CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Eli
The house feels too quiet with most of the team gone. Gray’s off dealing with his father, Bo’s buried in organic chem, the others tied up in labs or Aquatics Department shifts. Which leaves just Jackson, Reese, and me.
And tension thick enough to cut with a blade.
The past week has been hell. Ever since the inspection and Torres getting assigned to babysit us, everything feels wrong. Every interaction measured, every glance analyzed. Whatever chemistry we found in those tank sessions has been smothered under scrutiny and forced professionalism.
And then there’s Quinton.
That lacrosse bastard circles Reese like a shark that’s already tasted blood. Daily study sessions for their project, overpriced coffee runs with foam art, touches at her elbow, her shoulder, the small of her back. All perfectly innocent. All perfectly calculated.
It’s driving every Alpha on the team insane.
Gray’s been snapping at everyone. Bo’s overprotective instincts are in high gear. Even Cameron—usually ice-cold control—has been burning it off with late-night rides.
Jackson’s the worst, though. The stress gnaws at him, dragging back the shadows he carried when he first transferred here. I’ve caught him watching Reese with an intensity that borders on obsessive, cataloging every little interaction with Quinton like he’s building evidence for a trial.
He won’t admit it, but he’s falling for her. Hard.
And it terrifies him.
I found him in the weight room at five this morning, already drenched in sweat, another plate going onto the bar when I asked what was wrong. He didn’t answer—just pushed himself harder, as if sheer effort could silence what’s eating him alive.
But I know. Jackson’s afraid of wanting something he thinks he can’t have. Afraid of repeating the pattern that broke him at his last school. Afraid that admitting his feelings for Reese will twist them, make them predatory instead of real.
The irony? His fear is blinding him to what’s right in front of him. Reese watches him, too. When she thinks no one notices, her eyes follow him with the same hungry intensity he shows her. There’s heat there. Recognition.
She wants him. Wants us both, if I’m reading her right.
The only question is what we’re going to do about it.
“Movie?” I ask, finding Reese in the kitchen, her phone dangling forgotten in her hand. A frown creases her brow, stress written clear across her face. “I’m done pretending to study.”
She looks up, eyes tired. “What kind of movie?”
“Something mind-numbing. No thinking required.” I lean against the counter, close enough to catch her scent. Still crisp like winter air, but warmer now, threaded with something that makes me want to pull her into my arms and smooth away every line between her brows.
“Not horror,” she says quickly. “I can’t handle jumpscares right now.”
“Comedy then. Something stupid and fun.”
She nods, already turning toward the living room. “Jackson?”
“Already in there,” I tell her. “Been staring at the wall for the past hour.”
When we get to the living room, Jackson's sprawled across one end of the massive sectional couch, laptop balanced on his thighs but the screen dark.
He looks up when we enter, and I see the moment he takes in Reese's appearance.
She's changed into sleep shorts and an oversized Sable Ridge t-shirt, hair pulled back in a messy bun that emphasizes the elegant line of her neck.
His pupils flare, his scent shifts. Desire and restraint at war.
“Movie night,” I announce, dropping into the middle of the couch and patting the cushion beside me. “Reese requested something stupid and fun.”
She curls against me without hesitation, tucking her legs under herself and leaning into my side. Three weeks ago, she would’ve flinched at contact. Now she seeks it. Craves it. And the easy trust of that gesture makes something unspool in my chest.
Jackson shuts his laptop and sets it aside, but he doesn’t move closer. He keeps his distance like always—near enough to be part of this, far enough to pretend he isn’t starving for it.
“What are our options?” Reese asks.
I pull up the streaming menu and start scrolling. “Ridiculous action flick? Rom-com we can mock? Coming-of-age story that’ll give Jackson a chance to rant about fake college kids?”
“Hey,” Jackson mutters. “My complaints are valid.”
“Your complaints are comprehensive,” I shoot back.
Reese laughs, lighter than she’s sounded in days. “Coming-of-age. I want to hear Jackson’s commentary.”
We settle on something innocuous about college freshmen figuring out their lives.
The kind of movie made for people who never actually went to college, full of parties that would violate fourteen different housing policies and professors who apparently have nothing better to do than solve their students' personal problems.
I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and spread it over us. Reese immediately nestles closer, using my shoulder as a pillow, her hand splayed across my chest.
Innocent. Friendly. The kind of thing teammates might do.
But my body doesn’t care about innocence. It only cares about the heat of her pressed to me, her scent wrapping around me, the little hum of contentment when I adjust to hold her better.
Jackson notices. His eyes track every point of contact, his jaw tight with something that isn’t jealousy. It’s longing. Raw, restrained longing he’s strangling with everything he has.
The movie drones on. None of us are watching. The tension in the room is its own gravity—Reese’s careful breaths, Jackson’s shifting restlessness, my hand tracing absent patterns on her arm without my permission.
“This is ridiculous,” Jackson mutters when the hero does a stunt with stolen cafeteria trays. “Nobody would actually—”
He cuts off.
Because Reese shifts against me, turning until her face presses into my neck. Her breath fans hot against my skin, and her scent spikes, a sharp and undeniable response to my proximity.
To our proximity. Because Jackson's scent is layering with ours, creating something richer and more complex than either of us alone.
My hand stills on her arm. "Reese?"
"Mmm?" The sound vibrates against my throat.
"You okay?"
She pulls back slightly to meet my eyes. Hers are dark, pupils dilated, and there's heat in her expression that makes my mouth go dry.
"Yeah," she says softly. "Just... comfortable."
Her hand shifts on my chest, fingers spreading slightly, and the simple touch sends electricity straight through me. I glance toward Jackson and find him watching us with an intensity that borders on desperate.
This is it. The moment we either step back into safe territory or admit what we all want.
Reese makes the choice for us. Her hand slides up from my chest to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and she kisses me.
It's soft at first, tentative, like she's giving us a chance to stop her. But when I respond, when my hand comes up to cup her face and I kiss her back with all the want I've been suppressing for weeks, she melts against me with a small whimper that goes straight to my cock.
She tastes like the chamomile tea she had after dinner and something that's uniquely her. Sweet and complex and addictive. I want to map every inch of her mouth, catalog every sound she makes, learn exactly what makes her gasp and sigh and beg.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, eyes glazed with arousal, and the spike in her scent is impossible to ignore.
I look over her head at Jackson, who's gripping the arm of the couch so tight his knuckles are white.
"Jackson," I say quietly.
He shakes his head. "I can't. We can't. This is exactly what they're watching for—"
"They're not here," Reese interrupts, turning to face him without moving away from my side. "Torres isn't here. Carmine isn't here. Quinton isn't here. It's just us."
"That's the problem," Jackson says, but his voice lacks conviction.
Reese shifts, moving so she's kneeling on the couch between Jackson and me, the blanket falling away. Her sleep shorts ride up, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs, and I see Jackson's eyes drop to trace the exposed skin before he forces his gaze back to her face.
"What's the problem?" she asks. "That you want this? That I want this? That we all know exactly what's happening here?"
Jackson's control is fracturing. I can see it in the way his breathing has gone shallow, the way his scent is sharpening with arousal despite his attempts to maintain distance.
"You don't understand," he says. "Last time I trusted my instincts with an Omega—"
"I'm not her," Reese says firmly. "And this isn't that."
She reaches out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and places her hand on his leg just above his knee. The contact is simple, but Jackson reacts like she's touched him with a live wire.
"Reese," he whispers, and her name sounds like a prayer.
"It's okay," she says. "I trust you. Both of you."
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with possibility and permission and a hundred different ways this could go wrong. But looking at Jackson's face, seeing the careful walls he's built starting to crumble, I realize that sometimes the risk is worth taking.
Sometimes you have to trust that the people who matter will catch you when you fall.
"The movie's still playing," I point out, settling back against the couch and opening my arms in invitation.
Reese looks between Jackson and me, reading the change in the dynamic. Then she moves, settling back against my chest but angling herself so she can maintain eye contact with Jackson.
"Much better," she says, pulling the blanket back over us.
My arms come around her automatically, and this time when my hand settles on her side, it's with deliberate intent. My thumb traces the hem of her shirt, occasionally dipping beneath the fabric to brush against the warm skin of her ribs.
She sinks into the touch, her body growing pliant against mine. After a few minutes, she shifts slightly, and my hand ends up higher, fingers spreading across her ribcage just below the curve of her breast.
Her breath hitches, and I feel rather than see Jackson's attention sharpen.
“Eli,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Higher.”
The way she says it, soft but insistent, burns a line of heat straight down to my dick. My hand slides up, slow and deliberate, until I’m cupping her breast through the thin cotton of her shirt. No bra. Just the heat of her body, her nipple stiffening instantly under my palm.
Her moan is quiet but raw, and it wrecks me. Jackson hears it too; I can tell by the way his breathing roughens, the restraint he clings to starting to splinter.
I knead her in my hand, rolling her nipple beneath my thumb, watching her arch hard against me. Her head tips back on my shoulder, mouth parting, the sweet ache of her scent filling the air until I can barely breathe.
Jackson is staring openly now. He isn’t pretending to watch the movie anymore. His fists are clenched, his jaw tight, his whole body locked like he’s holding himself back by sheer will.
Reese’s hand finds my thigh, her nails dragging higher until I bite back a groan.
“You’re killing me,” I growl against her ear.
“Good,” she breathes, and her hand slides higher until her fingers wrap boldly around my cock through my sweats.
“Fuck.” The word rips out of me as my hips jerk into her palm. She makes a low, satisfied sound that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Jackson makes a choked noise, and when I look at him his pupils are blown, his cock straining against his sweats his chest rising and falling too fast.
“Jackson,” Reese says. She keeps stroking me but extends her other hand toward him. “Come here.”
It's not graceful. It's desperate and hungry and a little clumsy as he crosses the space between us and settles beside Reese on the couch. Close enough that his thigh presses against hers, close enough that I can see the rapid pulse at his throat.
Reese turns slightly, bringing one hand to his face. "Is this okay?"
He leans into her touch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. “Yeah. Yes. More than okay.”
Her smile is soft and wicked at the same time. Then she pulls him into a kiss, messy and wet, all need and no hesitation. Jackson growls into it, tangling his hand in her hair and kissing her like he’s been waiting years for the chance.
When they break apart, both of them are gasping. Reese looks between us with eyes heavy and dark.
“Better,” she murmurs, and her hand squeezes my cock harder, dragging a groan from me.
Jackson’s gaze drops to where she’s touching me, and I see the exact moment his control snaps. His hand clamps down on her thigh, fingers spreading wide, claiming her.
“Touch her,” I rasp, my voice rough.
He does. His hand slides higher, thumb stroking patterns that make her squirm. When he brushes the edge of her shorts she gasps, her body jerking against mine.
“Eli,” she whimpers.
“What do you need, sweetheart?” I pinch her nipple through her shirt and she shudders.
“More. Both of you. More.”
Jackson meets my eyes over her head and for the first time he isn’t hiding what he wants. He looks like he is ready to burn with us. This careful, brilliant man who's been afraid to trust anyone with his heart, looking at me like I hold all the answers.
Maybe I do.
I shift, pressing her more firmly between us. Jackson’s hand keeps climbing and she opens her thighs for him.
“You sure?” he asks, his voice strained.
Instead of answering, she takes his wrist and pushes his hand higher until his fingers are pressed against her heat through her shorts. She arches into him, whimpering.
Jackson’s breathing turns ragged, his other hand digging into the couch for control, but he doesn’t pull back. His touch is reverent and rough at once, sliding into her shorts, spreading her open, teasing the slick edges of her.
“Please,” she gasps, and the word is her undoing and his.
He moves with sudden certainty, sliding down the couch and grabbing her by the hips so he can spin her around so that she’s leaning against my chest with her legs spread across the cushions.
He kneels between her thighs, his hands tight on her hips.
The quickness of it makes her gasp, but the fire in her eyes doesn’t waver.
“Okay?” he grinds out, already curling his hands in the waistband of her shorts.
“Yes,” she says instantly. “God, yes.”
He peels them down slowly, eyes locked on hers, his hunger palpable.
And then he settles between her thighs, braced over her, looking at her like a predator with its prey.
“My turn,” he says, voice low and dark.
Then he lowers his mouth to her pussy. Reese arches with a cry that shakes through me, her body bowing off the couch as Jackson dives into her without hesitation.
Her scent is thick in the air as it wraps around us. And the sight of him between her thighs, finally unleashed, is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
This isn’t careful. This is hunger, raw and unrestrained. And it’s only the beginning.