Chapter 29
twenty-nine
AUGUST
I scraped the mud off my boots on the porch grate and pushed through the heavy back door.
With Wyatt and Sunny at Mary’s for the night, the usual noise had quieted, leaving a tranquil peace we didn’t get all that often.
I dragged a hand down my jaw, exhausted.
Twelve hours of stringing wire fencing for our new pasture on the north ridge had left my muscles tight and my hands bruised inside my leather gloves.
Speaking of… I pulled the gloves off and tossed them onto the mudroom bench. I needed a shower, and then I needed to figure out what to feed the rest of the guys when they finally dragged themselves up to the house.
I stopped halfway to the kitchen.
The savory aroma made my stomach growl like a loud, hungry bear. Roasted garlic, browned meat, and crushed tomatoes drifted through the house, tangled up with the sweetness of our Omega.
I walked forward and stepped fully into my domain. The kitchen was the one room on the sprawling ranch where I controlled every variable, where I kept everything exactly how I liked it so I could keep the pack fed. But I wasn’t the one standing at the six-burner gas stove tonight.
Julia had her back to me. She wore one of my canvas aprons over a loose sundress, the ties wrapped twice around her hourglass waist to accommodate her much smaller frame.
She stood over my heavy cast-iron Dutch oven, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon.
A massive rectangular baking dish sat on the counter next to the stove, lined with wide, flat noodles.
I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn’t say a word. Just watched her.
I loved how she moved with familiarity through my space. Like she belonged—because she did. Jules reached up to the spice rack I’d built, selected a jar of crushed red pepper, and sprinkled a small amount into the sauce.
“I know you’re standing there, August,” she announced without turning around. “You take up half the hallway,” she teased.
I pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly into the room. “You’re cooking.”
“I am.” She finally turned, leaning her hip against the counter.
Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove, a smudge of flour dusted across the apple of her cheek.
“You spend every single day feeding these men. You manage the grocery orders, you prep the meals, you make sure everyone has exactly what they need before they even have to ask for it.” She pointed the wooden spoon directly at my chest. “You are off the clock tonight. Go sit at the island.”
I stared at her. I’d spent my entire adult life as the bedrock of the Double T.
The day to day domestic shit fell to me, and I was happy to do it.
It was my way to support the pack, my family.
Nobody had ever ordered me to sit down. Nobody ever took the tools out of my hands and told me they had it handled.
The realization of what she was doing for me lodged itself in the vicinity of my heart.
She was… taking care… of me.
I didn’t argue. I walked around the butcher-block island, pulled out a heavy wooden stool, and sat.
Julia smiled triumphantly, a very Omega-like satisfied look settling over her features. She turned back to the stove and lowered the heat under the sauce. “It’s my mom’s lasagna recipe. I had to guess on the ricotta ratio because she never actually wrote it down, but I think I got it right.”
She wiped her hands on the apron, walked around the edge of the island, and stopped directly behind my stool.
Julia placed her hands on my shoulders. Her palms were small, but she pressed her thumbs directly into the thick, corded muscle at the base of my neck. I closed my eyes, a low, involuntary groan rumbling out of my throat as she began to knead the tension out of my back.
“You’re built like a wall,” she murmured, leaning her weight into her hands, digging deeper into the knot under my left shoulder blade. “When was the last time someone gave you a break and cooked a meal for you, August?”
I tried to think back. I sorted through years of ranch life, through holidays and early mornings and late nights. I opened my eyes, staring blindly at the grain of the butcher block.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
Julia’s hands stilled on my shoulders. I expected a pitying sound, but she just slid her arms down my chest, leaning forward until her front pressed flush against my back, wrapping me in a firm, solid embrace. Her cheek rested against my shoulder blade.
The caring in that simple gesture nearly ripped me in half.
I let go of the counter, reached up, and wrapped my large hands over her smaller ones where they crossed over my sternum.
I held her against me, wanting to soak this in.
To remember this moment, because fuck, it had just become a core memory.
The kitchen was quiet except for the low simmer of the sauce on the stove.
I turned on the wooden stool, breaking her hold just long enough to pull her around to my front. I spread my knees, drawing her directly into the V of my thighs. I looked up at her, my hands gripping her hips.
She looked down at me, her eyes dark and heavy with a want that mirrored my own.
I’d been watching her pace the house for the last week, restless and constantly flushed.
At first, I had chalked it up to the brutal edge of the incoming summer heat.
But then her pheromones had started to shift, thickening into something dangerously sweet.
Her mood, like her scent, had been swinging wildly for days—volatile spikes of pure need followed by exhausted lulls.
Right now, with her hands gripping my shoulders and her chest heaving, I knew she was spiking again. Her fruity sugar-sweet scent saturated the kitchen enough to taste on the back of my tongue.
I wasn’t going to wait for the lasagna to bake. I pulled her down, capturing her mouth.
Her lips were soft, surrendering the second mine brushed hers. She made a little hungry hum in the back of her throat, and it went straight to my cock. The sweet taste of her wiped out the exhaustion in my muscles, replaced by an all-consuming, driving need.
I broke the kiss, dragging my mouth along the line of her jaw.
The sauce was bubbling a few feet away, the savory smell of roasted garlic trying to compete with the absolute perfection of her pheromones.
I reached blindly around her waist, stretching to turn the heavy metal knob on the stove purely by muscle memory.
With a sharp twist, I clicked the burner off.
Dinner could wait.
Tonight, I wanted dessert first.
I stood up, sliding my hands down to the backs of her thighs, and lifted my Omega effortlessly off her feet, spinning until I could deposit her squarely onto the cool surface of the butcher-block island.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me flush between her thighs.
The physical contrast between us had never been more obvious.
I took up half the damn island. My hands dwarfed her waist, and my broad shoulders blocked out the overhead lights.
I could snap her in half without trying, but she arched up into me, fearless and wanting.
Taking the canvas apron off of her, I tossed it onto the floor. I needed skin. I needed to see her.
Next, I peeled the sundress up and over her head, then unclasped the sexy pink bra she was wearing underneath.
I stripped her bare so I could marvel at her soft, tanned skin.
I mapped the curves of her sides, the dip of her stomach, the swell of her breasts, her tight, peaked nipples, and the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat.
“You’re absolutely beautiful, Wildflower,” I murmured, meaning every damn word.
She tangled her fingers in my hair, pulling my mouth back down to hers as I undid the buckle of my jeans. I shoved the denim down my thighs, and my cock sprang free, thick and heavy and aching.
Leaning back to get a look at me, Julia’s eyes dropped.
Her lips parted, and the small, strangled little whimper she made sent a primal surge of satisfaction through my chest. I wasn’t a man who needed his ego stroked, but watching my Omega stare at my cock like she couldn’t figure out how it was going to fit did something deeply, fundamentally male to my brain.
“August,” she breathed, her gaze still locked below my waist. “You’re—”
“I know.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re ready.”
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties.
The thin cotton didn’t stand a chance. I gripped and pulled, and the fabric tore with a sharp rip that echoed off the kitchen tile.
Julia gasped, her eyes flying wide, but I was already balling the ruined scrap in my fist and setting it on the counter beside us for later.
I’d be keeping those.
Her scent flooded the space between us, and I knew she was already wet for me. But I wasn’t rushing this. I slid my hand between her thighs, cupping her gently, letting the heel of my palm grind against her clit while two thick fingers eased inside.
She was tight. So damn tight my jaw clenched at the thought of how she’d feel around my cock.
I worked her slowly, curling my fingers, stretching her, watching her face for every flicker of pleasure and every gasp, learning what she liked.
Her hips rolled against my hand, her nails biting into my shoulders, and when I added a third finger she threw her head back with a moan that bounced off every surface in my kitchen.
“That’s it, Wildflower,” I murmured against her throat, pumping steadily until her body softened around me and her slick coated my knuckles. “There you go. Get nice and ready for me.”