Page 17 of The Florist and Her Alphas

My balls tighten, drawing up, the orgasm building at the base of my spine like a storm.

My orgasm rips through my body, consuming, unstoppable.

A roar tears from my throat, stifled by her underwear stuffed in my mouth. Thick ropes of cum spurt across my abs, my chest, hot and white and endless, painting my skin while my cock pulses in my fist.

I keep grinding the soaked panties between my teeth, sucking hard, riding the waves until my muscles give out and I collapse back onto the mattress, boneless and shaking.

Her scent is everywhere. In my mouth. On my skin. In the air of my bedroom, and the knowledge that she’s alone in that tiny apartment above her shop, sleeping with her legs spread and her pussy wet makes me want her more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.

I pull the underwear from my mouth.

They’re soaked through with saliva, her slick, my cum. I hold them against my chest, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. I’ve never had such a visceral, primal reaction to anyone like this before.

And I need to find out everything about her.

Five

LIANA

The next morning, my flower shop is quiet as a small family picks out flowers. They’re all wearing black. They don’t say much, and I don’t expect them to.

The mother picks out white lilies with trembling fingers while her husband stands behind her, his hand on her shoulder, his face blank as fresh paper. Their daughter, maybe sixteen, stares at the floor tiles. I wrap the stems in kraft paper without asking if they want a ribbon.

“These will open by tomorrow,” I say quietly, sliding the arrangement across the mahogany counter. “Keep them in cool water. Change it daily.”

The mother nods. Her eyes are red-rimmed and dry. She’s past crying. I recognize the look.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I ring them up. The old brass register dings. The bell over the door rings as they leave, carrying white flowers into a Brooklyn spring morning, and I watch them until they turn the corner.

The bell rings again. I turn around, and my stomach drops when I see who’s at the door.

Julian Frostwood, one of the men from yesterday’s meeting, is standing there. And he has a bird on his shoulder. Like an actual bird.

A parrot.

The parrot is emerald green with a brilliant yellow head and beady eyes that look perpetually annoyed. Julian himself looks different. Less put-together than he was at the bakery. His dark brown hair is slightly messy, his hazel eyes bright, his shirt open at the collar with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He smells like lemon and expensive cologne, and something warmer underneath that makes my skin prickle.

I cross my arms. Stay behind the counter. The distance between us feels necessary.

“Can I help you?” I ask sharply. I hope to god he doesn’t know that I’m an omega.

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s looking at my flowers. The parrot is muttering something I can’t quite catch, a scratchy stream of syllables that sound almost like words.

“Ranunculus,” Julian says, pointing at a bucket of yellow blooms. “Right?”

I nod once. Tight.

He moves to the counter. Puts both elbows on the mahogany and leans forward. His forearms are tan, strong, the kind of forearms that belong on billboards selling watches. The parrot shifts on his shoulder, tilting its head to look at me with one suspicious yellow eye.

“Do you remember me?” Julian asks. His voice is warm. Careful.

“Of course I remember you.” I keep my arms crossed. “You’re one of the men trying to steal my store.”

He looks genuinely offended. His dimple vanishes. “That’s not—we’re not trying to steal anything. We made a fair offer.”

“Seventy-five thousand dollars to walk away from my life is not a fair offer. It’s a bribe.”