Page 35 of The Florist and Her Alphas

Roses, armfuls of them, soft and cool, and scattering them across her bed. The scent of her, naked in the middle of it, her dark auburn hair spread out against all that pink and white.

A nest.

That’s the word that comes to me, unbidden, primal, an instinct older than anything Frostwood Holdings ever taught me. I want to build her a nest out of every flower she’s ever grown and lay her down in the middle of it and show her, with my hands, with my mouth, that not every alpha takes.

My hand moves faster.

Water pounds down my back. I picture her spread out in that imagined nest of petals, her pale green eyes half-lidded and trusting, her thighs parting for me. Her pussy would be so pink, like the roses on the bed.

My grip tightens. My hips start to move, driving my fist harder, water running into my open mouth as I tip my head back against the tile.

Mine.

Mine. I want to be the one holding her wrist when she finally stops flinching from a touch. I want to be the one she comes to when the shop goes quiet, and the loneliness gets too loud. I want to be her alpha.

The alpha to knot, claim, and impregnate her.

The orgasm builds low and hot at the base of my spine, climbing fast, faster than I want it to, and I bite down against a groan.

It hits me all at once.

My whole body locks, every muscle drawn tight as wire, and I come hard over my own fist with a silent roar clenched behind my teeth, hips jerking once, twice, my forehead dropping forward until it presses flat against the wet tile.

Water keeps running. I stand there a long time, breathing hard, my pulse hammering in my ears louder than the spray.

Nine

LIANA

I’m going to be late. I’m going to be so fucking late, and the bride will have a meltdown, and my reputation will be ruined, and I will never get another wedding booking again.

I might even have to accept the horrible deal that Ezra gave me.

White roses are scattered all over my store.

Buckets of them, stems too long, thorns not stripped, still wrapped in plastic from Toby’s delivery this morning. Two hours until the ceremony. Two hours to trim, color-code, arrange into bouquets, transport them to the venue, and set everything up before the bride walks down the aisle.

My hands shake. I’ve been up since four, but somehow I’m still behind.

I’m wearing gloves to protect my perfect manicure I got last night. My dress is red. Knee-length, simple, the only formal thing I own that isn’t black. My hair is straight. I spent forty minutes with a flat iron this morning, smoothing my hair into something sleek and controlled that falls past my shoulders instead of my usual wild mess. And I’m also not used to wearing two-inch heels that make my calves ache and my ass look fucking incredible, and I hate myself for caring about how my ass looks when I have two hundred roses to process in two hours.

The shears snip. Stem after stem. Water everywhere. My apron is soaked through the front because I’ve been working too fast to be careful. The cooler hums. The radiator ticks.

A whistle cuts through the shop.

Low. Appreciative.

I turn my head.

Julian stands in my doorway with his hands in his pockets and his hazel eyes wide and his mouth slightly open as he gazes at me. He’s wearing a navy button-down with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, dark jeans, and boots. His dimple is already forming.

“Moons, you’re looking good today, Lia.”

My heart does something complicated and painful behind my ribs at the sight of him.

My pussy clenches hard, and I press my thighs together under my dress. It’s been three days since the fair. Three days since his mouth was on mine on a sidewalk while I held a stuffed parrot and a cotton candy cone and my entire life felt briefly, dangerously simple.

“You’re here,” I breathe.