of handmade jewelry on the far side of the table.
Before we’d started arguing about the OMA, I’d watched her fingers linger over a delicate silver bracelet. She had touched it the way she touched the things she wanted but refused to ask for.
I pointed to it. “The silver one with the wildflower pendant,” I told the vendor, keeping one eye on my girl while I tried to stealthily buy her gift.
Two minutes later, it was tucked safely into the breast pocket of my flannel shirt, waiting for exactly the right moment.
But the little detour did nothing to cool my blood.
When I sauntered back to the shade of the oak tree, she was just finishing the cone.
Her pink tongue darted out to lick a final streak of purple from her lips, and my restraint snapped down to a goddamn thread.
I wanted to back her up against the thick trunk of the tree.
I wanted to taste the sweet cream directly from her tongue.
I wanted to devour her until she forgot the names of every other man in our pack.
“This is incredible,” she said, looking up at me, completely unaware of the war going on in my head. A tiny speck of purple ice cream lingered at the corner of her mouth.
I stepped forward. I didn’t think. I just reached out, dragging my thumb across the corner of her lips, wiping the sweetness away. My calloused pad lingered against her soft skin for a fraction of a second too long.
Julia’s breath hitched. Her dark eyes went wide, the teasing light in them swallowed by heat.
I pulled my thumb back, breaking the contact before I lost my mind in the middle of a public park. Clearing my throat, I eyed her cone. “Don’t drip on your boots.”
Julia didn’t blink. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. “Too late for that, cowboy,” she purred.
The words slammed into my chest a fraction of a second before her scent hit me. It was faint, buried under the barrier of the lotion, but the sudden, unmistakable hint of dark fig and honeyed amber leached right through her chemical armor.
Arousal. She was slick for me.
Every instinct I possessed demanded I haul her back to the truck right now. I wanted to slide the bench seat all the way back, pull her over my lap the way she’d been in Stetson’s lap last night, and make my own memories with her until she was writhing and begging me for more.
But a colder, sharper instinct cut straight through the haze of my lust.
Her scent was leaking. The lotion was failing.
I was a big man, and I would protect her with my life, but we were standing in the middle of a crowded square filled with strange Alphas.
I could easily be outnumbered if someone else caught that sweet, distressed-aroused scent, and my own threadbare restraint was currently a massive liability. I couldn’t risk it. Not with her.
I dropped a heavy hand to the small of her back. “We’re leaving,” I told her, my voice brooking zero argument as I steered her toward the path that led back to the truck.
We were almost back to where we’d parked when I saw some friends of mine, both Alphas and ranch hands who worked at the Crawford spread a few miles south of us. They weren’t bad men, but they were unbonded, and their instincts were always a little too loud.
They spotted Julia before their eyes strayed to see who she was walking with.
I didn’t miss the way they altered their trajectory.
Much as I wanted to, I didn’t step in front of her and block her with my body.
Somehow, I didn’t think my fiercely independent Omega would appreciate that, even if my inner Alpha hated the idea of other Alphas near my mate.
“Boone,” the taller one said, smiling.
“Jake. Waylon.” I nodded at both politely, not inviting more conversation if I could help it.