Chapter 11
Jason
Numbers blur as I stare at the screen, fatigue tearing at me. Fucking Noelle should have been rejuvenating, but instead, I feel even more exhausted and wretched. I’d think I was sick, but I know better.
I want her.
I need her.
I crave her.
Even now, the damned scent of peppermint pervades my office. Not because of her, but because of this fucking holiday. I can’t escape it. Everywhere I go, it’s holiday spices or damned peppermint.
Glancing out the window, I watch as fat flakes drift in lazy circles over the bustling crowd. Is it possible she’s out there even now, looking at the same wintery scene? God, when did I get so sentimental?
I turn back to my computer screen, but see nothing. So many offshore accounts I need to tend to, but all I want to do is look at hers. A heavy sigh drifts from my lips as I enter her account information.
It’s like rote memory at this point. As soon as I put my fingers on the keyboard, they take over and type in the information as if I’ve known in all my life. Nothing too much out of the ordinary.
And there, like a fucking knife to the heart—Omega Services Compensation - Willoughby Rut Clinic. She’d sold herself. To me. And, if I’m being honest, to someone else if she ever goes back.
Seeing this should satisfy me. It should show how we’re concluded, never to have to see each other again. Instead, it sits there on the screen like a wound that refuses to heal.
The only good thing about all this is that she’s no longer in the negative. Honestly, it’s a breath of relief to see her account glowing in green as opposed to red. Then again, I’m sure she’s far more relieved than I am.
Scrolling, I look over her expenses again, but I know them by heart. I’ve somehow memorized her life, even though I’m not a part of it. Just by knowing her account, I know where she likes to get coffee, where she buys her groceries, and where she allows herself those rare indulgences.
It would be so easy to just run into her at any of those places, but for what? What would be the point? Do I make some grand declaration and ask if she wants to be in a relationship with me? Why? When she doesn’t even really know me?
I’m certainly at an advantage over her. It’s not like she has access to my financial records so she can glean these hidden nuggets. Even if she did, she’d probably be nearly ill with how disparaging our income truly is.
What she spends for a week on groceries, I can easily spend on just a glass of wine. What she saves all month for as a small indulgence, I’ve spent nearly twenty times as much in one day. We are not the same. As much as I wish I could bridge that gap, we never will be.
If she saw my account, would she even listen to me? Would she hear me out if I told her I’ve been in her shoes? Probably not. I sure as hell wouldn’t have.
Thing is, I know what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck, always wondering if this meal would be your last for a bit.
I know what it’s like to make food stretch until you’re about to break.
Hell, I know what it’s like to wait until holiday clearance just to get some pajamas to wear all year. Who cares if Santa is on it?
Because I know her, I also know what drives her. It will always be about the next payday, the next bit of income. It will never be about people. It can’t be. People will let you down. They will sell you promises they never intend to keep.
Bitterness wells in my chest as I close out her account and put my attention to people I can actually assist. At the end of the day, when money is in the mix, people will always let you down. I’ve already been burned more times than I care to count, and I refuse to be burned again.
Not when I can just go find another woman.
Not when I can just go back to the clinic and fuck an omega until Noelle is out of my system.
Not when I can just find someone else like her and pretend until my heart becomes cold and callus.
Noelle.
Her name trips through my mind like a mantra. It was never supposed to be more than one session. Hell, it was never supposed to be her. It was supposed to be a facsimile, a replica, an omega in her likeness. Not her. Never her.
A growl hums low in my throat as I pull up the clinic’s page. The bright smile of the owner grates on my nerves as I quickly skim to where I can sign in. It’s all so pretty, so clinical, so professional. I almost wish I had never given in.
As my fingers hover over the appointment sheet, I hesitate. What are the odds I’ll see her there again? Did I make it clear that I never wanted her to show up there again? God knows I didn’t really scare her off. Not like I intended.
I fucking choked at the end. All I wanted was in between her thighs, to ease the ache in my chest for just a little bit. It was only supposed to be a little bit.
Clinical.
Routine.
Detached.
Ha. Anything but.
Closing out the screen, I take a swig of coffee and bury myself in work. Eventually, I get back into the rhythm until breathing becomes easier, the numbers no longer blur, and I forget all about a bewitching omega with wide hazel eyes and hair I want to wrap my fist in.
Hours pass until it becomes dark outside. Once everyone is gone and it’s just me, I stretch back and yawn. I need to go home, but I dread the empty penthouse.
Just once more, I need to see her account, to feel connected with her.
Like a junky looking for a fix, I type in her information and look at her purchases.
Somehow, in the span of a day, she’s managed to get far lower than I expected.
At first, I worry she’s been hacked, but no.
Every purchase seems legitimate and, unfortunately, necessary.
Seems as if the little omega is doing the practical thing with her windfall and paying down some debt I didn’t realize she had. No doubt she’s also getting ahead of some of them, paying them early so she doesn’t have to worry about it. Smart, but what about Christmas?
She mentioned a brother at one point. Has she already gotten him some presents? Nothing shows up on the screen, but then again, she might have used the cash for that. Shaking my head, I close it out and rub at my eyes.
There’s no use. She’s not mine. She’ll never be mine.
Never again will I fall for someone who only wants me as a paycheck. Once was enough. Watching an omega smile and promise forever while she siphoned every cent she could… and walked away the second the account stopped growing.
Lesson learned. Money first, heart never. It’s an agony I wouldn’t wish on my enemy. Sure, many Alphas may not care, but they’re also the ones to sleep around, only keeping a trophy wife, so they have someone to show off.
But that’s not me. That’s not what I want. I want an omega I can proudly bestow my mark on, someone who I can show off with my claim etched deeply in their shoulder.
It’s not about the money. It’s never been about the money.
Money just gives you the means to buy things that can make you happy, but it doesn’t magically give you happiness.
Maybe I’m just na?ve. Maybe I’m just far too sentimental for my own good.
Either way, I only want one thing, and it seems to be the thing that will always elude me.
With a heavy sigh, I turn off my computer and head home. I have to face the loneliness sometime.
Even though I brace for it, the bright, clean floors gleam at me, polished so brightly, I nearly see my reflection in them. Everything is cold and sterile. Not someone a family lives. Not somewhere love lives.
As much as I detested growing up poor, there was always something about our house that screamed home.
Was it the threadbare pillow on the couch I used to hold when watching something scary?
Was it the worn table we’d sit at and eat what precious little food Mother made for us? Was it the smell of home?
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can barely seem to recall it. It never had an exact smell, yet here I note its absence. There’s something missing, something I can’t just purchase. With all my money, this place will only ever be a house. It will never be a home.
I pour a shot of whiskey and groan as the heat slides down my throat and into my belly. Could she make it a home? Could Noelle find a way to turn this glacial prison into something worth coming back to?
My footsteps echo across the tiled floor as I go to my bedroom. Still, that damned scent of peppermint follows me. One time. One fucking time. Why the hell can’t I get her out of my head? Why does her scent seem to morph with every inhale? Was does it smell more and more like she belongs to me?
Stepping into the hot shower, I let the water pour over my muscles, soothing them with its heat. Closing my eyes, all I can do is replay the look on her face as I fucked her. Over and over it circles on a loop until all I can do is cup my cock in my hands.
I should have done more to her. I should have convinced her just how dangerous her actions were. But I didn’t. I fucking couldn’t.
It would have been so easy to force her to her knees and make her suck my cock. I could have fucked her face so hard her jaw would still be aching. Hell, every toy was there at my disposal, and what did I choose? My hand. My goddamn hand.
My palm stings, a phantom burn as if I had just now struck her again. Dear God, but her ass was a thing of perfection. It jiggled just right when I smacked it. Her reactions were so innocent, so na?ve. She could have been perfect.
If only she hadn’t lied.
If only she were experienced enough that I could have my complete way with her.
If only she didn’t need me for my money.
If only we’d met under different circumstances.
… If only.
A groan erupts from my lips as I grip my cock and stroke up and down. Now that I’ve been inside her, my hand isn’t enough. I thought I could just brush it all to the side. I thought I could just make do with my normal existence. I thought fucking wrong.
Leaning back against the warm tile, I rock my hips, fucking my hand as if it were her tight pussy. The bits of water splashing against my tip feel like the illusion of her tongue darting across my head. They spur me forward, forcing sensation up and down my spine.
It might not be her. It might not be good enough. But it certainly scratches that itch. Visions of her body undulating under mine flow through my brain as I continue to hump my fist, grunting with each hard thrust.
In my mind’s eye, her breasts bounce with each stroke—my own personal filth. I could watch her every damn day. I could get off to her with little difficulty. Even now, my mouth waters as the damned scent of peppermint floods the room.
Reaching down, I tighten my fingers around my knot with my free hand and squeeze, remembering all too well the delicious grip her pussy had on me. Was it really just yesterday? It feels like an eternity ago.
Clinical.
Routine.
Detached.
Right. It’s all a fucking lie. It’s a desperate means for me to stay in control… or at least as much as I can. How can I stay detached when I live with the addicting taste of her on my tongue?
I tip my head back as a roar vibrates through my chest. Ropes of cum shoot out, coating the shower floor. Panting, I continue to stroke, forcing every drop out. My balls ache from how hard they clench, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
Even though my body burns and my cock jerks with how sensitive it is, I continue to stroke up and down, not stopping until I’m depleted. How I wish it could get her out of my head.
But it doesn’t.
If anything, I burn even hotter.
What I would give to have her all over again. Our time truly was far too limited. Could we really tempt fate again? Would she?
Storming out of the shower, I towel down and wrap the soft cloth about my hips. If I know anything about Miss Hayes, I know she’ll be desperate. Hell, I was when I got my first windfall. She’ll need the money, crave it, want it so desperately, she’ll do anything to get it.
Even putting herself in danger by visiting the clinic again.
Pulling up the website, I draft a swift email to the director. If little Miss Hayes wants to play with fire, I’ll make sure to be the one to burn her.