Chapter 10 #2
The sound is sharp, metallic, somehow louder in a closet barely big enough for the two of us and a thousand years of bar supplies.
My Sugarplum's eyes go wide, tracking the blade—not afraid, not really, just locked in with that kind of mad curiosity that makes me want to show off a little.
Her thighs spread, just a hair more, her skirt rucked high enough now to make my pulse hammer.
I keep it slow. Deliberate.
The way I was taught—never rush, never let your hands shake, even if the target is screaming.
My left hand lands gentle on her thigh, heat radiating through the fabric, fingers braced so the skin doesn't pull. My right hand, knife pinched, steadies at the inner curve, right where the tights are slick from what I've just done to her.
She flinches—not from fear, but from want.
The sound the blade makes slicing into the shimmering nylon is perfection—like the world's dirtiest Christmas present being unwrapped on live TV.
It parts easy, no resistance, just the slow, calculated pull of metal through fabric.
Her breath hitches again, then goes all the way out in a gasp.
God, that's hot.
I could have torn it. Just ripped it away with my hands, but where’s the appeal in that?
This is way better.
More fulfilling.
I need her to see—to know—that when I want something, I take it apart with care.
By the time I'm done, her tights are in strips, and her panties—if you can call that thin slip of lace "panties"—are soaked, so ruined by slick the fabric looks pearled and sheer.
I touch the edge of them, slow, testing her.
She moans, high and pretty, and her hips shift forward on the counter, offering herself up like she's never wanted anything more.
My cock throbs so hard I see spots.
Military discipline my ass.
If I was sober, I might still be slow-rolling my decision tree, asking myself: Is this the right move? Is this too much?
But I'm not.
I'm warm, fuzzy, riding the high of her taste and the crash of adrenaline, and for once in my goddamn life, I'm acting on instinct.
That instinct says: take, devour, and don't you dare waste a single second.
I lick my lips again—her taste, sharp and sweet, still sticky and hot on my mouth.
She watches.
She's not ashamed, not even a little, just glassy-eyed and openly obsessed with what I'm about to do next.
"Goddamn," I mutter, savoring the last drop from my bottom lip. "You smell like a cupcake I'd gladly eat again and again."
A crooked smile splits her face.
All mischief, all challenge.
"And here I was worried you'd compare me to a donut," she fires back, voice still trembling but proud of herself. "Cupcake's way hotter."
"Only if you like your cupcakes sticky and a little bit ruined," I counter, dragging my hand up the inside of her thigh. Every inch of skin is scorching, every pulse of muscle under my fingers is another little shockwave of need.
I drag the knife a little higher, just to show off.
She shivers at the chilled touch of the blade against her flesh, and I’m impressed that she’s not frightened of me doing anything worse.
The trust she has for me is real, raw, and admirable, which is why I know my taunting is enough.
I close the blade with a snap and shove it somewhere behind my back.
She stares at my hands, at the way I never so much as graze her skin with the blade, hyper-aware but never nervous.
She trusts me.
Fuck…this can be far to addicting.
Her trust is addictive.
For one sharp second, time goes weirdly quiet.
Just us.
Just the cave of old boxes, the chemical pine, the fluorescent struggle light, the endless, thick layer of Omega sugar in the air.
Then my dog tags clatter, loud enough to startle me, and the world surges back into motion.
I'm done waiting.
She's not just a cupcake—she's the entire dessert table at a holiday bake-off, and I'm already planning on seconds.
I steady myself between her thighs. Let myself look, just for a heartbeat, at the mess I've made—her, split open, wet, still flushed from the orgasm I gave her with my mouth, pantyhose in shreds, panties transparent with want.
I should be proud of the view, but all I can think about is how fast I can get inside her before I lose every remaining scrap of self-restraint.
"You're a hell of a lot of trouble for a Tuesday night," I tell her, letting reverence sneak into my voice.
She laughs, the sound quivering up and through her, nerves and bravado tangled together.
"You're one to talk. Most Alphas take their time buying me a drink before they start carving up my wardrobe."
"So you're saying I'm memorable," I say, pinning her with a look.
"You're saying you haven't even started," she breathes, and then she wraps her hand around my dog tags and yanks me up for a kiss that tastes like sugar, bourbon, and pure, undiluted chaos.
Perfect.
My hands catch her waist. Her legs open a little wider on instinct, and the shreds of her tights peel away under my palms.
Every movement is calculated, but every impulse is reckless—hers and mine, smashing together in the tiny airless closet until the rest of the world is just static.
I want to tear her open.
I want to leave marks.
Most of all, I want to savor it—the way she trusts me, the way she hands over her body like a dare, the divine taste of her still lingers in my mouth while the rest of her is waiting for me to take more.
I kiss her back, deeper, dragging her to the edge of the counter with a single tug.
The scent of her is so intense it short-circuits all rational thought—just sugar, spice, and raw, feral Omega.
My cock is leaking, throbbing, so ready it's almost embarrassing, but I'm banking it.
Building it.
Letting her see what happens to an Alpha when he's really, really hungry.
The closet is too small for theatrics, but I make do.
Dog tags swinging. My hands everywhere. The sound of torn fabric still ringing in my ears while Reverie laughs into my mouth like what we're doing is criminal and we're already planning the getaway.
"Tell me again," I murmur, voice rough, "that you're not afraid."
She grins, sharp and beautiful, eyes blown wide.
"Only thing I fear is running out of time."
"We've got an hour," I promise her. "I don't need even half that to blow your mind."
Her breath catches, but her hands never let go.
My hands skim her bare thighs, span her hips, everything me mapped to everything her.
I want her spent and shaking when I’m through. For her to never look at this closet the same way again.
I lean in, run my tongue just below her ear. She tastes like salt and vanilla, every inch of her designed to destroy me.
She's open under my hands, softest skin against my stubble, and I want to know how she looks when I finally split her around me, when I get her so full she can't even think straight.
I kiss down her neck, trace the jagged line where the blade cut through the tights, all the way to her ruined panties.
One more taste, just because I can't help myself.
Her thighs quake when I press my mouth to her, tongue darting out, savoring the slick, the sugar-heat that leaves my own head spinning.
She squeals—a sound so sharp and pretty it rattles the shelving. Somewhere down the corridor, conversation blurs; nobody out there knows what we're doing in here.
Reality is, bars like these, nobody cares.
Only us.
Only her…me…and the need clanging through my body like a four-alarm fire.
I lick her slow—luxury, abandon—until she bucks against my mouth, until her hand fists the back of my neck and her hips chase me, desperate for every last drop.
"Fuck—" she gasps, "you're insane."
I grin into her.
"You like that, cupcake?"
"Yeah," she groans, a full-body shudder. "Yeah, I really do."
I drink her down, then draw back, licking my lips once more.
Let her see the mess she's made of me.
"You're gonna destroy me, you know that?" I say, voice scraping raw.
She only smiles, devil-may-care.
"That's the plan."
"Hope you're ready for the consequences," I warn her.
"Hope you can count that high," she fires back—all teeth, all want, no fear at all.
For a second, everything is suspended—her wrecked and waiting, me seconds away from losing my cool, the room dripping with every want we've tried to hide since the second we saw each other.
I dig my hands into the curve of her hips, her skin hot and shivery under my palms, and rest my forehead against hers.
God, I want her.
I want her more than I want air.
And if the way she's panting and moaning is any indication, she's more than ready for it.
She tips her face up, lips shining, eyes wild, and for the first time in a decade, I don't feel broken.
I feel hungry. Famished. Desperate for this specific Omega that swayed through the bar, owning it until that ex of a fucker thought he could mock her. Belittler her as if she isn’t the most cherished prize in the room.
I kiss her hard.
One last taste of cupcake before I fuck her the way she deserves.
God help me, this Omega is about to see what happens when an Alpha looses his mind for her.
I slot myself between her legs, both hands anchored hard at her hips, and the counter's cold laminate leaves a red line across my thighs.
She’s still wrung out from my mouth, but she meets me full force—fists my shirt, yanks me close, and crushes her lips to mine like she’s going to drag the next orgasm out through my teeth.
It’s more a brawl than a kiss, our lips fighting for dominance, which ignites me even more.
Having an Omega that doesn’t simply submit or fake moan in hopes of getting the latest Gucci bag or a night of free drinks is a first.
She’s potentially the real deal or I’m too far lost in her attractive orbit to give a damn.
Her tongue is velvet and lightning, fighting for control. My mouth is rough, greedy—I bite at her lower lip until she moans, then drag her forward so our bodies line up: her slick, ruined panties against the hardest erection I've had since she sat on my damn knee like a naughty Ms. Claus.