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Then the door opens, casting an unwelcome sliver of light into my dim oasis and letting in a tall, thick figure.
Hunter’s dominance makes me dizzy and a casual smile from Orion turns my world upside down, but when Atlas brings that bow-down, big knot energy, I dissolve into a primal mess.
My knees go so weak, I skid down the pole.
I catch myself with a thigh squeeze, and still spinning, somehow lock his gaze.
The clang casts fucking sparks.
Shuddering, I break the eye contact that rattles me so hard my rib bones clack.
I still feel his stare.
It touches every part of me, settling the jittery inner omega with the absolute reassurance that alpha is here.
THE alpha.
But I’m THE omega, and all that noise can take a hike in poison ivy.
There’s a different look I want to see on Atlas Wyvern’s face.
Not awe, not lust, but pure regret. Some kind of remorse or bitterness instead of that über-confident, I’m in-charge-here look that he wears like a mask.
I want to see him cracked the way they keep cracking me.
With my song blaring, I’m invincible.
I arch my back, point my toes, and give him a show to fucking remember.
When the bridge hits, I slide to the floor, pole between my legs, running my hands up my body from my thighs to my throat.
My skin’s hot, my scent fills the studio, and I smooth the collar of my neck in long, luxurious drags, rubbing the unbroken skin in the ultimate alpha tease.
When the song finally fades, my back’s on the floor, my legs are bent, and I’m spread out and panting like I just survived the orgasm of my life.
The guys stand shoulder-to-shoulder, only there’s none of the devastation I wanted.
Atlas shakes, and not because he’s trembling.
He’s holding himself back.
Orion licks his lips and Hunter crosses himself.
Golden, brown, and blue. All three pairs of eyes glow because they want to fucking eat me.
I turn my shiver into a stretch, pretending I’m not affected, but I’d have to be scent blind and stupid not to taste their pheromones. The studio’s a smoky, musky, apple-scented sweat box.
Gonna be another looooong night with my silicone helper.
Orion shakes back to reality first.
I tense when he walks to me.
Because maybe seeing Atlas stare at me like a lickable caramel ice cream pop is what finally switches his dial back to normal omega behavior. He smells like apple-soaked sin, with that same piece of hair falling over his forehead.
All he does is hand me a towel. “Every pack there is gonna make an offer if you dance like that.”
“That’s the idea.” I wipe my neck, then grab my water and chug while they watch, mesmerized, by the motion of my throat.
