Chapter 25 Pampered #3
A full, genuine burst of amusement at my cringe expression, the sound ringing out in the quiet street with a brightness that makes a passing couple glance our way and smile.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, his shoulders shaking with the force of it, and watching Etienne Laurent laugh without restraint is one of those experiences that rewires your understanding of a person in real time.
I pout.
"Stop laughing at my emotional vulnerability, you monster."
"I am not laughing at you. I am laughing because you said ew to butterflies. Most people consider that a positive romantic indicator."
"Most people have not had butterflies weaponized against them by a man with a black Amex and an unfairly symmetrical face."
His laughter softens into a grin, and we stand there in the glow of a boutique window, him amused and me flustered, the dynamic between us so natural it frightens me.
I shuffle forward.
Close the gap between us until I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
His scent is everywhere at this distance, cedar and pine and the faint note of ink on parchment, so concentrated it fills my lungs with each inhale and makes my Omega instincts purr with a contentment that borders on obscene.
"Can I have a kiss again?" I whisper.
The request leaves my mouth wrapped in a shyness that I did not authorize, my voice dropping to a volume that a passing breeze could steal.
I can feel the heat in my cheeks intensifying, the blush climbing toward my ears, and I am acutely aware that I am a grown woman asking for a kiss with the tentative energy of a teenager at her first dance.
Etienne tilts his head to one side, studying me with an expression that is equal parts tender and curious.
"Why do you seem so shy about it?" he asks. Quiet. Not teasing. Genuinely wanting to understand.
I fidget with the hem of my jacket, my gaze dropping to the buttons on his coat because maintaining eye contact during this particular confession feels like holding a live wire.
"I have not really kissed a lot," I admit. "Which probably sounds weird. But I have never really kissed anyone... romantically."
The distinction matters. It matters because there is a chasm between the mechanical, transactional kisses that preceded meaningless encounters in communal housing and the deliberate, tender press of lips that carries intention behind it.
I have experienced the former. Mouths meeting out of boredom or loneliness or the desperate need to feel wanted for five minutes before the emptiness returned.
Kisses that served a function the way a handshake serves a function, necessary for the transaction but void of sentiment.
"Just for uh..." I wave my hand vaguely, the universal gesture for things I do not want to articulate on a public street. "Functional purposes, I guess. But the kiss you gave me on my cheek earlier was..."
Nice feels insufficient. Beautiful feels melodramatic. Life-altering feels unhinged.
"Nice," I finish lamely.
His eyes soften.
The shift is subtle but devastating, his brown irises warming with a gentleness that is not pity and not condescension but pure, undiluted understanding. The look of a man who knows what it feels like to go without tenderness for so long that you forget you are allowed to ask for it.
He leans in.
Close enough that his breath ghosts across my lips, carrying the remnants of soft serve and winter air and the clean, warm undertone of his cedar scent. Close enough that the tip of his nose grazes mine, the contact featherlight and electric.
"Would you want it on your lips?" he murmurs.
My heart is hammering so violently I am convinced he can hear it. The blood rushing through my veins creates a percussion that drowns out the ambient noise of the street, reducing the world to the six inches of charged air separating his mouth from mine.
I hold his gaze.
And I nod. Slowly. Deliberately. A conscious, clear-eyed choice made by an Omega who is terrified and exhilarated and tired of letting fear make her decisions for her.
Etienne smirks.
Then he closes the distance.
His lips meet mine in a kiss that is slow and sweet and aching with a tenderness that makes my ribcage feel too small for what is expanding inside it.
He does not rush. Does not push. Does not treat my mouth like a conquest to be won.
He kisses me the way he writes, with patience and attention to detail, each movement intentional, each shift in pressure communicating volumes that spoken words would fumble.
My fingers curl into the front of his coat.
His free hand rises to cradle the side of my face, his thumb resting against my cheekbone, and the dual sensation of his warm palm against my cold skin and his warm lips against my trembling ones creates a contrast so vivid that my breath stutters against his mouth.
He tastes like soft serve. Like matcha and strawberry and the faintest trace of ube, sweet and lingering, and underneath that, his own taste, clean and warm and distinctly Etienne.
When we break apart, the cold air rushes into the space his lips vacated, sharp against the dampness he left behind. His forehead rests against mine, our breathing mingled in the narrow gap between us, and his hand is still cradling my face like I am fragile and unbreakable at the same time.
"Can I do that more often?" he asks, his voice rougher than before, scraped raw at the edges in a way that sends shivers cascading down my spine.
The blush that rises to my cheeks is immediate and intense, burning beneath his palm.
"I guess," I mumble, my gaze darting sideways because the intimacy of eye contact at this range is physically overwhelming. "If it does not embarrass you or anything."
The words tumble out before I can catch them, carrying the embedded insecurity of a girl who has spent her entire life assuming she is the thing people tolerate rather than the thing they choose.
Embarrass you. As if kissing me on a public street is a liability.
As if being seen with a packless Omega is a reputational risk that a man with his status should weigh carefully.
Etienne squeezes my hand.
"You would never embarrass me," he says, and the conviction in his voice leaves no room for doubt, no crack through which my insecurities can worm their way in and dismantle the statement from the inside.
We share a look.
The kind that lasts three seconds but communicates an entire paragraph. His eyes warm. My eyes shy. The shared understanding that we are both navigating unfamiliar territory with the careful, hopeful steps of two people who want desperately to get this right.
Then he smiles, and I smile, and we resume walking with our fingers woven together and the pink heart charm swaying against my wrist like a tiny metronome keeping time with the rhythm of my pulse.
The boutique is four doors down from the jewelry store, its entrance marked by a frosted glass door and a minimalist logo I do not recognize.
Etienne holds the door open, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me inside with the unconscious protectiveness of an Alpha who does not realize how loudly his instincts broadcast themselves through small gestures.
The interior is sleek. White walls. Polished concrete floors. Display cases lit from within, casting warm halos around the products arranged inside them with the kind of spacing that suggests each item costs more than my monthly grocery budget.
An associate behind the counter looks up as we enter, her professional smile widening into recognition.
"Welcome! How can I help you today?"
"I am here to pick up," Etienne says.
He delivers the sentence with the calm efficiency of a man who has done this before, who placed an order and confirmed a delivery date and showed up at the exact time he said he would because Etienne Laurent does not operate on approximations.
The associate's expression shifts from polite to excited.
"Ah! You must be the one for the limited edition product, yes?"
He nods.
Limited edition.
I blink, the phrase registering with a delayed confusion because we just left a store where those two words were attached to a charm bracelet and now they are being deployed again in a completely different context and I am starting to suspect that Etienne Laurent's definition of a casual Friday date operates on a financial frequency I cannot tune to.
"Limited edition what?" I ask, turning to him with narrowed eyes.
He does not answer.
The associate disappears into a back room, and the brief silence that follows is charged with my mounting suspicion and his deliberate refusal to meet my gaze, his attention conveniently fixed on a display case of accessories as if he has suddenly developed a passionate interest in leather watch straps.
She returns carrying a box.
A sleek, branded, matte-finish box with the kind of packaging that exists solely to make the unboxing experience feel ceremonial. She sets it on the counter with the reverence of someone handling a museum artifact and lifts the lid with practiced precision.
"Yes! The limited edition phone. It has been out of stock for months.
All the celebrities are using this particular model because of the colorway.
It is pink and extremely rare." She pauses for emphasis, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"Think of it like those pink Rimowa suitcases that sell out within hours and never restock.
Same energy. Same exclusivity. The waitlist alone is hundreds of names long. "
She angles the box toward me.
I stop breathing.