Chapter 9 #2
God, he really is a hot piece of work. And I mean that in the best possible way.
The dark hair with those silver-grey streaks that catch the dim light and make him look distinguished instead of old.
The unusual green eyes with gold flecks that seem to glow in the shadows, like a wolf's eyes reflecting firelight.
The sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose—softened by genuine amusement instead of the usual hard edges veterans tend to carry.
The broad shoulders and muscled chest visible even through the casual black henley.
The way his jeans fit him perfectly—not too tight, not too loose, just right in that way that suggests either really good luck or really good taste.
The combat boots that have definitely seen action.
The dog tags that represent experiences I can't imagine.
The way he's looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen in years, like I'm worth his complete attention.
I take my time looking at him, letting my eyes travel from his face down to his chest, his arms where I can see the definition of muscle through fabric, the way his hands rest casually at his sides.
Capable hands. Strong hands. Hands that could hurt but choose to be gentle.
Yeah, definitely hot. Definitely interested if the bulge in his jeans is any indication.
Definitely making my pussy throb with want that's bordering on painful.
"Are you checking me out, Sugarplum?" His voice is low, teasing, with an edge of heat that makes my skin flush.
I bite my lip, trying to look innocent and probably failing spectacularly. "Well... maybe. But I can't get too excited because I only have an hour break. Have to pace myself and all that."
His scent—cedar and smoke and cardamom and something uniquely him—surrounds me completely, mixing with my own vanilla-caramel sweetness until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The combination is intoxicating, making my head spin and my body lean toward him automatically.
"Lots can be done in an hour," he says quietly, voice sounding almost like a whisper. The words are simple but loaded with promise. With possibility. With about a thousand different things I've been trying not to think about since he pulled me onto his lap.
Oh. Oh my. Is he suggesting what I think he's suggesting?
Because my body is very much on board with that plan.
My pussy is basically writing a petition at this point.
Circulating a demanding immediate attention.
Creating a PowerPoint presentation titled 'Why Reverie Needs to Get Laid: A Statistical Analysis. '
It's been so long. Months. Maybe closer to a year since the last time with Kael, which was terrible and left me feeling used instead of satisfied. Before that? Even longer since anyone actually made an effort to make me feel good instead of just using my body for their own pleasure.
I nod, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I agree." I bite my bottom lip, worrying it between my teeth before whispering, "Though I don't think it would be good to do what I'm thinking we can do."
His eyebrow arches, interest sparking in those green-gold eyes. "And why is that?"
"Well," I say, trying to keep my voice steady even though my whole body is trembling with want, "riding the hot possessive Santa Claus who just kissed me in front of everyone in the bar—who are definitely going to spread it through the town like emergency news—would be very.
.. cinematic for a small gossip-thriving town like Oakridge Hollow.
Tomorrow's headline: Local Omega Rides Santa in Supply Closet. Film at eleven."
He chuckles, the sound dark and promising. "Fair point."
But then he starts moving. Slowly. Deliberately.
Like a prowling animal ready to pounce—a predator who's been watching his prey and has finally decided the moment is right.
Every step is calculated, every movement precise and controlled.
His eyes never leave mine, that green-gold gaze pinning me in place more effectively than any physical restraint ever could.
Predator. He's definitely a predator. Apex predator, actually, if we're being specific.
And I'm very much the prey. But here's the thing—I don't want to run.
I don't want to escape. I want to see what happens when he catches me.
Want to know what those hands will feel like.
Want to discover if reality lives up to the fantasy that's been building in my head.
When he reaches me—after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all—his hands land lightly on my knees.
Not grabbing, not demanding, not taking without permission.
Just resting there, warm and solid through the black tights.
The touch is gentle despite the strength I know he possesses.
Respectful despite the hunger I can see in his eyes.
His thumbs brush against the fabric in small circles, feeling the texture, mapping the territory.
Even that small touch sends electricity shooting up my thighs, making my muscles tense and my breath catch.
The tights are kind of sheer, barely a barrier, and I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.
How is he making something as innocent as touching my knees feel so charged? So intimate? So absolutely devastatingly hot?
His eyes bore into mine—intense, focused, seeing right through every defense I've ever built, every wall I've ever constructed, every mask I've ever worn. Like he can see the real me underneath all the costumes and disguises and carefully crafted personas.
"If you agree it's a bad idea," I manage to say, my voice coming out breathy, "then why are you closer now?"
He leans in—close enough that his lips are almost brushing mine, close enough that I can taste his breath, close enough that I could close the distance with the slightest movement.
"Because I don't give a damn about gossip," he whispers against my lips.
Oh. Oh wow. That's... that's really hot. Why is that so hot? Why does the idea of him not caring what people think make me want to climb him like a tree?
I smirk, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. "And you're just going to go along with the random fact that your Alpha pack brothers back there just said I'm your Omega? When I barely know either of them, or you for that matter?"
I pause, letting the words hang in the air between us. "Which reminds me—I don't even know your name, Santa."
His grin spreads wider—devastating and dangerous and absolutely perfect. Instead of answering, he closes that last inch of distance and kisses me.
This kiss is different from the one at the bar. That one was possessive, aggressive, all about claiming and proving a point. This one is slow. Deliberate. Passionate in a way that makes my toes curl and my brain short-circuit.
His lips move against mine with practiced skill, coaxing responses from me that I didn't know I could give. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting and exploring with thorough attention to detail. Like he's memorizing the taste of me, cataloging every response.
His hand slides up my thigh—over the tights, over the velvet of my dress—and grips my upper thigh possessively. Fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. Just enough to remind me who's in control right now.
I moan into his mouth—can't help it, the sound escaping without my permission. The combination of his kiss and his hand and his scent surrounding me is too much. My hands come up to grip his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle under the fabric of his henley.
God, this is good. This is so good. Why have I been denying myself this kind of pleasure? Why did I let Kael and his pack make me think I wasn't desirable?
He breaks the kiss slowly, pulling back just enough that I can see his face. I'm breathless, panting, my lips swollen and tingling. My whole body is thrumming with need, arousal pooling hot and heavy between my thighs.
"Theo," he says, his voice rough with want. "My name is Theo."
Theo. The name fits him. Strong and simple and somehow perfect.
He leans in again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "And if Nash is publicly staking claim, I don't really ask questions. We're a pack. We move together."
They're a pack. The three of them. The bookstore Alpha, Nash, and Theo. And they just claimed me publicly. All three of them. Holy shit.
"That's risky," I tease, trying to sound playful even though my voice is shaking. "Claiming an Omega you don't know. What if I'm terrible? What if I'm high maintenance? What if I have weird hobbies like collecting toenail clippings or something equally disturbing?"
His grin is wicked. "You know what's also risky?"
"What?"
"Trying to cut these tights enough so I can enjoy that wet, slick pussy of yours."
Oh. OH. My face floods with heat so intense I'm surprised I don't spontaneously combust. Did he really just—did he actually say—
I grin and blush at the same time, which is probably a weird look but I can't help it.
My mind is screaming with embarrassment because I know damn well this supply closet already smells like my arousal.
It's growing and growing with every second he touches me, every word he says, every breath he takes.
But I also feel bold. Empowered. This man—this gorgeous, confident, slightly tipsy Alpha—is 100% into me. Not into some version of me I'm pretending to be. Not into what he thinks I should be. Just... me. Silver wig, blue contacts, Mrs. Claus costume, and all.
The mere idea of a blade being close to my pussy turns me on way more than I realized it would.
Way more than it probably should. There's something dangerous about it.
Something thrilling. The level of trust required to let someone that close with something sharp.
The precision needed to cut fabric without cutting skin. The control he'd have to demonstrate.
When did I develop a knife kink? Is this new? Did it exist before and I just never had the opportunity to discover it? Or is it specific to him—to Theo—to the way he carries himself with military precision and controlled danger?
Kael never would have done something like this.
He was all about control, but not the sexy kind.
The manipulative kind. The kind that made me feel small instead of turned on.
The kind that criticized instead of praised.
This? This is different. This is the good kind of control.
The kind that makes me want to surrender.
I lean back slightly, letting my legs fall open just a bit wider—an invitation, a challenge—and mutter with false innocence that fools absolutely no one, "Then what will an Alpha do without a knife to cut his way through?"
His smirk grows into something absolutely predatory—all teeth and promise and dark intent.
His hand slides into his pocket with practiced ease, the movement casual and smooth like he does this all the time.
Like carrying a knife is as natural to him as breathing.
He pulls out a folding knife—small, compact, probably military issue with its no-nonsense design and matte black finish.
The blade catches the dim light when he flicks it open with his thumb, the sound of metal on metal sharp and final in the small space.
"I never said I didn't have one," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low register that makes my pussy clench and my breath catch.
He has a knife. He just casually has a knife on him. In his pocket. Like it's the most normal thing in the world. Which, for him, it probably is. Military training, always prepared, situational awareness—all that survival stuff that most people don't think about but he probably can't turn off.
My heart is beating wildly, hammering against my ribs so hard I'm surprised it's not audible over the muffled bar noise seeping through the door.
The sight of that knife gleaming in his hand, the promise in his eyes, the heat of his other hand still resting on my thigh—it's all combining into something that makes my head spin and my thoughts scatter.
Wait. Wait wait wait. Reality check time.
I can actually do this. I can actually enjoy this.
I'm not in a relationship with anyone. I'm single.
Free. My own fucking person for the first time in my adult life.
I can have a fling with this hot military Santa and no one—NO ONE—can say a damn thing or bat an eye.
Sure, people will talk. Sure, the gossip mill will run for weeks.
Sure, they might call me a slut or loose or any of the other charming terms society reserves for women who enjoy sex.
But you know what? I'm an Omega. We're literally born to be sexually appeased by Alphas.
It's biology. It's nature. It's written into our DNA and our hormones and every fiber of our being.
And hopefully—ideally—wonderfully—it's by choice. Which this is. This is MY choice. I'm choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing to take what I want for once instead of waiting for permission or approval or someone to tell me it's okay to have desires.
I'm choosing to be brave. To be bold. To be the Omega who takes what she wants instead of the Omega who settles for whatever scraps she's given.
I lean in and kiss him.
This time, I'm the one in control. The kiss is slower, softer, giving me the space to explore.
My lips move against his with deliberate attention, tasting the beer on his breath, the sweetness underneath.
My hands slide up from his shoulders to cup his face, feeling the stubble against my palms, the warmth of his skin.
His arms come around me, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter, pressing our bodies together. I can feel his hardness against my inner thigh through his jeans—proof that he wants this just as much as I do.
When I break the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black in the dim light of the supply closet. His chest heaves against mine, and I can feel his heart racing as fast as my own.
I whisper against his lips—bold, reckless, completely out of character and yet somehow exactly who I want to be:
"Then what is my military Santa waiting for? Take what you want."