Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
CARYS
“Paxton’s grabbing me another drink really quick.
You want him to grab you something?” Billie scream-whispers in my ear, trying her best to be heard over the thumping bass of the DJ’s set even as we move to the music.
Her body is close enough to mine that I can feel the subtle brush of her arm against mine.
Every single moment of contact has my scent building, has my core tightening, in a way I’m not entirely sure how to handle.
All around us, people dance in groups of two or three.
Several couples are kissing, and more than one scent overlays the entire dance floor.
Strobe lights pulse, creating an odd, hazy effect that has the entire space feeling otherworldly.
The black lights have both of our dresses glowing, the black additions Billie glued to them acting as a negative space.
I adjust the headband that my hat’s attached to, helping complete the crayon costume, as a woman jostles behind me.
I shake my head, holding up my nearly empty strawberry daiquiri, my hand covering the top of the glass without—hopefully—making it too obvious.
It’s my third of the night, and the buzz I’m feeling is toeing that line between a good time and very bad decisions ending with a headache in the morning.
Billie nods and settles back into Paxton’s chest. He’s had a subtle hand on her waist for most of the night, a silent sentinel in the midst of the raucous crowd swelling as the night inches closer to midnight.
The pulsing lights of the club catch his eyes, making them practically glow, and for a moment, I don’t know how to breathe.
Between one second and the next, my scent breaks through my lotion, the orchids blending with my citrus-laced perfume.
His nostrils flare, a muscle in his jaw ticking, and then he leans over Billie.
She tips her face toward him, a smile softening her features, and he kisses her cheek.
A pulse of cypress hits me, the perfume so intoxicating I wish I could drown in it.
That pulsing wave of… of I don’t even know what grows stronger just under my skin.
My own floral scent surrounds me like a curtain, so strong the moving bodies surrounding me don’t dissipate it.
Paxton’s gaze flashes up to me before he wades through the crowd, standing a handful of inches taller than most of the people gathered.
Several of the women size him up, but Billie doesn’t seem bothered by the attention he’s garnering, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, mouthing the words of the song.
I quickly down the last bit of my drink, trying to alleviate whatever is happening in my body right now.
I breathe through a sharp pang of longing that I still had my suppressors.
They might have had crappy side effects, but at least I wasn’t wet and panting for no good reason in the middle of a club, my scent breaking through the strongest concealing lotion the market offers.
As if to prove a point, I perfume again, even stronger and more potent than before.
Billie tilts her chin down.
“You all right?” she asks over the music.
My mouth dries out, but I plaster a smile on my face even as I nod.
“Totally fine!”
She starts to say something else, but a new song starts playing, something that went viral on social media because of a show.
People from all over the club scream in excitement and rush toward the dance floor.
The area around us gets unbearably crowded before the first verse has finished.
I twist into Billie, trying to keep from getting completely bombarded by all the new people surrounding us.
Bille grabs my hand just as my skin begins to itch, panic clawing up my chest, tracing just under my sternum.
“I’m going to go sit for a minute,” I tell Billie.
I need away from all of these people before I distress scent and end up with way too much attention thrown my way.
She nods and drops her hold on me. I work my way out of the crowd, not breathing until I manage to reach the edge of the dance floor.
When I risk a shuddering inhale, I can’t help but grimace.
So much for not distress scenting. At least I haven’t attracted any attention from it.
I set my empty glass on a high top as I try to orient myself in the room.
It takes me a minute to find the staircase tucked in the far corner of the club.
A large man stands just to the side of it, his hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, his eyes intent on the people behind me.
When I get closer, he raises an eyebrow.
I hold up my left hand so that the wristband is visible, and he wordlessly ushers me onto the stairs. His nostrils flare as I pass by him.
“There’s a room up there if you need a more substantial break,” he murmurs. “All the way to the right. We can call a ride for you, too, if your group’s not ready to leave.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice more quavery than I like.
He nods, then closes off the stairway behind me.
By the time I’ve made it to the tables marked off for the party on the second floor, the sour, distressed edge to my scent is gone, and my skin no longer feels like it’s trying to sink into my bones.
My buzz is also beginning to fade, but I don’t mind.
My eyes flutter shut as I take long breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.
A woman’s laughter cuts through the thrumming bass of the music.
When I glance toward the noise, I find a trio of people leaning against the railing just outside of the sectioned off area, their hands all over each other.
I quickly look away and head toward the back of the private area.
It takes me a minute to find my bag where it’s stashed beside Billie’s in the far corner, nestled beside all of our coats, and then I drop into one of the plush booths.
There’s no sign of the friend of Rhett’s that planned this entire event, though a few perfumes still linger in the space.
For a heartbeat, I swear I can smell the faint lemongrass that’s been messing with my body for nearly two weeks now.
Rhett disappeared only a few minutes after we got here, pulled away by someone he clearly knew, without more than a quick glance back at his brother.
There’s a sullen little girl inside of me I’m refusing to acknowledge that’s miffed over him not taking notice.
As if I want to be noticed by one of Dad’s players.
It’s not just that my dad would have a conniption if I tried dating any of the people he coaches.
Hockey players are, well, players. If they aren’t in a serious relationship—either married or packed up—then they’re seemingly attempting to break whatever unspoken leaderboard exists regarding how many casual hookups one person can manage in a single season.
I do not want to be a casual hookup.
My body perfumes again in direct opposition to my thoughts, and I groan.
“Jesus Christ.”
Crap. Now I’m even imagining his voice, all ragged and breathless like he was during that intermission interview last week when the Scorpions were up by two goals.
My perfume pulses out from me even as I blindly reach for my bag.
I need to get new lotion on now. This upper section won’t stay empty for the entire night, and a distressed Omega’s scent has nothing on the enthrallment of an Omega scenting out of pure need.
“Wait.”
A hand closes over my wrist. My eyes flash open, shock and fear overriding the need pulsing through my body.
Rhett looms over me, one knee perched on the booth’s bench seat, his body blocking the rest of the club.
I swallow back a scream but don’t quite manage to stop my flinch.
A pulse of my scent pushes out from me, bitter with my sudden fear.
His eyes widen, and his jaw drops in surprise, but his hold on my wrist is unrelenting.
“Orchids,” he whispers. He sounds almost shell-shocked. “Fuck, that’s why I’ve been dreaming of goddamn orchids.”
“W-what?” My voice shakes.
He frowns, his eyes searching me. His thumb runs over my fluttering pulse as he eases closer.
“Perfume for me again,” he whispers.
With a frown, I carefully back away from him, letting the lotion drop out of the hand he still holds immobile.
“That’s rude to ask,” I manage to say. Even if most of my body is happy to comply.
A corner of his mouth flicks up.
“Yeah, I know. Do it anyway.” He twists a strand of my hair around his finger. I barely hear him whisper, “Please.”
The soft murmur—the way it rumbles through his chest—and his hot, hungry gaze are enough to have my body clenching around nothing.
My perfume surrounds us in one quick, unadulterated wave.
His eyes squeeze shut, and his Adam’s apple moves with a heavy swallow.
I can’t help but get caught on the movement, my stomach clenching.
As if in response, lemongrass pulses out from him, an answer and invitation I don’t understand.
All those fantasies that have been filling my dreams flood my mind.
His lips, his skin, his hair. I need to feel all of them.
Even more, I need to have his weight pressing me into this booth while he marks every single inch of me with that scent I can’t stop thinking about.
The desire is so strong, it’s like getting hit with all the force of a freight train. My breath catches.
A freight train.
Timber’s words filter through the haze of my unexplainable desire.
You won’t need to wonder if you’ve matched with someone. It’ll hit you out of nowhere like a fucking freight train that’s gone off the rails.
I wet my lips, trying to figure out how to put any of it into words. Rhett manages before me.
“Scent matches,” he says. He gently pulls my wrist closer to him, running his nose along the pad of my thumb. His nostrils flare, and another pulse of lemongrass emanates from him. “You’re my scent match.”
Scent match.
All I can manage is a nod.
He leans forward, not hesitating for a heartbeat, and then his lips are on mine.
They’re the oddest of paradoxes: hard and demanding and yet infinitely gentle.
His hand cups my cheek, his fingers twisting into my hair, as his tongue traces the seam of my lips.
His body is a wall of heat in front of me, edging closer as he settles on the bench beside me, his knee wedging between my own.
Every single instinct, every primal drive, roars up through me, and I’m helpless to resist. I melt against him as I let him deepen the kiss.
He tastes like rum and soda and every childhood wish come to life.
His tongue dances with mine. I perfume all over again, my body so on fire I might literally combust from it.
Nothing has felt like this, not even my toys.
And he’s barely even touching me.
He groans low in his throat, and then he’s hauling me into his lap, wrapping his arm around my waist even as I slip my hands under his shirt, pressing my palms to the warm skin of his stomach.
His hand skates down my arm and then palms my bare thigh, his thumb tracing the rucked up hem of my costume.
“Yo, there you are!” a man says in a drunken slur. “Rhett, you still coming with us? Oh, shit. Sorry! Never mind.”
Rhett pulls away, his chest heaving. Over his shoulder, a man in a brown cowboy hat and dark jeans backs away. Rhett twists, keeping his body between me and the guy.
“Fuck, Jackson, you have shit timing,” Rhett says.
The man laughs and then turns around, waving Rhett off. “Didn’t think you were fooling around openly this season, man. Just pretend we were never here!”
A group of guys at the edge of the private section laugh.
They disappear toward the stairs once Jackson rejoins them.
Rhett runs his lips over my jaw, wordlessly urging my head back with a quick pull on my hair.
My pussy clenches, and my scent flares again.
I let my eyes close, trying to savor every point of contact between us.
His teeth scrape down my throat, and I whimper. Whimper.
“I need to taste you,” he whispers against the hollow of my throat.
Nerves fill my mind even as my body tightens with desire.
God, I need that, too. I need him to touch me, taste me, pin me down so I can finally know how it feels to be knotted.
I need to experience—at last—what it’s like to have a cock inside me.
I press down into him, and he grunts. He sits hard and heavy against me, and it only fuels my need, drives it higher.
I pull at the waistband of his jeans, acting on pure instinct.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “Let me find us somewhere more alone.”
A throat clears before I can string together a half-coherent response.
Rhett sighs, his breath warm against my skin, and then pulls away.
Paxton’s voice is cautious. “Billie’s ready to head out. Are you still wanting to grab a ride with us?”
Embarrassment races through me, drowning out the desire.
My cheeks flush, and my stomach twists. Without a word, I ease to my feet, grabbing the lotion I’d dropped and stuffing it into my bag.
Rhett doesn’t say a word, but his gaze is a hot brand on my skin.
I perfume again, but I don’t dare acknowledge it.
Paxton’s eyes are locked on Rhett, an eyebrow raised.
After a horribly awkward minute, I finally manage to say, “Um, yeah. If that’s still all right with you.”
Paxton nods, breaking his attention away from his brother.
He grabs Billie’s jacket and purse and then turns toward the stairs.
I carefully follow him, not daring to say anything at all as Billie meets us at the bottom of the stairs and loops her arm with mine.
The entire drive back to my place, two thoughts rush through me, filling up every single vein in my body until I’m sure I’m going to throw up.
One: Rhett fucking James is my scent match.
And two?
My dad’s going to kill me.