Chapter 22 Fitting Room Confessions #2
I pause mid-reach for jeans hanging on the wall hook, hand freezing in position while my brain processes what she just revealed.
He called her what?
That absolute fucking—
I turn slowly, deliberately, giving her my full attention rather than maintaining casual pretense.
"Repeat that."
The command emerges sharper than intended, protective fury igniting with intensity that makes my hands clench into fists.
She blinks at my tone—startled by my sudden shift from playful to dangerous, by whatever she's reading in my expression that's probably broadcasting my desire to commit violence against people who aren't present.
"Gregory…my ex…he used to say I was—"
"I heard what you said." My interruption is gentle despite rage simmering beneath the surface. "I want you to repeat it so I can properly catalog it as evidence of his absolute idiocy and your complete disconnection from objective reality."
Fat whale.
He called this woman—this gorgeous, powerful, perfectly proportioned woman—a fat whale.
I'm going to kill him.
Slowly.
With fire…
It would be rather ironic.
"Do you feel fat?" The question requires effort to vocalize calmly, to maintain a therapeutic tone rather than revealing homicidal intentions.
She pauses—genuinely considering the question rather than responding with automatic agreement or defensive denial.
"I'm probably the fittest I've been in years," she finally admits, hand coming up to trace her visible abs with something approaching appreciation. "Actually like my curves now, enjoy having strength and muscle definition. But I guess my pack had preferences, which is okay—"
"No." The word cracks like a gunshot, cutting through her attempted rationalization.
I move before conscious thought authorizes action—stepping into her personal space, using my size advantage to crowd her against the mirror, giving her no option except to look up and meet my eyes.
My hand finds her chin, gripping with enough pressure to prevent escape while remaining careful not to actually hurt.
She needs to hear this.
Needs to understand how fundamentally wrong Gregory's assessment was.
Needs to see herself through eyes that aren't poisoned by insecurity and cruelty.
"You're fucking beautiful," I declare with absolute conviction, each word deliberate. "Your curves, your muscles, the slim definition of your waist contrasted against feminine softness. Everything about your body is exactly right."
Her eyes widen—surprise evident, like she's never heard someone speak about her appearance with genuine appreciation rather than criticism disguised as concern.
"That lovely six-pack of yours?" I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. "Sexy as hell. Proof of dedication and strength, and the particular discipline required to maintain peak physical condition despite everything else competing for your attention."
My thumb traces her jawline, feeling the way she shivers at the contact.
"You're hot, Firefly. Genuinely, objectively hot in ways that make grown Alphas lose their composure."
The station Alphas were losing their shit over your photo.
Couldn't stop staring, making comments, and discussing you like you were a celebrity rather than a potential colleague.
Imagine their reaction seeing you in person—commanding presence, sharp intelligence, body that advertises capability and femininity simultaneously.
I inch closer, eliminating the remaining space between us, my body caging hers against the mirror with deliberate intention.
The tension builds—electric charge in a confined space, pheromones mixing in ways that make rational thought increasingly difficult.
Her voice emerges barely above a whisper, vulnerability evident:
"Do you like my figure?"
Like.
Such an inadequate word.
Doesn't begin to capture the way looking at her makes my body react, makes my brain short-circuit, makes every possessive instinct I possess scream for claiming.
My hand moves from her chin to her bottom lip, thumb tugging gently on the soft flesh while my eyes seek permission for what I'm about to suggest.
"I'd gladly show you what I love about this body, Firefly," I murmur, voice dropping to register that broadcasts exactly what kind of demonstration I'm offering. "But I'm very confident we'd be banned from this establishment permanently."
Her smirk is devastating—playful confidence replacing insecurity, the particular expression that means she's about to do something that will absolutely destroy my self-control.
She catches my bottom lip between her teeth, mimicking my earlier gesture, tugging with just enough pressure to send electricity straight to my cock.
We share a look—an extended moment where communication happens through attention rather than words, where consent is negotiated through eye contact and body language rather than explicit verbal agreement.
Then she blinks slowly, deliberately, transforming her expression into innocent doe-eyed seduction that's absolutely calculated to demolish whatever resistance I'm attempting to maintain.
"Can you show me a glimpse?" The question emerges breathy, deliberately provocative. "Just enough to understand what you mean without getting us banned?"
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I can smell her arousal building—sweet vanilla and wildflowers intensifying with slick that's probably already dampening her underwear, threatening to scent the entire changing room with evidence of her desire.
My nostrils flare involuntarily, Alpha biology responding to Omega arousal with programmed enthusiasm that bypasses conscious control.
The growl that rumbles through my chest is pure instinct—possessive, hungry, barely restrained need to claim and pleasure and mark her as mine in every way biology allows.
I close the remaining distance, capturing her mouth with mine before either of us can reconsider this catastrophically terrible decision.
So much for professionalism.
So much for appropriate boundaries.
So much for not seducing pack Omega in a semi-public location.
The kiss is desperate, consuming—my tongue demanding entrance, she grants immediately, her hands finding my hair to pull me closer, closer, eliminating any remaining space between us.
She tastes like the coffee we'd consumed hours ago, like sweetness and heat and everything I've been craving since she first appeared wearing my shirt like a proclamation of belonging.
Mine.
This Omega is mine.
Ours.
Pack's.
But right now, in this moment, specifically mine.
I break the kiss reluctantly, both of us breathing hard, lips swollen, and eyes dark with desire that's spiraling rapidly toward consequences we'll definitely regret later.
But I can't stop—can't walk away when she's looking at me like that, when her scent is flooding my senses, when every instinct I possess is screaming to pleasure her until she forgets every cruel word Gregory ever spoke.
I lower myself to my knees slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact while I descend.
The position is worshipful—Alpha kneeling before Omega, submission disguised as domination, the particular power dynamic that makes this moment feel sacred despite the mundane setting.
Changing room floor.
Questionable cleanliness.
Absolutely inappropriate location for what I'm about to do.
Don't care.
Don't care even slightly.
Her eyes widen as understanding dawns—realization of exactly where this is heading, what I'm offering, how thoroughly I intend to demonstrate my appreciation for her body.
"Just a taste?" The question seeks permission, confirms consent, and ensures we're both acknowledging the line we're about to cross.
Color floods her cheeks—a genuine blush that makes her even more beautiful, vulnerability mixing with anticipation in expression that makes my cock strain painfully against my jeans.
Her response comes in a whisper, barely audible but absolutely clear:
"Just a taste."