3. Dorian
Chapter three
Dorian
I follow Elena up the creaky staircase to her apartment, finding myself captivated by the easy sway of her hips.
There's something about this woman that's been driving me absolutely crazy since I first spotted her across the bar. As an alpha, I'm genetically programmed to be drawn to omegas. Betas? Pleasant, sure, but they rarely make my internal radar ping with this kind of intensity.
Yet here I am, trailing after Elena like a smitten Labrador, after spending half the evening trying not to visibly smell her every time she leaned in. God she smells good… and sweet… unusually so for a beta.
And while her five-foot-something frame of pure charm proves the best things come in small packages, I'm not just physically attracted to her.
No, what's more striking about her is how real she is.
She lacks the calculation of the socialites who usually circle me like sharks wearing satin.
And the passion that lights her up when she talks about her life is refreshingly genuine.
"Again, it's not exactly a palace," Elena says, her voice cutting through my thoughts as we reach her door and she gets it open, "but it’s home."
Her apartment is modest but charming. It tells a story.
Professional-grade kitchen tools hang from a rack in a small but organized kitchen.
Cookbooks line a shelf, many with colorful sticky notes protruding from the edges.
A large window frames the view of the twinkling town lights, and I can imagine how the morning sun must flood this space with natural light.
On a small table by the window, nestled amongst a cheerful clutter of what looks like artisanal pottery, a framed photograph catches my eye.
Elena, younger, her smile just as bright, stands with an older woman.
They share the same vibrant green eyes and an infectious, unposed laugh, arms slung comfortably around each other’s shoulders.
"Would you like some of that coffee I told you about?" She takes off her shoes and glides toward the kitchen, her brown hair catching the light like polished mahogany.
"I'd love some," I reply, and a flicker of what feels suspiciously like nervousness makes an unwelcome appearance. Me. Nervous. This is new. I'm usually the epitome of alpha cool in these scenarios. But Elena, it seems, is a delightful disruptor of norms.
She returns a few moments later with two steaming mugs. As she hands me one, our fingers brush, sending a zap up my arm that nearly makes me drop it. Her eyes widen slightly, a blush rising on her cheeks that I find ridiculously endearing.
"Static electricity," she says quickly. "I should probably stop shuffling my wool socks around."
"Thank you," I say, my voice somehow an octave deeper than I intended. I clear my throat. "For the coffee. Not the static electricity."
We settle on her small couch, our knees touching as she props her feet up on a small footrest. I resist the urge to mirror her casual posture. These pants weren't designed for anything but sitting rigidly or standing.
"So," I begin.
"So," she echoes, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Your place is lovely," I say, mentally kicking myself for sounding like someone's elderly aunt making polite conversation.
"Thanks. The decorating theme is 'things I could afford', which is basically just stuff from local yard sales. Though I'm lucky my boss is also my landlord and rents this place to me for cheap."
I laugh, relaxing a little. "Well, I like it. I think it has character."
"Speaking of character, you're staying at The Grand, I'm guessing?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Only hotel in town with sheets above 400 thread count," she says with a grin. "Plus you have that 'I recently showered with fancy soaps' smell about you."
"Is that a good smell or a bad smell?" I ask, strangely concerned about her answer.
"Definitely good."
I hide my smile behind my coffee mug, a quiet satisfaction warming me from within as I take a slow sip.
Time melts away as we talk about simple things: the festival preparations she's observed around town, local restaurant recommendations. I find myself genuinely interested in her stories, especially when she describes the trip to Hawaii she dreams of taking with her mom someday.
"She's never seen the ocean," Elena says, her expression softening. "Can you imagine? She's spent her whole life making sure I had opportunities, and she's never even stepped foot in the ocean."
"You'll take her," I say with certainty. "I can tell you're someone who makes things happen."
She looks at me, curious. "You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me tonight."
"I'm a good judge of character."
"Which I'm sure totally helps you in whatever you do…" She pauses as she tilts her head with a charming gaze. "So what is it you actually do, Dorian?"
I take a strategic sip of coffee. "I’m in the food industry," I say, aiming for a tone that’s informative but not an invitation for a business seminar. "Mostly on the management and investment side of things." It’s the sanitized version, but this evening isn’t about resumes.
"Still playing the mystery card, huh?" she teases, and her smile does funny things to my internal rhythm. My pulse, usually steady as a metronome, seems to have picked up a new, slightly jazzier beat.
"I prefer to think of it as being… fully present," I counter, setting my mug on the rustic wooden table. "And right now, Elena, I’d much rather focus on you."
The air between us crackles, the playful banter fading into a more charged silence.
She sets her mug down too, and I notice a slight tremor in her hand; a subtle sign of vulnerability that makes my protective instincts stir.
I lean in, slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat.
She doesn’t. Her gaze flickers from my eyes to my lips and back again.
When our lips finally meet, the connection is far more potent than I anticipated.
Her taste, a captivating blend of coffee roast and something intoxicatingly sweet , awakens a primal hunger I haven’t felt in years.
I deepen the kiss, one hand gently cupping her cheek, the other finding its way to the small of her back, drawing her closer.
She responds with an eagerness that sends a thrill through me, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me nearer still.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright and sparkling.
"Elena," I murmur, her name a soft sound on my lips, not quite sure what I want to say, only that I want her in every syllable.
Her answer is to kiss me again, deeper this time, and any lingering threads of rational thought begin to unravel. My alpha instincts, usually dormant around betas, roar to life with surprising force, a possessive urge to take her here and then. This is unexpected.
Her hands slide under my shirt, her cool fingers sending shivers down my spine. And just like that, any coherent thought has packed its bags and left.
We’re a tangle of limbs and shared breaths, clothes becoming inconvenient obstacles as we instinctively navigate from the couch toward her bedroom.
She tugs my hand, her eyes dark with desire and a hint of dare, and I follow without hesitation, pausing only to press her against the hallway wall for another searing kiss that leaves us both gasping.
Her scent seems to intensify, wrapping around me, pulling me further under her spell. There's definitely something about beta pheromones they don't cover in textbooks, I think vaguely, but the thought evaporates as she pulls me toward the soft glow emanating from her bedroom.
Moonlight spills through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and shadow.
And then she’s standing before me, bathed in that ethereal light, clad only in simple, black lace underwear that somehow looks sexier than any elaborate lingerie.
My breath catches as I'm struck by a powerful urge to rub myself against her so she bears my scent.
I quickly suppress the impulse, confused by its strength. What is wrong with me tonight?
"What are you thinking?" she asks, her voice a little shaky, a sudden wave of uncertainty clouding her eyes.
"That you are incredibly beautiful," I manage, the words heartfelt and utterly true. "And that I really, really want to make you feel good."
Her smile, a little shy but dazzling, returns.
“I like that plan very much,” she says, her voice gentle and sure.
She leans in, kissing me softly as her fingers tug my shirt free. I slip out of my pants, and she pulls me down on the bed beside her.
I take my time, learning the landscape of her body as she sheds the last of her clothing.
The sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her shiver, the curve of her waist that fits so perfectly in my hands, the way her breath hitches when my lips trail down her collarbone.
I’m usually a controlled lover, focused on technique and outcome.
But with Elena, it’s different. I’m lost in the moment, in the soft, involuntary sounds she makes, in the way she arches into my touch.
When I kiss my way down the soft skin of her stomach, her fingers clench in my hair, not guiding, but anchoring.
"You don't have to—" she starts, her voice a breathless whisper.
"I want to," I interrupt gently, looking up to meet her gaze in the dim light.
She hesitates only a heartbeat before nodding, then eases back against the pillows, legs parting just enough to invite me in. I lower myself between her thighs, taking my time, kissing slowly down her inner thighs until I’m exactly where she needs me most.
I start with a gentle kiss to her folds then draw my tongue in one slow stroke from her entrance to her clit.
Her breath catches. I do it again, savoring her taste, the way she already trembles beneath me.
I explore her, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firmer, more focused strokes.
Her hips begin to rise in rhythm with my movements, and I adjust to her every reaction, learning what pleases her.
As her arousal builds, I wrap my arms under her thighs and hold her closer, my mouth relentless now, lapping, flicking, sucking until her hands are tangled in the sheets, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
She’s close. I feel it in the way her thighs tense around me. I don't let up. I keep going until she finally shudders apart with a breathless gasp, her whole body trembling.
Satisfaction surges through me as she shakes uncontrollably, my alpha's pride reveling in having pleased my partner.
My thoughts stutter. Partner? She's not mine. She's a woman I met tonight. Yet some part of me already feels possessive in a way I can't explain.
I move up beside her, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. She’s catching her breath, eyes still closed, a soft, satisfied smile playing on her lips. I expect her to reach for me next, but instead, her breathing begins to deepen and slow.
"Elena?" I whisper, leaning closer.
Her only response is a soft, contented sigh followed by what sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a snore.
I blink in disbelief. Did she just... fall asleep?
I stare at her peaceful face for a moment, then have to suppress a laugh.
Of course. She mentioned starting her workday at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. Between that, the evening of conversation, and the alcohol, what I just did probably felt like the world's most intense relaxation technique.
"Well," I whisper to myself, "that's a first."
I gently pull the covers over her, then debate what to do. Leaving feels wrong somehow, but staying without explicit permission seems presumptuous. After a moment's consideration, I decide to stay, at least until I'm sure she's deeply asleep. I can slip out then, leave my number or something.
I lie beside her, careful not to disturb her rest, and find myself studying her features in the moonlight.
The curve of her cheek, the fan of her lashes against her skin, the slight part of her lips as she breathes deeply in sleep.
She looks so utterly serene and unguarded. The reluctance to leave intensifies.
This feels… nice. Unexpectedly, wonderfully nice.
I'll stay just a little longer, I tell myself, a soft smile touching my lips. Just to make sure she’s really, truly asleep…